James Fisher and the Bird Witch

James Fisher and the Bird Witch

By Simon Corn

Copyright 2017 Simon Corn

Smashwords Edition

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and occurrences are fictitious and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, events or locations is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or means, electronic or mechanical, without permission from the copyright holder.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to all of those who choose to teach in all its guises, be it sports coaches, church ministers, developmental practitioners or a hundred other professionals that devote their lives to help people learn. But most of all, this book is dedicated to one teacher in particular, most people know her as Mrs Uys, I’m just lucky to be able to call her Mum.

Forward

As a writer I find it useful to continuously ask myself what ifs. Whenever I’m stuck for an idea, which isn’t very often, a what if normally gets me back on track. This particular what if story came from a single name that floated out of the heavens and landed in my imagination, Missus Maize, and I knew I had to write her story.

Some of what I speak about in the book actually happened and some of it didn’t. It’s written from the perspective of a young man trying to find his way in life as he cautiously approaches puberty and falls in love, but it most certainly isn’t a love story, or is it? I can’t quite make my mind up. So maybe you the reader can help me out with a definition.

This particular what if is about a family that, if circumstances were different, could have moved into our family home in Portsmouth, England, instead of us, during the hottest summer England had seen in years. 1976.

Prologue

If the rains ever let up the grasslands surrounding the old sports college would be decorated with a glistening frost that flashes like tiny diamonds under the winter’s cold sun. Icy footprints would wind frozen pathways to the gates leading to the locks. Today the tracks are rivers of dead grass and mud, and a gaping hole marks the spot where the gates were torn from their hinges during storms that blew themselves out many years ago.

In a month from now the cream of England’s future educators will start to gather, their hopes and dreams wrapped naively in invisible knapsacks carelessly thrown across the shoulder of each first-year student. The winter mornings will test them and the summers will be too short to brag about when they return home at the end of the year to ponder whether it was all worth the effort.

Many of the hopefuls won’t return for the following term, choosing to stay in the comfort of mum and dad’s house, or in the bosom of some new lover.

Most visitors can’t stand the harshness of the locks, they come to the pub and stare out of the window and shake their heads as they order whisky and warm themselves by the fire. They visit the place I love more than any other just to moan about how bad it is. Some of the comments are true; she’s not pretty and doesn’t wear the spring make-up of some of the local parks or the perfume of the apple orchards that pepper the land at the back of Portsdown Hill. She has a naturally harsh beauty and the heart of a wild stallion. She’ll pick you up and love you on a warm summer’s day and then discard you like an old rag the very moment autumn peeks out from underneath the covers. She’s fickle and defiant, proud and beautiful, much like the women that have blown across the sky of my life, often too quickly, often more violently than the storm whipping the waves into a frenzy at the bottom of the slipway today. How many times had I wished that I walked away from some of those storms before the ferociousness blew out and blue skies left me feeling empty and alone? Countless times…I guess.

At least the locks offer somewhere to sit and think a while, she’s considerate like that. Most storms never let you sit, most certainly never let you think, not until it’s too late.

The familiar wooden slats of the bench felt comfortable and warm, a reminder of better times when the sun shone high in the sky and the plights of the world were just troubles other people had to worry about. I haven’t been back to my old family home in years. It holds too many memories, some of which still play out in my mind during those long hours of a sleepless night.

The driving rain slapped my face, waking me from my daydreaming. I tried to wipe the salty water out of my eyes, the same way I’ve wiped away a thousand tears and I turned sideways in a pathetic effort to hide my shame.

You never forget your first storm. She was like no other and my burgeoning smile fought against the wind. I caught a glimpse of her perfect face reflected in the window of the local boat club, and then she’s gone.

Get a grip old man…it’s just your imagination.

It’s funny how memories play out like movies deep down in your subconscious. The plot lines are all the same but I’m sure the monologue changes with my moods. Many memories are only shadows of what really happened, but some stick with you all your life. And if you’re like me, they find a home in that ball of knotted muscles between your shoulder blades. The ones that the masseuse’s nimble fingers fruitlessly prod and poke at, but I suppose some things are just meant to stay part of you. As a reminder of something? I’m not sure.

