Teacher Talking Time by Simon R Gladdish

TEACHER  TALKING  TIME

 

      When I left university with my degree in philosophy I didn’t have the faintest idea what to do with my life until a friend suggested doing a TEFL course. ‘It’s easy wonga, easy work and easy women’ he assured me. Like a fool I fell for it. I enrolled on the preparatory certificate (prep cert) course at International House in London which cost me 400 quid - a considerable sum in those days. When later, people asked me if I’d learnt anything on the course, I would answer truthfully - yes, never to part with 400 quid so easily again. The course lasted a month and although I enjoyed it, I can honestly say I learnt next to nothing.

 

Still, I scraped the certificate and hatched some plans. At the time my girlfriend, Sue, who was studying Spanish at Hull university was spending a year in Granada to improve her language skills. I wrote to her asking if I could join her. Luckily she answered in the affirmative and I more or less caught the next plane to Malaga. She was sharing with a couple of Muslim girls who violently objected to having a man in the flat so I was forced to find alternative accommodation. I eventually moved in with four charming young women who turned out to be lesbians. Because I spoke very little Spanish at the time I would spend many an evening playing chess with the lesbians and usually losing. I survived by giving private English classes to Spanish students. The trouble was I didn’t get many students and I always let them beat me down to a ridiculous hourly rate. If I had to catch a bus to teach them I could even find myself out of pocket. After six months, although my Spanish had improved dramatically, I was considerably poorer than when I had arrived and was beginning to fear becoming a destitute in Granada. I used my last few pesetas to buy a ticket home.

 

     My father was less than enthralled to see me back on his doorstep and immediately set about organizing me another job. This time it would be in Lerida in Catalunya at a proper language school. The boss, Ramon Vidal, interviewed me by telephone and I was offered the job at the end of the conversation. My father was so pleased to get rid of me that he even paid my flight to Barcelona. I was actually quite excited about the prospect of a proper job and a new life in Spain whose language I could now speak. I was driven to a flat and introduced to the other teachers who seemed alright. I shall never forget my first lesson. I was sitting quietly alone in a large classroom when the door burst open and twenty boisterous adolescents trooped in. My International House training kicked in immediately. I thought I was going to have a heart attack and almost fainted. How I survived that first lesson or the ones that followed, I will never know. I staggered punch-drunk out of the school and into the nearest bar. After a few beers I began to feel better and even managed to laugh about the day’s events. The following morning I had an eight o’clock class which I taught with a hangover. This unfortunately set a pattern that lasted the (brief) duration of the contract. Because (thanks to International House) I didn’t really know what I was doing I was forced to wing it (fasten your seatbelts!) which had an extremely deleterious effect on my nerves which I would assuage afterwards with alcohol. In the vernacular, I got pissed every single night. My day of reckoning was not long delayed. After a couple of months I was taken to one side by senor Vidal who informed that he was letting me go but would I carry on teaching until they could find a replacement. I thought it was the least I could do. My successor was a school-leaver who hadn’t even done the prep cert. I gave him my text books and taught him everything I knew which took about ten minutes.

 

      When I returned to Reading my father shook me warmly by the throat and demanded a detailed explanation of my latest disaster. I managed to convince him that I had learnt the job but not fast enough to satisfy the powers that were. My next foray was with Inlingua. I had an interview with an attractive woman in Edgebaston, Birmingham who offered me a job in Manresa, Catalunya, not far from Lerida as it happens. My father, surveying the wreckage of his previous investments, would only shell out for the coach fare. This turned out to be a slightly more successful enterprise, partly because we were largely left alone, and I survived the academic year. I developed a curious hybrid style as an EFL teacher. I was good at the grammar having done French and Russian at ‘A’ level but I was absolutely hopeless at the amateur dramatics so beloved of International House. Some students liked my style and some hated it. Where I really came unstuck was when I was being observed by someone higher up the EFL food chain. It’s actually quite interesting analysing what makes a good teacher. My (new) Spanish girlfriend, Regina, said they loved their English teacher because ‘they had a great laugh’. ‘But you didn’t actually learn any English’ I pointed out unkindly.  ‘Nobody did’ she answered in Spanish ‘but we all had a great laugh!’  I still think that teaching is ninety percent personality. If you are an extrovert and you like people then you stand a far better chance of becoming a good teacher than if you are an introvert who dislikes people - like me. If you get on with your students but not with your colleagues, you stand a good chance of surviving. If you get on with your colleagues but not with your students, you stand a reasonable chance of surviving. If you get on with neither, I would recommend an urgent trip to the nearest travel agent.  The upper classes have long had a fondness for EFL. The oldest son would inherit the estate. The second son would join the army. The third son would enter the church and the fourth (slightly dim) son would become an EFL teacher. During my extremely chequered career (which astonishingly eventually lasted over twenty years) I have met enough TEFL bores and listened to enough TEFL bollox to last me a lifetime.  I have encountered people who are seriously mentally ill who are classified as EFL eccentrics. They can’t go home because they have no home to go to. Quite a few Teflers have ended up marrying foreign partners and going completely native. I met my wife, Rusty, at a language school in La Coruna but she was at least British. I have met my best friends through EFL and made my worst enemies.

 

       Do I regret my more than twenty years at the chalkface? Not at all. I have travelled the world (Spain, Turkey, Tunisia, Kuwait). I have lived and worked in countries that I could not even have afforded to visit under normal circumstances. I have learnt to speak foreign languages (fluent Spanish and survival Turkish and Arabic). For the last three years of my TEFL career for the very first time in my life, I even made some money teaching in Kuwait. Hitherto I had been eking out a meagre living on subsistence wages. What advice would I give a young person thinking of a career in TEFL? My heartfelt advice would be to dive straight  in but expect the waters to be icy cold and bracing rather than warm and enveloping. You don’t have to stay in it for ever. It will furnish you with good, bad and indifferent memories that will stay with you for life and give you something to ponder on your deathbed and at the very least, it will postpone that evil day when you have to get a proper job.

