A Routine Intrusion won second place in the Birmingham Book Festival Short Story Competition 2010.

A Routine Intrusion by Oliver Ireson.

Vernon carefully unloads the contents of his basket onto the stained conveyor belt. His groceries line up in single file, a curious little procession of solitary vegetables and meals for one. A tin of shoe polish; three individual trifles; a bottle of lemon barley water which rocks and topples as the black rubber jerks from beneath it; a tin of Whiskas.

            ‘I didn’t know you had a cat, Vernon,’ I say.

            ‘I don’t have a cat any more,’ he says, reaching for the grubby plastic divider which probably once said NEXT CUSTOMER PLEASE. ‘Used to have a pair of ’em, I did, but the landlord said they was ruinin’ the carpets and the curtains and whatnot and so they had to go. Always plenty of ’em out in the yard though so I like to give ’em a bite here and there. Make sure they’re getting looked after, you know’.

            ‘D’you need any help with your packing?’ says the teenage girl at the till. She addresses the question to her fingernails.

            ‘No ta, bab,’ says Vernon. ‘I’ve had long enough to get the hang of it now I reckon!’

            He chuckles and gives her a wink, but she doesn’t see him. The constant bleeping of barcodes being read seems to have sent her into some kind of trance. Her eyes are like holes cut in paper.

            ‘Seven ninety-six, please,’ she says.

            He gives her a soft and crumpled ten pound note. Listlessly she returns the change, but her eyes are still averted and a misplaced ten pence rolls from her hand and onto the scuffed shop floor, bouncing and ringing like a tiny bell. There is a crack from Vernon’s knees as he bends to retrieve the coin. Gripping the edge of the counter he slowly hauls himself upright. Then he carefully counts the change. Then he folds and pockets his receipt. Then he reaches over to collect his solitary, self-packed carrier bag. A young man waiting behind us tuts and frowns and looks at his wrist, although he doesn’t seem to be wearing a watch.

            ‘Ta-ra, then,’ says Vernon, but the next volley of barcodes has begun, and there is no reply.

Outside we are confronted by a dank November morning. The remnants of an overnight fog still cling to the rooftops, and with no hint of a breeze to usher it away the cold air sits close against the skin. Vernon shivers and tightens the woollen scarf around his neck.

            The High Street is unusually quiet. Vernon sets the pace as we head off down the road, a pained but determined shuffle. He has lived here his entire life, and takes pleasure in pointing out local landmarks. The car park where his school once stood; the school where his childhood home once stood; a huge derelict building which was once a bingo hall which was once a cinema which was once the pride of the whole neighbourhood.

             Ahead of us a bus groans to a halt. Like a kneeling elephant it lowers itself to the kerb and with a hiss the glass doors open. Three Asian boys, maybe nineteen or so, spill out onto the pavement, pushing each other and laughing loudly. One of them barges into Vernon, making him stumble and grab at the bus shelter for support.

            ‘Yo, watch where ya goin’, grandad!’ shouts the youth. His friends suck their teeth and snigger.

            ‘Me?’ gasps Vernon, and I see his quickening breath emerge as urgent little clouds in the frigid air. ‘You sh-should respect yer elders.’

            ‘Why? Why should we “respect our elders”? It’s time our elders respected us for a change, ya get me?’

            They bounce off down the road, whooping like hyenas.

            ‘You dropped your bag,’ I say, as gently as I can.

            He picks it up from the damp concrete. One of the trifles has split open, leaking custard and cream and livid red jelly. He carefully removes it from its soggy cardboard holder and turns to put it into a bin, but the nearest one is full up with the greasy remains of various take-aways. Chips and mayonnaise drip onto the ground like pus from an open sore.

            ‘I’ll j-just have to leave it here,’ says Vernon, and places the little plastic cup on top of the bin. His hands are shaking slightly, and I hear him mutter to himself as we begin to walk away.

            ‘Are you all right?’ I ask.

We take several steps before he answers.

 ‘They’re just kids,’ he says.

We turn off the main road and into a gully of tightly packed terraced houses. In privet-walled yards the occasional ash or sycamore struggles from between concrete slabs, and above us the grey sky is laddered by silhouetted phone lines. A crow lands heavily on a crooked aerial and barks his disdain at the world.

            On Vernon’s street the houses shrink and the front gardens disappear. Through tiny front windows I see tiny front rooms. Some used for dining, some used as bike stores, some used for nothing at all.

We approach a house with the door propped open, a young couple unloading shopping bags from the boot of their expensive-looking car. As they walk to and fro they talk in child-like voices to a little ginger cat who sits in the doorway and squints up at them contentedly. 

As we draw nearer Vernon smiles at the young man and nods a greeting. I check my watch, but there is no need to hurry him. Not yet.       

            ‘He’s an ’appy little feller, ain’t he?’ says Vernon. ‘What’s ’is name?’

            ‘Er, we call him Edward,’ says the man, avoiding Vernon’s eyes and gathering up the last of the bags in his gloved hands. The girl and the cat have withdrawn into the warmth of the house.

‘I used to have a cat looked just like ’im’, says Vernon. ‘Billy, ’is name was. Lovely little thing he was.’

The man smiles weakly, but he must be busy, or tired, or late for something. The thick double glazed front door makes hardly a sound as it closes.