People often told me I spent way too much time in my own head, but how else is a writer supposed to come up with the words to a story? I’m not like those that can bounce ideas off other people. I like my solitude and I’m comfortable with who I am, but I wasn’t always that way.

Thunder rolled across the sky. It’s the kind of noise a dog makes when it has you cornered, a low growl, a warning that if you run there will be teeth and claws involved. I cringed at the thought and stared across the bay. Boats that normally bobbed sedately on the small waves crashed violently into each other as they clung desperately to their moorings. They reminded me of some of the people I’ve watched from behind the safety of my coffee cup in the countless airports I’ve been imprisoned in across the world. I found myself judging them without getting to know a single one, and I have to remind myself that I’m just like them, trying to find my way in a world that never made any sense to me. Does it make any sense to them? Who knows.

One of the smaller boats finally let go and smashed into its neighbour before the outgoing tide dragged it away. Where could the brave captain be, and why he wouldn’t he take better care of such a small and fragile thing? I know it’s just wood and paint but it’s more than that, isn’t it? It has a history of its own, and a story that may never be told. How many people are like that boat? Do they scream that they have a story to tell as they let go of life and get washed away? Or do they just go with the flow, break into pieces and become forgotten? Doesn’t everyone want to tell their tale?

The owners of the boats do. I know some of them. Captains they call themselves. Owning a small fishing boat with two oars and a bench does not a captain make. If anything, skipper, at best. I’d grown up around most of them, and if truth be told they’re not bad people, they’re just people. The same as you and me. They’ve got life sussed out though, if the weather’s bad you’ll find them in the pubs telling stories of being stranded on the mud flats with only a flask of tea and a broken oar for company, or of times when the fishing was good and the weather was even better. They’ve lived another sort of life to me and when I get the chance I sit and laugh at their stories and buy them a beer for their troubles and lose myself in their bullshit.

So many memories, but all of them pale in comparison to the first storm. The storm with the blonde ponytail and a tongue sharper than any razorblade. My stomach knotted as my anxiety built; she always made me feel this way.

The sound of the small boat crashing into yet another one of its compatriots tore my mind back to the present. Sometimes I find it hard to stay in the now. Well, why would I want to when the past was where Daisy held my hand and kissed my lips?

Waves washed onto the slipway, and churned up shale and dead crab shells that bobbed around pretending to still be alive. Deep down inside I’m the same as those crabs, only I’m alive and she’s gone.

I breathed in deeply as a salty tear fought for space in the corner of my eye. A flash of lightning arced across the locks and warned me that I should take cover, but I looked up and challenged the heavens to do their worst. Iron-grey clouds charged across the sky as if they had somewhere more important to be. Anywhere rather than here, eh? I shouted into the wind and I wondered where it would take the words and if anyone would ever hear them. You’re such a fucking romantic James Fisher, I muttered and kicked a stone down the ramp to join the rest of the flotsam. Give it up old man, she’s never coming back.

I stood to leave but a vision of her smiling that special smile calmed my nerves, and I sat back down while a seagull struggled to hover overhead, looking for a free handout. A quick rummage through my pockets revealed no food. Sorry dude, I called up to the bird, but my apology didn’t seem to satisfy its curiosity and the gull slowly descended and perched next to me on the end of the bench. My new friend flapped its wings before settling down and looked me over with a beady eye. I reached out to see how tame the gull was, but it shuffled further away and my hand came to rest on a familiar carving. My fingers traced a line around the heart with the letters JF + DM pierced by an arrow. What a cliché! I’d carved it without her ever knowing, if she’d found it she would have given me that stare and told me not to be such a sissy. I still love you Daisy. I closed my eyes but a vision of her played tricks with my mind and the anxiety, that’s kept me in poor company all my life, made my stomach churn and my chest tighten.