The Sea of Trees. Conclusion. Aikogahara

When Yoko arrived at the entrance to the forest the sun had gone behind a cloud and a cold wind chafed at her face.  She looked up at the sign. The first letter of Aokigahara had worn off and the remainder was concealed beneath the overlapping branches of the trees, but she had no doubt that this was the right place. She blundered through the bushes trying to find a smoother path. She had already twisted her ankle on the moss covered rocks that jutted up out of the ground. The wood was quiet and cool, a twilight world, and the tall trees seemed muffled in a conspiracy of silence. Delicate mushrooms bloomed in the mossy rocks and wild flowers were dotted among the foliage. No one would have guessed that a place of outstanding natural beauty could camouflage such a site of death and destruction.

She was aware of the rapid pounding of her heart. The blood thundered in her ears.  Her breath came in laboured gasps and perspiration beaded her upper lip. She wasn’t fit. She never went to the gym with the other students from the English school, preferring the comfort of her car. It wasn’t enough to be thin.  Irrelevant thoughts crowded into her mind, distracting her and sending her off course. Then, without warning, she went crashing to the floor and found herself struggling in swathes of sticky plastic tape, like a buzzing fly in a spider’s web. She remembered Noburo’s grisly explanation that the body hunters used the tape to mark the search areas.  In that moment she felt helpless and without power, a victim of the forest. She was completely at its mercy.
Gazing up into the dense, greenery overhead,  she saw a notice in red letters nailed to a trunk. ‘Please reconsider before you decide to die’.

The breeze sprang up and the leaves on the trees quivered and shook. They rattled in the branches and she fancied they were whispering secrets to each other. The twigs creaked and snapped. Yoko thought she heard voices keening on the wind and thought of  the tales she’d heard about the Yurei, the spirits of the dead that could be heard  howling through the forest.                 
 No!  Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself. It’s just an old wives’ tale. They don’t exist. She noticed the things from her bag were scattered over the forest floor. She scooped up her lipstick, purse and mobile phone and put them into her bag and got to her feet. Clutching the shoulder strap of her bag firmly she walked on through the trees. She picked her way over the lichen covered roots that twisted along the ground, trying not to look too closely at the bones and fragments of rotted fabric among the decaying mounds of leaves. She noted the remnants of leather wallets and the rusted keys gleaming dully from under the rich loam.

As she staggered along she glimpsed a body hanging from a tree in the distance, swinging gently in the wind.  The weight caused it to spin slowly. She stared hard at it for a moment until she had satisfied herself it wasn’t Noburo.  She stopped and rummaged in her bag and took out her mobile phone and keyed in his number but it was no use. She couldn’t get a signal. She glanced down and noticed a long length of string near her foot. Incongruously, she was reminded of Theseus unwinding his ball of twine in the Labyrinth of the Minotaur. She guessed it was someone’s strategy to ensure that they got out of the forest. She hoped they were successful and began to wonder if she would ever get out.

 Her mind was still teeming with unbidden thoughts when she came upon Noburo. He was sitting with his back against a tree with a knife protruding from his stomach. The knife was firmly embedded in the bloody folds of his flesh. She reached out and touched him with her finger tip. His skin was ice cold.  All life had left his body long ago. She knelt down and pressed her warm, moist face against his clammy, pale cheek. ‘Oh Noburo,’ she whispered.  Then, as if in a grotesque reply,  shockingly,  the corpse  fell forward and released a  gush of air. Noburo coughed into her face, spraying her with tiny droplets of blood. She reared back in terror, her whole body quaking.  She forced herself to remain calm, fighting back her revulsion. Then slowly and deliberately, she put a trembling hand on the handle of the knife and drew it out of his body…

 

 

Noburo-San

There is no easy way to say this but I am leaving you. I am going away with Andrew. We love each other. I am so sorry this sounds cold and hard, but our life together is at an end. I have nothing left to give you. The vessel that once carried us down the river of life is now empty and you must find a new path.
I will always care for you.

Yoko
My Dearest Yoko

I am staying at the Sheraton Hotel. I want you to come to me there as soon as you can. I believe that we only have one life and we must follow our hearts. I know you are the only woman with whom I can be truly happy. My room number is 9. Don’t hesitate. Just come. I am waiting for you.
 
Much love

Andrew
Dear Andrew

Don’t be angry with me but I cannot come to you. I am only a weak woman. I am not strong enough to leave Noburo. He needs me. I cannot go away with you as we planned. How can we be happy when others are miserable? I could not bear to be the one to part you from your son.

I hope one day you will be happy. Please try to understand.

Your own Yoko

 

My little Yoko

If I am successful, this will be my final letter to you. Do you remember when we were first married and Fujitsu sent me on all those courses so far away? I wrote to you nearly every day. I missed you so much. We were so young and carefree in those days. I still miss you. I miss the sweet Yoko who showed me so much love and affection.

When I saw the note from Andrew that dropped out of your book I knew I had failed you. I knew that you could not love me any more. I have lost you, I have lost everything and I am nothing. Do not think badly of me.

Goodbye Yoko.

Your very own

 Noburo.

The Sea of Trees by Rusty Gladdish

And judgement and justice
Are what we must face
If our lives have been selfish
And lacking in grace.

A fragment from the epic poem Seasonal Affective Disorder By Simon R.  Gladdish
Sheltering below the glacial beauty of the great Mount Fuji is the ancient Aikogahara forest. It is a mystical place full of myth and legend. It is said that because of the magnetic composition of the soil, compasses do not give accurate readings; so many people never find their way out.

Their spirits roam the forest wailing in the winds that blow through the mighty trees. Here in the roaring silence of these archaic woods people come to end their lives. The Aikogahara has become the most famous venue in Japan for committing suicide. The sad and senseless evidence of wasted lives is to be found throughout the woods. Some partly decomposed bodies hang from trees while others are strewn across the forest floors like so many broken, discarded dolls. The Aikogahara council makes regular forays into the forest to collect the bodies, where they are removed and taken to a hut and laid to rest.
Part one: The beginning of the end

It looked like a simple butcher’s  knife. She had been slicing the chicken with it only yesterday morning. Then, it had been stained with the blood of the unfortunate bird. She gave a shiver as she remembered that when she washed it under the tap, blood and bits of flesh formed a little red puddle in the white enamel sink. Now, Yoko held that knife firmly. Dark red blood dripped from the point, stippling the leaves of the low growing bushes.

