Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

A room bay-windowed. Furniture. A sofa. Its cushions sag in two places. Opposite, a low table. Upon the table, small ornaments. A china donkey, plastic flowers sprouting from its panniers. An egg-timer, fixed to a photograph of the sea. An ashtray bearing a coat of arms. A novelty spoon rest. A crested spoon is nearby, but it does not rest in the spoon rest. A perpetual calendar, attached to the picture of a cottage, announces the date as October 12th 1983. Two porcelin figures stand before the calendar, about to exchange coy kisses beneath a sign post.

And beneath the low table, a sheet of paper. On it is drawn a shape. It looks like a house. A house with no door, no windows, no chimney.

                  ‘You’re coming. And that’s final.’

A figure enters the room, snatching open the curtains. Outside it is early morning. The figure is a man. He picks up the porcelain lovers.

                  ‘Stop snivelling. It’s only once a week. If
                   you’re a good boy, I’ll buy you some
                   sweets on the way back.’

The man flicks a speck of dust from the sign post, which reads ‘Tintagel’. He replaces the figures; regards them; moves them slightly.

                  ‘And we’re not going upstairs on the bus.
                   So don’t even mention it.’

A newspaper bursts through the letter box.

The man carries the paper to the centre of the room. The paper is laid flat on the carpet. The man kneels
before it. He draws a doorless, chimneyless house.

He draws another.

And another.

A margin of houses.

He turns the pages of the newspaper. He stops,
bends forward, reads. He leans back as if to speak.

                  ‘You’ve got nothing to moan about. All
                   flippin’ play, your life is.’

Footsteps. The man looks up from the paper, scrabbles across the room on all fours and peers out over the window ledge. He watches someone pass.

He drags the newspaper into the bay. He teases the pages apart. They cover the floor of the bay. He folds the edges of the pages where they meet the skirting board. The newspaper fits into the bay.

                  ‘And don’t you dare touch anything when
                  we get there. Do you hear?’

He sees the date on the newspaper. He looks at the calender. The dates are not the same. He stretches towards the calender, then stops.

                  ‘Come on. Stop gawking out the window.
                  Don’t leave your gloves behind.’

The man creeps to a set of shelves. They contain many records. He switches on the record player. A faint crackle from the left hand speaker. He chooses a record; reads the sleeve; replaces the record. His fingers flicker along the sleeves, until they reach the end of the shelf. He switches off the record player.

                   ‘Stop dawdling. The sooner we’re there,
                   the sooner we’ll go home.’

He turns on the television. A film. It is black and white. The figures jerk frantically. They run and fall over. It is a funny film. A silent comedy. He turns off the volume. ‘My husband,’ says the caption.

                    ‘And don’t go asking for the television as
                    soon as we get in.’

The man steps back, his eyes fixed on the screen. He sits on the sofa. It hisses beneath his weight.

The man smiles.

One summer, just outside Tintagel. A flat tyre. And him in his best suit too. She had laughed as he slid from the car. She had laughed again as he smeared his jacket on the words ‘Just Married’, written in soap on the boot.

                    ‘Don’t forget to tell Granpa your news.’

The room is empty. From the kitchen, the sound of a
kettle boiling; a spoon clonks in a tea caddy; crockery rattles.

                     ‘Look at your hair. Come here.’

The man returns to the room. He carries a cup and saucer. He stops; listens. The sound of footsteps. Very close.

                     ‘Now ring the doorbell. There’s a good
                     boy.’

The man stands behind the door, his back pressed to the wall.