I shook my head in an effort to rid myself of the vision, but who am I trying to kid? She was always with me. The gull edged closer, keowed and bobbed its head up and down.

I’ve got nothing for you.

Keow!

I’ve never been great with birds. I leave them to the Bird Witches. I love Bird Witches. Some of my best friends are Bird Witches.

Keow!

Want to hear a story?

Keow!

I laughed, Well you asked for it. It was the summer of 1976 and just for once the whole of England was bathed in beautiful sunshine…

One

Hey wake up! You might be on holiday but that doesn’t mean you can lie in bed the whole day! Mum shouted up the stairs of our three-bedroom townhouse that was sandwiched between two identical-looking buildings. From a distance all three look like one house with a trio of matching front doors. Council estates were all about making things look the same, but Dad didn’t care much for the idea. He and mom were always planning something new for the house. The latest idea was to rip out the front window and have a bay window installed, but the tenants committee had one of their meetings and blocked our application. Dad had sworn a lot that day and threatened to do it anyway, but Mum had done what Mum does best and talked him back down.

Then what’s a holiday for? I kicked the red blanket onto the floor and pulled the sheet over my head.

Mum charged up the stairs and stormed into my room. She jumped onto my bed and threw the curtains open. Get up now lazy bones; it’s time to get out the house and into the sunshine.

"Urgh…okay, just give me a minute to wake up."

I know your minutes young man! Now move your butt!

She tugged the sheet off my head and pinched my nose tightly. I tried unsuccessfully to hide my eyes from the sunlight that flooded into my room. I blew my nose hoping the threat of being snotted on would loosen her grip, but she was a pro at getting one up on me and pinched even tighter. I pretended to choke and started coughing, but she didn’t buy it and pulled me up towards her. I grabbed onto her hands for all I was worth as she yanked me into the air. Mum wasn’t particularly strong, but I was all skin and bone from the years of track running. Okay I’m up, I said as the tears started to roll down my face.

Good, now shower and dress, I want you out of the house in fifteen minutes and I don’t want to see you back here until lunchtime. Your brother’s already gone to the dump to dig up bottles with his friends. Go play with them but be careful.

I cringed at the thought of hanging around him and his dumb gang; me and Sean had never been close. He had his friends, who were all older than me, and me, well I had no friends. Well not around the crescent anyway. All my friends trained with me across the other side of the city at Alexandra Park stadium, close to where they lived. No matter how much I moaned to Mum and Dad they wouldn’t let me go and see them unless one of them took me and picked me up. I was twelve damn it! I could look after myself. If you give me bus fare I could go and see my own friends and you won’t see me till tomorrow dinnertime.

Nice try James, you know the rules and your dad won’t be home until late tonight. Mum could drive but she didn’t get much time behind the wheel. We only had one car and Dad was king of that castle. Mum never really needed the car, she was super fit from riding a bike to work and back her entire life, and even though I was a champion runner she could still catch me over short distances. "There’s oats on the stove and milk in the fridge, I have to go or I’m going to be late. When you go out lock the door and put the key in the place." She whispered the last part of the sentence as if anyone spying on us could hear her.

Sure, I’ll put it under the mat where no one will ever guess to look! I shouted, much to her annoyance, but as I burst out laughing she smiled and tickled my ribs as I dropped back onto the bed.

Love you James. She kissed me on the forehead and went back downstairs.

Love you Mum, I called as the sound of her footsteps on the creaky old staircase echoed around the empty house. The dreaded stairs had thirteen steps, and I knew each one’s specific sounds. Dad held down three jobs and he grabbed sleep wherever he could get it. You learned quickly in our house not to wake him unless you wanted to be grounded.

We all knew the routine, tread lightly on the first step, skip the second and only use the right side of the next six, skip the ninth and land right in the middle of the tenth, an inch either side and the loudest groan would echo and you would be dead meat. The last three were good but another trap lay on the landing just outside of my door. On occasions, when my mind was elsewhere, that creak had been my downfall and the noise woke the old man and my ass was grass, as he was prone to saying.