Except for the sound of the wind rustling through the leaves of the tall trees, the forest was silent. The great trees of the Aokigahara forest strained upwards towards the sunlight but their lichen covered roots writhed along the floor like an ocean of snakes. Yoko looked down at her husband.  His body, in its white short- sleeved shirt and beige linen chinos slumped awkwardly against a tree. A dark red stain had spread across his stomach. His head had fallen forward. His sad brown eyes with their puzzled expression, were now hidden from view. She looked wildly around her still gripping the knife. The patches of blue sky visible through the trees became grey and a chilly breeze moaned through the wood, making the branches snap and creak.  Yoko gazed at the bloodstained knife in her hand as if she was seeing it for the first time. She raised it to her throat and pressed the tip against her neck. Then a cry of despair escaped her lips, slicing into the stillness and ringing like a bell of bad omen round the hushed, quiescent forest. She began to shake uncontrollably and  the knife dropped from her fingers.

A fine drizzle filtered through the spring green canopy overhead and began to soak into her thin silk blouse. Tiny spots of blood speckled her hands and arms and her collar. She stood for a moment, her body trembling. The spell was broken when she was suddenly startled by the distant sound of voices in another part of the woods. Without a backward glance at Noburo she turned and plunged forward into the dense shrubs.
Waves of undulating branches met over her head and she disappeared from view.
 
Part Two:  Noburo:

When Noburo opened his eyes the room was so black, that for a moment he felt like a blind man must feel. He was faced with complete nothingness.  There was only a  suffocating darkness without shape, form or colour. He lay there for a few seconds, eyes wide, staring into the negative space. Then he got out of bed and stood in front of the window. He was at a loss to know why he’d woken. He glanced at the red digits on his bedside clock. It was 5.55am. He could hear Yoko breathing in the room next door through the paper -thin partition. She lay on a futon on the floor submerged in a narcotic slumber, weighted down by a heavy quilt.

He raised the blinds gently and looked up at the sky studded with myriad stars and wondered. He wondered why Yoko didn’t sleep with him any more and he wondered why he didn’t dream these days. He used to dream vividly every night and be able to recount them in great detail to Yoko the next morning. Nowadays, his sleep was broken and troubled.

It had been a shock when his boss had called him into the office and had given him the news of his early retirement, murmuring something about ‘restructuring’. Outwardly he had been calm and reasonable, refusing to betray the turbulent emotions that churned his guts. That night in the bar, he shared the bad news with his friends. They were sympathetic but some had already been awarded ‘the seat by the window’ (passed over for promotion, but not formally laid off) after a lifetime’s work. It was an ominous sign of the times.

On the train home Noburo sat staring impassively                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     at the floor.  After drinking numerous glasses of Sake he still wasn’t drunk. He still wasn’t sufficiently anesthetized to tell Yoko that after forty years service he was no longer employed by the Fujitsu Insurance Company. He felt abandoned and isolated. It was as though he had suddenly lost his parents and left an orphan. It was almost like bereavement. Fujitsu Insurance had been his life and now it was over. Noburo mourned its passing.

He had been with the company since he left university. As an only child, his parents had been delighted. From the tender age of three Noburo’s professional life had been mapped out.   He was to become a salary man like his father before him. His parents made sure he went to the best schools that would ensure his entry into a top university. This was a secure and respected position and was guaranteed for life. Once he had joined the Fujitsu insurance firm it immediately became his life. He was an intelligent and astute man and by securing several new contracts every month he showed how invaluable he could be. In return he was methodically trained in all aspects of the different departments. On his way to ‘enlightenment’ and ultimately, a high salary, he made many friends. Young, enthusiastic men like himself. They trod the same path, working, eating and socialising together. They worked late into the night, and by means of release from the day’s drudgery, caroused in the bars downtown into the early hours.

Noburo’s diligence, determination and popularity with his peers came to the attention of his superiors and he was selected for promotion. He was made divisional general manager. The company swallowed him whole and became his ‘family.’ Like all families, the firm continued to make more and more demands on his time until he was working late every night.  When he arrived home the apartment was in darkness except for the little night light in the hall and Yoko was in bed asleep. When he left for work early the next morning she had hardly stirred. Their precious weekends were often sacrificed to the golf course where he conducted important business deals. However, unquestioning loyalty to his employers meant that he remained uncritical of their procedures. On the brief occasions he had time to reflect, usually on the last train home, he wondered if by surrendering his will so completely to the company he had sacrificed some part of his relationship with Yoko.
Sometimes he felt as though he was sleepwalking through life. His recent retirement meant that the luxury of life’s certainties were no longer in place. The comfortable predictability of routine had dissolved into days without purpose. Yawning gaps appeared between his daily rituals.   Weeks stretched into infinity of euni.  His work had been everything to him. He felt somehow diminished. His status as a man, the provider, the head of the household, was being gradually eroded by the removal of his job.
He stood there shrouded in silence, clenching and unclenching his fists, overwhelmed with feelings of impotence. 

   Sighing heavily he slid open the window. An icy stream of air slipped into the room. Impervious to the wintry blast he gazed out at the neon vista and the stark silhouettes of the trees caught in the sodium glare of the streetlights. His eyes strayed back to the clock. It was 6.05am. The Tokyo express would be speeding towards the city now, packed with salary men, faces ashen with fatigue, leaning against each other for support. Gearing up for another marathon of a day, which would end in the early hours in a sushi bar with sake -soaked colleagues or succumbing to the charms of a young Geisha.

 He shivered and turned away from the window. He got dressed quickly and padded into the kitchen.
He opened the fridge and took out a bottle of milk. He sat hunched at the table absently drinking out of the bottle, the fridge door swinging open. The light from inside the fridge cast an eerie glow over his solitary figure. An overwhelming feeling of loneliness suddenly descended upon him from nowhere and settled heavily on his shoulders.
  On the fridge door among an assortment of magnets was a photo of a little boy with dark brown eyes creased up in a child’s innocent laughter. Yoko doted upon her little nephew and had photographs of him all over the house. She had been unable to have children. It had been a bitter blow to them both. To ease the pain Yoko had thrown herself into her job. Books had always been important to her. The shelves on the walls of their house were groaning with books. They were her drug, her escape, her refuge and her consolation. So when she was offered a part time job at the local library she took it without hesitation.

 As long as she was happy that was all that mattered. He only wanted the best for her.  That’s why he had worked so hard for so long. He wanted give her a large house with good quality furniture. Unlike his parent’s modest apartment which was so small and cramped.   Once, when he was home for a rare weekend, Yoko held a birthday party. Their usually quiet house vibrated with western music and rang with female laughter. Young women chattered like a flock of magpies and some sang along to the music in their thin high voices.  He had felt awkward but secretly proud. So proud that he had been able to provide Yoko with a beautiful house and garden to entertain her friends.  Bowing and smiling, he had discreetly withdrawn into the study. It seemed such a long time ago.

Now that he had more time at home Yoko was never there. He had to admit that they had been leading separate lives for many years but that could all change. Now he was at home they could spend more time together. If only he could rekindle the flame that once sparked their love. She was so different to the girl he married all those years ago. She had been so shy and demure and anxious to please him.  Now he felt he no longer knew her. At first he thought he it was his imagination when she seemed to be trying to avoid him. What with her job and her numerous classes and meetings she was hardly ever in the house. They almost never ate together anymore or enjoyed each other’s company. Sometimes he arrived home very late. Yoko was already in bed fast asleep, but he never stayed out all night like some of his colleagues. They often spent the night in an alcoholic haze, cocooned in the coffin- sized containers of the Capsule hotels, having missed the last train home.

They were like strangers sharing the apartment. He felt cast adrift, coasting along on his own.  It was too hard. He needed her. He was no good on his own and knew he couldn’t function without her. Yoko had always organized everything.  He sat for a moment, his head in his hands. Then an idea suddenly struck him, lighting up the dark, despairing corners of his mind. They would go on a little holiday together. When they had first married Yoko had wanted to take a holiday at Mt. Fuji. He had booked a room at the hotel  for them both but he was suddenly called in to work, an emergency had arisen. He could not refuse. The company took priority over his family commitments. They did not go and Yoko never mentioned Mt Fuji again.

 The sound of a door quietly closing broke into his thoughts. He could hear Yoko moving around the house. He decided to try and prepare her breakfast as a surprise.

Part Three: Yoko

Yoko stepped gingerly out of the shower onto the rubber mat. She was afraid of slipping on the wet tiles and hurting herself, exactly like her friend Mitsouko. While stepping out of the shower Mitsouko had slipped and fallen, cracking her thin skull like an eggshell on the unyielding, wet tiles. Her body lay undiscovered for three days until her husband Yukio arrived home from his business trip and found her lying, cold and stiff on the bathroom floor in a pool of congealed blood. The smell was indescribable, he had confided to Noburo over a few strong cognacs. Mitsouko’s sister-in-law came to clean their apartment but the odour of death still hung about the place.   No. She wouldn’t like to die like that. Not completely alone and without anyone to even say a prayer at the Shinto shrine for her.

On the occasion of her fiftieth birthday she had suddenly become aware of her own mortality. She felt had reached a great age. A half century. This should have been the milestone of maturity created by the wealth of her experience. She had always been slim and agile and full of energy. Noburo said that even now she had the face and body of a much younger woman. But with the onset of age she began to feel that her powers of energy and stamina were fading. She was a like a battery that was running down. She was becoming weaker and losing power. Uncontrollable feelings of anxiety and confusion would suddenly overwhelm her. Dr Noguchi told her that she was showing symptoms of the menopause and gave her some pills to mask the symptoms.
They seemed to help for a while but lately she had felt a slow tension building up inside her. Inexplicable fires of anger raged deep inside her and there were  days when she felt as though her entire life was coming undone and hanging in threads just like the  tapestry that Noburo had given her for her birthday.
She stepped up to the full length mirror and studied her naked body.  She frowned at the slim figure reflected there. Her breasts were small but full and with prominent rosy nipples now fully erect after her shower. She sighed and began gently kneading her breasts, feeling for the dreaded lumps but thankfully found nothing. She considered herself luckier than her best friend Mariko. One rainy night Mariko had been driving home through the slick, wet streets of the Shinjuko district, when  a dog  suddenly ran out in front of her car. She skidded and braked hard, and struck her chest on the steering wheel. Some months later she began to feel sharp pains in her breast.  Tests revealed a large lump in her breast which resulted in a partial mastectomy.
This proved to be a disaster for Mariko. She was a proud and attractive woman with a beautiful body. Her husband loved to show her off to his friends. For him, she was the perfect woman.  After the operation she became depressed and refused to go out. Her husband was not a patient man.  One day he took a mistress. Poor Mariko felt utterly worthless. He came home late one night to find Mariko half-lying on their new cream leather sofa. Her wrists slit open like bloody mouths spewing blood all down their new shiny leather sofa.  Yes, she should be grateful she was still intact.
She stood there shivering,  dripping water onto the tiles.  She put her head on one side to shake the water from her ears, and her black hair swung away from her face. She grimaced at herself in the mirror. Her perfectly even white teeth twinkled between her parted lips. Andrew had complimented her on her teeth.
 He came to her desk to correct her written English grammar, as he bent over her,  she could smell the soft wool of his sweater. She inhaled his foreign masculine scent.  He was a man not of her race and a giant among her people.  They had never meant it to happen. When he had discovered her in the empty car park at the back of the Language School looking forlornly at the flat tyre on her car, she had been glad of his help. The rain which had begun as a light drizzle when she had left the school had turned into a heavy downpour.