I jumped out of bed determined to make the best of the day and looked out the window hoping the weather could’ve changed for the worse, as it tended to do on the first day of the school break, but as fate would have it the sun shone high in the sky and there wasn’t a single cloud for it to hide behind. Maybe this holiday wasn’t going to suck so badly after all. I grabbed a towel out of the airing cupboard and buried my face in the warm cloth. I loved the smell of freshly washed linen. It didn’t matter what material it was, anything would do, it was the freshness that counted. In fact I loved the smell of anything clean and it didn’t matter what time of year it was, the windows in my room were always open.

There were five rooms upstairs; Mum and Dad’s was next to mine and faced the front of the house while the others looked onto the backyard. I leant on my doorframe and pondered which of the three doors opposite mine I should investigate. Bathroom, loo or Sean’s room? I was always intrigued at what he did in there but we had a rule about invading each other’s spaces. As usual the temptation to take a peek was stronger than my willpower. I slowly walked over as if I were a spy in a movie and sniffed at his door. Wow, that stinks! It smelt of sweat, cheap deodorant and cheesy socks. I shoved my face back in the towel, rolled around on the floor and pretended to be poisoned by the stench. No ways was I going in, there could be anything hiding in the dark and dingy recesses of the pit of hell; that’s what I called the pigsty that was Sean’s den. Now the only decision left was to use the loo or pee in the shower? Let’s save on water.

The shower took ages to get warm and by the time it was hot I was already clean and about to jump out. On any normal day I would have waited for the hot water to kick in but the house was nice and toasty warm. That was one of the best things about living in the middle house, free insulation from the cold. I wrapped the towel around my head to make a hat and rubbed my sun-bleached. I never liked having too much hair, it tended to flap in my eyes when I ran, but Mum liked it, and she paid for the visits to the barbers. I wanted to have a skinhead haircut but Mum said that I’d look stupid. I rubbed at the steamed-up mirror, dropped my towel, and held my hair back to see what I’d look like bald. I laughed; she was dead right, I looked like an anaemic light bulb.

Two blue eyes, check. One nose, several freckles, check. Smiley face, check. Zero zits, check! Some of the kids in my old school teased me about still having some of my baby teeth but it never bothered me. I was lucky, Sean wasn’t. He had greasy skin and hair and he constantly bemoaned that I was the lucky git that got all the good genes. Personally I think it was the hours and hours of sweating from training kept me blemish free, but I really didn’t care. If Sean was jealous of me all the better, being brothers was all about who was the best and I didn’t win many of those battles.

Money was hard to come by in our house, but Mum wouldn’t skimp on the best things in life like soap and toothpaste, and the minty freshness washed over my teeth as I scrubbed my gums until they nearly bled. I looked at my brother’s toothbrush and a few evil thoughts crossed my mind. Maybe another day bro, I said, gargling with a mouthful of water. I picked the towel up again, wrapped it twice around my skinny waist and went back to my room to search for the elusive matching pair of socks that hid somewhere in my cupboard. After sifting through seventeen odd ones I gave up on finding a pair and grabbed my cutoff jeans and my blue and grey swimming shorts that lived way back in the darkness of my underwear drawer. I’d had them since I was ten and they still fitted me well enough.

We were lucky to live this close to the sea. Mum and Dad had fought tooth and nail for us to move from where we were born and thank God they did! I couldn’t imagine waking up without the smell of the mud and seaweed every morning. It was one of the constants in my life that made everything bearable, unlike school. But I wouldn’t have to go to the new one for another six weeks. The thought of not having to sit in class without a clue as to what those grownups were saying made me laugh aloud as I lay on the floor trying to get my jeans up and over my bathers. It was a struggle and I nearly did myself a mischief before the job was done. I jumped up and looked at the posters pasted at various angles around my walls. Pride of place in the middle was the Canadian flag; it was an Olympic year and all my heroes were heading to the Americas. I dreamed every night of standing on the start line of the fifteen hundred metres with Frank Clement on one side of me and David Moorcroft on the other. Next time boys! I promised myself.