 He had a pump in the boot of his car and had pumped up the tyre.
It was hard work and in spite of his youthful energies, his face was shiny with perspiration.
‘Well, there you are then Yoko. It’s all fixed.’
‘Thank you so much Andrew san’ she murmured shyly and turned to get into the car, but something made her turn round.  He was still standing there, watching her. He was smiling. Then she heard herself saying, ’Perhaps you would like some tea? There is very good teahouse near the school. I go…..we go there. My friends and me……I can take you to your apartment.’ 
Suddenly he threw back his head and laughed loudly, making her jump. ‘Well that’s really nice of you Yoko. I’d love to’.
She knew that he was married with a child. She knew that this was dangerous territory, for both of them. She guessed however, that he wasn’t happy. The other female students noticed that he wasn’t ‘looked after’. Sometimes he came to the classroom with his shirts creased and buttons missing. His eyes looked tired and bloodshot, and sometimes he was unable to disguise the stress with his usual banter. Once, when she was in the car park about to get into her car she saw his wife arrive. She was small, thin and dark. Not English like Andrew. Not pretty.  She was very angry and shouted at him. They didn’t see her watching them.
 He was the focus of intense lunchtime gossip among her friends but she didn’t take part. She rinsed her mouth and put the toothbrush back in its holder.
 It had all started so innocently. Then it was like a raging forest fire between them. Their emotions had taken them both by surprise. Now everything was coming to its logical conclusion.

She could hear Noburo moving around the house. She took a thick, towel and briskly rubbed herself dry, then she folded the towel carefully over the rail. She went towards the bedroom to get dressed but paused as though she had forgotten something. She went back to the bathroom. She checked that she had switched off the shower and refolded the towel with great care over the rail. She gave the towel a last caress, smoothing it with her hands. She held her hands out in front and stared at them curiously as if they didn’t belong to her. They trembled slightly. She went to the washbasin and began to wash her hands vigorously under the tap. The water was very hot and was scalding her hands a dark, angry red but she didn’t seem to notice. She dried her hands roughly then folded the towel over the rail once more patting it gently. Then she walked into her bedroom and began to get dressed. She could hear Noburo making tea in the kitchen. He moved about the house quietly trying not to disturb her.

Noburo had laid the breakfast table with great care.  Gleaming porcelain bowls and sparkling silverware bought on a trip to London nestled on a snowy white damask tablecloth bought a souvenir from an Italian holiday. In pride of place stood the large white teapot with the bamboo handle, a present from his parents. Near Yoko’s plate he had placed a jar of English marmalade and her elegant Worcester porcelain teacup.  She loved all things English, and even kept some loose-leafed Twinnings breakfast tea in a tin with a picture of Buckingham palace on it.
Yoko took her place at the table like a guest at a wedding feast. He poured tea into her little cup. ‘I thought we could take a little holiday together. We could take a trip up Mt Fuji and then there’s the Akiogahara forest. It’s a very ancient wood. There are many beautiful, rare trees. I’ve always wanted to take a look around there.’

Yoko looked up, ‘The Aokigahara Forest? Isn’t that the place where people go to die?’

‘Yes, I’ve heard the stories, but it is an interesting place. I must say I’m very curious. I should like to see if it’s all true!

 ‘How morbid’, she shuddered

‘You’re being very negative Yoko’, Noburo murmured. ‘Mt Fuji is a fabulous place and is a truly wonderful sight in the Spring, especially with all the trees in blossom. Besides, Hashimoto has half shares in a very elegant hotel in the area. Most of the rooms have panoramic views of Fuji san and it’s full of Gajin all the year round.’

She scratched absently at the raw, scaly patches on her hands.
‘But what about my English classes? 
Mr Andrew is preparing us for the exam. It’s in two weeks time.’

‘That’s no problem. We could leave tomorrow afternoon and return next Saturday. You’d be back in plenty
 of time for your exam!’

Yoko gazed out at the terrace now bathed in Spring sunshine. The weeping cherry he’d planted to mark her thirtieth birthday was smothered in a froth of pale pink flowers.

She sighed heavily. She tried one last lame excuse. ‘It’ll be very crowded; it always is at blossom time.’
‘Come on Yoko’, pleaded Noburo. ‘We need a little holiday. We need to spend some time together. Since my retirement I’ve hardly ever seen you. You’re out every day’

She lowered her head guiltily over her bowl. Then she raised her eyes level with his.

‘Noburo, I have great respect and admiration for you. You’ve worked so hard to give me everything but surely you can see that our lives have changed.
He looked at her keenly, ‘What do you mean, ‘Changed’?

‘Well precisely that. Surely you didn’t think I actually liked being left alone in the house day in day out, never seeing anyone, only the shopkeepers.  Spending my days cooking and cleaning and preparing your Bento box for your lunch‘
‘Yes, but I thought you………’
‘What? You thought that I would have children to occupy me. But I didn’t, did I?’ her voice trembled, hovering on the edge of tears.
She looked out of the window.  An icy crevasse of silence yawned between them filled with the absence of the longing for a child.
 ‘No!’ She shook her head slightly. ‘Now I have my own friends, hobbies and interests. I have my own life! I feel………..alive!!’

‘What a pretty speech. You use the words ‘respect’ and ‘admiration’ but not the word ‘love’! Noburo’s voice shook with emotion.
He stared at the sink and noticed a tile coming loose from the splash back. If he didn’t replace it they would all come loose and fall off. He felt that Yoko had lifted up the edge of the secure marriage they had together and was pushing her finger under the emotional adhesive, working it loose little by little.

He prised his eyes from the tiles and let them wander over the bookshelves laden with hundreds of books from floor to ceiling. His and hers. His vinyl collection of Western classical music boasted titles such as La Boheme, Aida, Tosca, Bizet’s Carmen. He loved opera. Yoko did not. ‘The voices are all mixed up and discordant’ she complained once. Her choices were more eclectic with many foreign singers and pop groups.
He rested his eyes kindly on Yoko. She was still a very attractive woman. He noticed she seemed thinner, her face was becoming gaunt and pale, yet she was busier and more energetic than ever. Sometimes, she seemed so far away.  She was locked in another world. He wanted to break down that barrier and find out what she was thinking.
 Yoko studied the bottom of her empty teacup. Then she gave a little sigh. She didn’t want to go into any more protracted explanations so she said
‘Well alright. When I come back from my English class I’ll pack some things. As you pointed out, there’ll be lots of Gagin to practise my English with’
‘That’s settled then. I’ll ring Hashi to reserve us a room.’ He smiled widely at her like a trusting child.

In the distance he could hear the high pitched wine of the Tokyo Express whistling along the tracks way below their house and he echoed the sound by humming an aria from his favourite opera as he began to clear away the breakfast dishes.

Part Three: The Fujiyama Hotel

Yoko was sick with nerves as they pulled up in front of the splendid hotel Fujiyama. She sat on in the car for a moment enjoying the spring sunshine on her face, glad of the anonymous shield of her dark glasses. A few more minutes grace. She marvelled at the sight of Mount Fuji rising grandly above the clouds. It has been a spiritual symbol of Japan since ancient times. It is Japan’s most sacred and holiest of mountains.
She was in awe of its serenity, its symmetry and its icy remoteness.  She longed to be a speck on that snow-covered summit.  She imagined herself standing on the snowy apex, gasping in the thin air that hurt to breathe. A solitary figure, eyes screwed up against the blinding whiteness and ears deafened by the thundering silence: the freezing wind savagely biting her cheeks. There, on that glittering peak one could experience complete freedom, a oneness with nature and perhaps, happiness of a sort.

Noburo leapt out of the car and took out their suitcases and began to hurry up the marble steps to reception, bumping the suitcases noisily on every other step. He suddenly became aware that she wasn’t behind him. He dumped the cases in front of the revolving doors with a clatter and went down to the car. He put his head inside the window, his face close to hers. Yoko drew back a little, but he didn’t seem to notice
‘What’s the matter? Don’t you like the hotel?’ he asked. Without waiting for her answer he continued.
‘I thought you’d love it. When we first married you talked of nothing else but going on holiday to Mt. Fuji together.’
Yoko turned her head away a little so as not to inhale his strong breath.
‘That was 30 years ago’, she murmured half to herself. Then, managing a weak smile, she got out of the car.
‘You’re right Noburo, it’s a beautiful hotel’.  Fighting back the nausea and apprehension she climbed the steps to the glass and marble foyer but she did not permit him to take her arm. She simply could not bear him to touch her. She had asked him to book twin bedded rooms, explaining that she had a painful rash.  

While Noburo checked them in at reception Yoko sat stiffly on an elegant cream sofa and amused herself watching the arrival of the guests coming in through the revolving doors. People fluttered inside the glass cubicle like butterflies caught in a jam jar; imprisoned briefly by the heavy, rotating glass doors before they were suddenly spewed out, dizzy and disoriented.

 Some had arrived to visit the Cherry Blossom festivals which were just beginning. The hotel was busy with tourists from all over the world. She wondered at all the different languages being spoken. A group of Americans pressed eagerly against the reception counter, all calling out different requests at once to the receptionist.

‘Miss!  Miss! I need someone to take our bags up to our room immediately!’

‘Hey miss! Can you tell us where to catch the touring bus tomorrow morning?’

‘Excuse me miss, what time is breakfast?’   

‘Er…. miss! My little boy has just been sick on this gentleman’s suitcase. Do you have a cloth?
Honey, there’s no use getting mad! It’s just one too many Hershey bars is all!’

‘Miss’ Kanawa kept calm and unruffled and bore all the mayhem with dignity and good humour.  Always smiling gently and giving little respectful bows to everyone. Eventually they fell back, their needs now satisfied only to be replaced with a family of bewildered Spaniards who surged forward.
‘Perdona Senorita!!! They cried in unison.

A tall well -dressed Frenchwoman with some expensive looking luggage came hesitantly forward.
‘Bonjour mademoiselle. Je voudrai un chambre……..’
****************************************
In the gleaming, brightly lit corridor the bustle of Reception was soon forgotten.  Noburo slipped the card into the slot and pushed open the door of their room. Yoko let out a little gasp of surprise. The door opened onto a large, airy room with two enormous picture windows looking out over the forest to the snow-capped Mt Fuji.  Bright mid- morning sunlight splashed onto the cream linen sofas with chocolate cushions artfully arranged. The gleaming wooden floors were covered in strategic places with thick beige rugs. A heavy oak coffee table piled with magazines stood between the sofas.
Yoko walked over to the huge picture window and gazed out over the tops of the trees to the lake, shimmering in the sunlight.  In the distance she could see Mt Fuji, starkly white against a dazzling blue sky.  Shining and omnipotent. A group of pink flowering cherry trees coming into blossom provided a natural arch on the terrace outside the sliding glass doors.

‘Oh Noburo! This is so very lovely!’ she breathed.
‘You like it? I’m so glad Yoko-san’ Noburo murmured. His expression of relief was concealed as he gave a low  bow like the bell boy showing off an apartment.   
She smiled. She had not expected such splendour, such beauty. She turned to Noburo. ‘This is wonderful. It’s more beautiful than I could have ever imagined’ She wandered into the bedroom and noted the two single beds. Noburo came up behind her and tried to kiss her neck affectionately.  She moved aside abruptly.
‘I’m going to try out that shower. The bathroom looks so inviting.’
He tried stifle his disappointment with a broad grin. Noburo, the smiling tiger.
‘Fine, after your shower we could take a turn round the gardens and have tea on the terrace if it’s not too cold.’ he said.
Yoko put  her head on one side coyly, her sleek black hair with its single grey streak, fell  seductively over one eye  ‘Sounds like a good idea’. Then the door closed gently against all further communication. Noburo stood looking at the door for a moment then, with a sigh, he turned to unpacking the suitcase.

 

To be Continued……….

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Original Cliches by Simon R Gladdish

60 NEW POEMS BY

 

SIMON  R. GLADDISH

 

INTRODUCTION

 

Original Cliches was mainly written in Istanbul and contains an

abundance of interesting, well-written poems about a vast range of different subjects. Several of the poems examine the poet’s art

itself and attempt to explain why poetry is so close to the human heart.

 

 

BIOGRAPHY

Simon R Gladdish  was born in Kampala, Uganda in 1957.

His family returned to Britain in 1961, to Reading where he grew up.