My spongy old pair of flip flops only just fitted me but I shoved them onto my feet. I charged down the stairs and skipped the groans and creaks, just for the practise.

The spoon Mum had left in the porridge stood proudly upright, like a mast in the middle of the pot. I grabbed it hoping that she had finally got the mixture right, but the whole thing lifted off the stove. Even after a good shake the spoon stuck in there like a gatepost. No ways was I going to eat something that could, on another day, make a good weapon to kill someone. I took the whole thing to the sink and filled the rest of the pan with water in the hope that it would free the spoon from its prison, but no luck. I gave it a quick salute and decided to stop trying to save it from its concrete death, Another good man lost to Mum’s cooking.

I grabbed the milk from the fridge and was about to take a swig when something told me to stop and take a whiff of the contents and boy was I glad I did. It was rank, and as I shook it I could hear the lumps mix in with what was left of the milk. Disgusting!

I tossed the carton into the bin and ran to the front door hoping the milkman had delivered some cold refreshing cow juice but no luck. Damn it! How’s a boy supposed to face the day with no brekkie? I generally talked to myself when no one else was around, at least no one could answer back or argue the point. Sean was forever arguing with everyone in the house, Mum said it was because of his age and something to do with his hormones kicking in, whatever they are. She said I would have hormones too one day and not to judge him when I moaned to her about Sean thumping me for no reason. No hormones today, ha!

I grabbed a bruised apple from the bowl on the breakfast room table, wandered into the purple-painted lounge and switched on the black and white TV before throwing one of my flip flops at the Betamax VCR that squatted under the telly. Dad said that we couldn’t afford a colour telly and a VCR, and the family voted for the black and white. I’d voted the other way but everyone else wanted to be the first family in the crescent to have a VCR. I’d watched out of my bedroom window as Dad proudly parked the car out the front and carried the box slowly into the house, giving anyone that might be spying a chance to see what we had and what they didn’t. The fuzzy picture on the telly was hopeless and I flicked it off in disgust.

Back in the breakfast room I switched on the spaceman helmet radio and eight-track player to Radio One and found an old copy of 2000AD that was stuck in amongst Mum’s knitting patterns. She kept them in a box that took up way too much space on the wall unit that was Dad’s pride and joy, the culmination of his DIY project for the year. I must admit it was a beautifully crafted set of white chipboard cupboards and shelves. Mum polished it twice a day and I breathed in the smell of Mr Min and smiled.

I’d read the comic book a dozen times before and my mind drifted off as I stared at the pages. A car horn brought me back to my senses and I checked out of the window hoping for rain, but no joy. The sun was still beating down and the sound of kids playing football out the back made me feel nervous. I’d put the inevitable off for too long and Mum would know if I’d been skulking around the house the whole day. I had no idea how she always knew if I had done what she asked, but somehow she knew, and it never ended well for me. I raced upstairs and put my football shirt with the red and blue stripes on, rolled the towel into a tube and slung it around my neck. Okay world, here I come, ready or not.

I cringed as the lock on the backdoor clicked into place and silently cursed my bad luck. The last thing I needed was trouble on my first day off. I slipped the key under the mat and manned up. The football match was in full swing as I walked up the garden path trying to look like nothing bothered me. I made it to the gate without drawing their attention. If my luck held out I’d be gone before they even realised I was around. No such luck.

As the gate locked behind me I heard a cry of, Watch out! I turned to look at who had shouted and the ball hit me full in the face. It’s hard to explain a pain like that, my nose and lips felt numb and my eyes were watering. I started to swear at whoever kicked the ball but words failed me as through the tears I came face to face with Steve Furmidge, the self-professed hard man of the crescent; I was in trouble.