Educated at Oxford and Cambridge Universities, he trained as an English Language Teacher, a profession which enabled him to live in Spain, Turkey, Tunisia and Kuwait for many years. He now lives near Swansea, Wales.

His poetry has been warmly acclaimed by other poets including Andrew Motion, the present British Poet Laureate.

He has published seven volumes of poetry so far: Victorian Values, Back to Basics, Images of Istanbul, Seasonal Affective Disorder, Original Cliches,

Torn Tickets and Routine Returns and The Tiny Hunchbacked Horse and

The Poisoned Tunic  jointly translated from Russian with Vladimir and Elena Grounine.

Incidentally I am still looking for a publisher for my poetry and would welcome any serious offers.

DEDICATION

 

For my much-missed mother Enid

And my father Kenneth (fellow author),

my brother Matthew and his family,

my sister Sarah and her family and

last but never least my wife Rusty

without whom there would have been nothing.

 

 

 

We can all coin original cliches

But even if accepted as legal tender,

They soon become devalued.

SEA-HORSE

 

I’d never really seen

A sea-horse before

Until I sat another’s house

And saw one hanging in a glassy tomb,

Hovering in vitreous eternity.

At my leisure

I could delineate and measure

Its amiable proportions.

Small, fragile and frail

And handsomely symmetrical:

Its head a mirror-image of its tail.

Its ribbed and panelled surface

And soft spines, the happy outcome

Of an origamist’s skillful conjuring.

Its skin so papery thin

It reminded me of the dusty

Crumbling wings of dying moths.

Its tail as tightly curled and scrolled

As a jester’s slipper.

The orbit where the eye had been

As empty as the dark side of the moon.

Does it resemble a horse?

Well, not exactly,

But I can see exactly what they mean.

SUNFLOWERS

 

The flowers sprawled in the broken vase,

The vase slumped on the shelf.

I wondered if the painting was

A portrait of myself.

 

The sun burst through the window

Hurling bars of burnished gold.

I wondered if I’d understood

The stories I’d been told.

 

The curtains hung like criminals

Suspended from a noose.

I wondered if my life had been

Of any earthly use.

 

The bathroom slowly filled with steam;

I seized hold of the mirror.

I watched my features fade away

And I felt a sense of terror.

THE ARTIST’S ROOM IN ARLES

 

The room is small, the crooked walls

Converge around the bed.

The counterpane, though badly stained

Retains its brilliant red.

 

The table in the corner boasts

A porcelain jug of blue

Contained within a matching bowl

Though both are hardly new.

 

A towel hangs from a rusty nail

Forgotten as a kiss.

Beneath the bed a creaking pail

Collects the artist’s piss.

 

The sunlight paws the frosted panes

Which seem about to break;

The mountains, plains and country lanes

Are obstructed and opaque.

 

The furnishings are minimal,

The messages, subliminal;

The faces in the paintings stare

Towards the absent criminal.

 

The chairs rock like autistic children

Chained to a timber floor.

Vincent, you were a prisoner

Without guilt or guarantor.

Your sins were few, your failings two:

You were anonymous and poor.

LE CHAPEAU DE PAILLE

 

The black felt hat is tilted rakishly,

The ostrich feathers almost sliding off.

Wisps of mousy hair peep shyly out

From underneath the broadly sloping brim.

The almond eyes are intelligent and amused,

Watchful and sensuous.

The coral mouth

Pursed with upturned corners

Is surprisingly lascivious.

The creamy neck plunges

Towards the high voluptuous bosom

Made shapely by the tight black bodice.

Red velvet sleeves trimmed with artificial lace

Conceal the thoughtfully folded arms

But reveal the delicate slender hands

Cradling an emerald engagement ring.

To paraphrase my old friend Schopenhauer:

Beauty is an open letter of recommendation

And universal wedding invitation.

DONA ISABEL DE PORCEL

 

Superb senora, decked out in widows’ weeds,

A black mantilla perched upon your head,

Its ornamental lace sweeping down across your shoulders.

Arms akimbo; hands on hips;

Gracefully tapering finger-tips.

Blonde kiss curls worship at your hidden temples.

Your wide-open hazel eyes

Survey the vacant air of the middle distance.

Your posture is upright, proud, superior,

Effortlessly aristocratic

And mildly contemptuous.

Your creamy complexion and ruddy cheeks

Make of you a perfect Spanish rose.

SIREN

 

You are so beautiful

That I don’t want to photograph you,

Draw, sketch, trace or paint you

Or even write a poem about you.

I simply want to gawp

Becoming ever drunker with desire

Until your perfect form recedes from focus.

Your long dark hair dances round your naked shoulders

Like an ebony waterfall debouching onto virgin snow.

Your fleshy damson lips

Are so perfectly proportioned,

They hamper my own breathing.

Your nose is fairly ordinary

But your eyes are limpid, liquid crystal pools

Filled with intelligence and longing.

When I leave my wife and squealing children

To follow you to the ends of the earth,

God knows as well as I

That I am merely an iron filing

Marching towards a magnet,

A selfish martyr

Inching towards the inevitable.

LIFE

 

Simply by being born

We take on a host of other obligations.

We are obliged to work like dogs

At jobs we hate

In order to support ourselves,

Our fat nagging wives

And myriad ungrateful children.

As I sit in my crumbling terrace

(Depressed as usual)

Facing redundancy, repossession and remorse,

The thought I cannot get out of my head is

I didn’t vote for any of it;

I never wanted to play this lousy game

Which I always, inevitably, lose.

WALES ON SUNDAY

 

Six o’clock and it’s pissing with rain again.

It always rains in Wales and when it doesn’t

It hails.

Nothing to drink, nothing to think

Except for a vague depression

Tugging at my entrails.

Bills coming in thicker and faster

Than junk mail and infinitely

More frightening.

The monotony is momentarily stunned

By a flash of lightning

And dramatic roll of thunder.

Nobody cares a cowboy’s cuss

About the stress I’m under.

Is it any wonder

I feel depressed, obsessed, unblessed, compressed,

Tempted to get up, get dressed, head out west,

Play the uninvited guest and pay (if necessary)

To be amorously caressed

By a beautiful dumb blonde

(If only I can find one.)

AUTUMN DAY

 

It’s a bleak autumn day.

The atmosphere is so heavy you could weigh it.

The clouds are crouching low and mournful

Keeping a weather eye on us.

The monotonous tapping of the rain

Is broken only by the drone and swish

Of passing cars.

The rotting grass is yellower than hay,

Indifferent and ungrateful for the downpour

Which has arrived too late to save it.

The stones resemble bathing elephants:

Massive, wet and grey.

The sky is the colour of cigarette ash

And the chill wind whispers

Through the cracks in the living-room windows.

Some poor old soul is out delivering leaflets.

I ease another bulky black coal

Onto the cackling fire

And join in its contagious laughter.

MILLENNIUM BLUES

 

It’s the fag-end of the twentieth century

And things are surprisingly bad.

The world’s population is approaching six billion

And the crowding is driving us mad.

 

The pope is still kindly reminding us

Cotraception is always a sin.

Lord, please have mercy upon us –

We don’t realise the mess that we’re in.

 

We crawl through contaminated cities,

Panting polluted air,

Drinking from filthy rivers

Refracting the neon glare.

 

What is our long-term prognosis?

Can we get through just by clowning?

Or are we caught right in the eye of the storm,

Shrieking, choking and drowning.

 

We want to dance round the millenium dome;

We’re collectively holding our breath.

We’re hoping and praying the millennium comes

Before our own personal death.

DOG DAYS

 

Most dogs dwell in desirable residences,

Are fed, walked and watered every day,

Cradled in the loving arms of their owners

And petted, pampered and caressed

By the rest of the family;

Get more uninhibited sex in a week

Than we do in the whole of our lives

And don’t have to pay a single bill

From the day they’re born till the day they die.

People say that humans are the superior species

But I’m not convinced.

If we were really clever

We’d send the dogs out to work

While we stayed at home and put our paws up.

CAPTAIN

 

Captain is a Jack Russell.

He has endured fifteen winters

Which makes him over a hundred

In human terms.

He has the usual canine afflictions:

Worms, fleas and dribbling incontinence

Yet retains that deep-rooted dignity and decency

Common to most dogs.

These days he has to helped

Onto beds and sofas

Where he can wipe his muddy paws

And leave lavish layers of filthy hair

On the pristine pillows.

Captain’s idea of an idyllic day

Is to perch on the upstairs window-sill

For hours on end

Staring idly out

At the passing show.

I often feel that Captain’s life

Is remarkably like my own.

CIDER WITH ROSE

 

These days wine tastes sour to me;

It’s less of a flower than it used to be.

Perhaps it’s the Hungarian

Or watered-down Bulgarian

Or maybe it’s just me

Turning inexorably

Into a demented vulgarian.

 

Nowadays, cider tastes sweet to me

And wider and deeper and stronger and steeper

Than any grubby grape-juice

(No matter how fermented!)

Am I becoming ironic, sardonic, Platonic, moronic

Or simply melancholic and semi-alcoholic.

WHINE

 

I passed a bunch of purple fruits

All spherical in shape.

A stranger bid me taste of them;

I did and ‘twas the grape!

 

The grape that can with logic absolute

Make wine (along with any other fruit.)

I noticed not the vinter who appeared

With musket, ready to take aim and shoot!

 

The grapes were sweet and sticky

(Although reaching them was tricky.)

The vintner seemed to take the view

I was trying to take the mickey!

 

Indeed they were far superior

To anything in Iberia

But I’m still unsure whether they were worth

The lead in my posterior!

TOFFEE ROCK

 

We bought a cube of toffee rock

From an itinerant stone seller in Tunisia.

He assumed we were rich Germans.

No, we quickly contradicted,

Just poor English.

Anyway we ended up buying an assortment:

Amethysts, amonites, agates, thunder-eggs

Und so weiter.

But the toffee rock was easily my favourite.

I shall attempt to describe it

Knowing almost anybody else

Could do a better job.

Dug out from underneath the Atlas mountains,

It is about an inch cubed

And staggeringly stratified.

It has a biscuit base beneath a vein of chocolate

Supporting a much thicker layer of butterscotch

Topped by a ribbed and fretted coating

Of crumbly vanilla icing

(The still adhering rock crystal.)

All in all it looks

Like an elaborate caramel

Or small ungenerous portion

Of luxurious coffee cake.

LIVERPOOL POEM

 

My girl asked for a poem

So I gave her a yellow rose.

That’s not a poem, she said.

I said it all depends

How you look at it.

Some people would claim

It was the apotheosis of poetry.

No, she said, I want a real poem

So I gave her a green leaf.

That’s not a poem, she said.

I said it all depends

How you look at it.

Some would assert that verdant leaves

Are the tiny waving hands of plants and trees.

No, she said, I want a genuine poem

So I gave her an orange stone.

That’s not a poem, she said.

I said it all depends

How you look at it.

Some would state that simple stones

Are the rugged rudimentary bones

Of mother earth.

She said, you’re not very bright are you?

If you can’t be bothered

To write me a proper poem

You can sod off.

So I did.

STREET SWEEPER

 

I used to be a road sweeper

In Golders Green.

It was my job

To keep the streets clean,

Chat to old ladies

And chuck babbling babies under the chin.

I had a bunch of black plastic bags

To put the rubbish in.

I pushed a squeaky yellow barrow

With a shovel and a brush.

(Being so encumbered

Made it difficult to rush.)

I had to pick up the litter

And kick the dog-shit into the gutter

Where it appeared less extensive

And therefore marginally less offensive.

It was great while it lasted

But one day I got plastered

And was given the proverbial tin-tack.

I begged to be allowed back

But it was no use,

The boss was adamant.

(Actually I think that was just his nickname.)

PEN AND INK

 

I wonder how much ink has dripped

Off the gilded quill of the pamphleteer

In his promiscuous efforts

To excoriate and jeer.

 

It’s no use crying over spilt ink

My mother used to say.

Too much has flowed under the cartridge

From Nigeria to Norway.

 

Like bees exuding honey

In their hexagonal hives,

We writers scratch and scribble away