Something to say dickhead? He stood a foot taller than me and was nearly sixteen years old. He ran his fingers through his greasy ginger hair and glared at me, waiting for an answer. I remembered Sean telling Mom that Furmidge was a rocker and that he had a flick-knife.

He was close enough for me to be able to smell the cigarette he smoked before the game and I gagged. No.

Good and if your thick head did any damage to my ball I’ll be looking for you. The bully turned away and laughed at his friends who dutifully laughed back.

I couldn’t help myself saying, Good job it didn’t hit you then.

Two girls were lounging against the wall, staring at me. The smaller one wore a denim cap with a matching jean jacket and trousers. The other was a monstrous hulking girl with black curly hair and a green jersey that looked out of place on a hot sunny morning. The skinny one spat on the floor, sniffed at me and laughed. You’re an idiot Fisher.

Screw you.

Furmidge swivelled on his black plastic platform shoes and stared back at me, What was that?

I said that I’m sorry if it did, I lied.

He took a step toward me, Maybe I should just kick your ass now and get it over and done with? Maybe I’ll make it my mission in life to kick your ass every day of this holiday. What you got to say about that Fisher?

Nothing.

That’s right, nothing. That’s what you are around here and don’t you go forgetting it, wimp. He poked me in the shoulder and slapped me on the side of the head.

Hey c’mon Steve there’s a game on here, one of his buddies called out.

Fucking wimp, Furmidge went back to his game and left me facing tweedle dumb and tweedle dumber.

Better a wimp than a dickwad. I had no idea what a dickwad was, but I’d heard other kids using it so I guessed that it was a reasonable response. Tweedle dumb, the spit girl, heard me and stepped toward me, but enough was enough and I had to get away from the gang before my big mouth landed me in even more trouble. The only way out was through the hole in the wall and that meant making a run for it when the ball was at the other end of the pitch. With one eye on spit girl and the other on the ball I waited for my chance and ran like hell.

That’s it dickhead, run away, spit girl said and tried to stand in my way.

What you going to do about it bitch? I said without thinking and dodged around her. Even in my flip flops I was faster than her, but as I got within a foot of the safety of the brick tunnel that led from the car park to the relative safety of Locksway Road, I felt a tug on my shirt and a slap to my head and I spun around. The goalkeeper from Furmidge’s side had snagged me. You want this piece of crap Meesh? he asked the spit girl.

Yeah, hold that little dickhead there.

The game had come to a standstill again and Furmidge walked towards me, rubbed his hands together and laughed. You’re mine Fisher.

My eyes met spit girl’s; her smile reminded me of a snake I’d seen at the summer show on Southsea Common last year. I had one choice. Sorry, I said to the goalkeeper.

Sorry for what wimp? he asked a split second before I kicked him in the nuts. He let go of me and dropped to the floor, groaning in agony.

Furmidge shouted, Grab that little twat! Spit girl pushed her monster towards me and I ran like hell for the locks. Last year when it rained some bright spark got the idea to lay a metal sheet under the hole in the wall and as I bounded through the tunnel, clanging echoed all around me.

I got no more than ten paces away before I heard the first set of feet clatter against the steel, then the next and the next. I pushed on hard, even in my flip flops I was still faster than the gang of bullies. By the time I reached the pathway to the locks I had a good lead on them but I could still hear voices shouting in the distance. I just needed to find a spot and hide out until Mum got home at lunchtime, then I’d be safe. No one messed around with my mum; they’re all shit scared of her. She’s a tough nut but that’s not why they’re scared, the reason is simple: she’s married to my dad and my dad kicks ass! Mum’s the only one that can talk him down, especially when he’s got his beer on.

A small crab-apple crunched under my foot and I contemplated hiding up the tree that marked the start of the pathway, but if they found me up there I was history. I ran on down the alley leading to the locks searching desperately for a place to lay low. My shirt caught on a rogue blackberry bush, I pulled away hard and tore a hole in the sleeve, Damn it!