When we reach Vernon’s house, his key sticks in the lock. It takes him a full minute to open the door, and when he does it gets wedged halfway on a wad of brightly coloured leaflets which have collected on the welcome mat. I follow him into the dark hallway and close the door. There is a smell of mushrooms and old wood and polish. I peer into the small dining room on the left and see a table, four chairs, a glass fronted cabinet. A layer of dust lies undisturbed on every surface. Age-mottled pictures hang not quite straight against pinstriped wallpaper. One photograph in a simple wooden frame shows a boy staring out over a sepia harbour at dusk. The boats are all in for the day, collected around the quay-side like enormous white mussels. Just visible beyond them is the ocean, a sliver of infinite calm slicing through the jostle of masts and ropes and gulls. I wander into the room and find myself gazing over the boy’s shoulder, drifting towards that glassy expanse of water, so clean and still, uncluttered by life and all its useless little hopes and wishes and regrets; indifferent to change; indifferent to death.

Suddenly there is an agonised groan from another room. I realise with a start where I am. How long have I been standing here? Where’s Vernon? This is not right, I think. Not yet. In a breath I stride up the hall and into the back room. A breaking wave of polite applause washes over from the television in the corner. I can’t see him.

‘Vernon?’ I call. ‘Where are you? What happened?’

He appears from the kitchen clutching the kettle, shaking his head and looking at the screen.

‘Can you believe it?’ he says. ‘He’s on for a 147 and he goes and misses the last black!’

That evening I persuade Vernon to treat himself to a special meal, something he will really enjoy. He eventually agrees, and makes himself a steak and kidney pudding he has been saving for the weekend (although he still refuses to eat in the dining room). Afterwards, with his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, he washes his plate and cutlery and the few pans he has used and listens to the radio. I recognise a song written by a man I met recently. Words float over languid sitar:

“…you’re really only very small,

and life flows on within you and without you”

As the dishwater drains away Vernon switches off the cold kitchen light and settles himself in his armchair in the back room with a small glass of gin and the remote control.

Gradually the minutes swell and stretch into empty hours. The thin winter light has slipped unnoticed below the spidery tree-line outside, the room now lit only by an electric bar heater and the television. I lurk in the thickening shadow, my eyes never straying from my host. Half asleep, Vernon watches a documentary about space travel.

‘According to Einstein,’ the narrator says, ‘time is not a constant and fixed property of the universe, but can change depending on your point of view.’

The scene cuts to an excitable German man sitting in a darkened office, his face illuminated by the blue glow from a computer.

‘If it were possible to travel to, say, the edge of our solar system and back at near the speed of light, we would find upon our return that our friends and family here on Earth may have aged considerably in our absence. What seemed like only a year to us while we were moving so quickly may have been more like ten years to those who remained relatively still.’

‘Clever bloke, that Einstein,’ says Vernon, stirring from his torpor.

He drains his glass, sets it on the little table beside him, and gets up to switch off the television. I glance at the little clock on the mantel piece and ready myself, but as he turns back to face me he stops with a jolt. For the first time all day he looks straight at me and something changes in his tired eyes. He has seen me. A heavy quiet settles on the eerily lit room.

‘I don’t remember you ever telling me your name,’ he says eventually, a quiver to his thin voice.

‘I’m afraid I have no name to tell you,’ I reply. The darkness deepens over his face, like the shadow of a monstrous bird traversing the moon. He sighs, and I see the bones of his shoulders sag.

‘It all went so fast,’ he says. The ticking clock chops the silence into leaden chunks. ‘If only I could’ve…’

‘I know.’

‘Can I have five minutes more?’ he says. I check the time.

‘That shouldn’t be a problem.’

Slowly he walks into the kitchen and from a cupboard on the wall he takes the cat food he bought that morning. With a fork he scrapes the meat onto his back door step and then rattles the empty tin.

‘I hope someone looks after ‘em,’ he says, as he firmly bolts the door against the night.

In the front room he takes the picture of the boy from the wall and carefully wipes off the dust. He stands and looks at it for several moments, his lined face reflected in the glass. At length I quietly clear my throat. He nods and returns to his armchair, sinking into it slowly,  tentatively, as though he has never sat there before. I stoop and reach out a shadowy hand and gently touch my fingers to his chest.

The hiss of distant traffic frames the quiet of the house. The clock ticks on from the mantelpiece. His hands still clutch the picture, but with the closing of his eyes it drops softly into his lap.

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Events and Exhibitions you might like at The New Art Gallery Walsall                                                         

The Cover of a Book is the Beginning of a Journey  

9 October 2010 – 11 January 2011  

The New Art Gallery Walsall  

The Cover of a Book is the Beginning of a Journey is an interactive exhibition of artists’ books which derive from or present a set of instructions. Each book blurs the boundaries between authors and readers, or artists and viewers, inviting the usually more passive reader to take a more active part in the creation of the work.  

Although artists have been involved in printing and book production for centuries, in the 1960s many started producing book works as a way of disseminating their ideas outside of the limitations of the gallery. This more affordable medium meant the artists could reach a much wider audience. The works that came out of this period had a tendency to generate action and performance, acting as a starting point rather than a finished and complete work.    

Visitors to the exhibition are able to interact in a number of ways. The Paper Sculpture Book, for example, invites visitors to construct three-dimensional objects from two-dimensional designs by artists such as Adam Dant, Glenn Ligon, Sarah Sze and Chris Ware.  

The exhibition can also be used as a research archive. There are more than seventy book works on display by artists such as Jonathan Monk, Yoko Ono, Ed Ruscha, and Lawrence Weiner. Visitors are able to handle and study the books; a gallery assistant will be on hand to help. A full bibliography of works in the exhibition will be available on request.  

Artists in residence a.a.s. will be responding to the exhibition by constructing new performance scores from the exhibition material which they will perform with the help of visitors. Drop into the artist studio or contact aas@aasgroup.net if you would like to get involved.  

The Cover of a Book is the Beginning of a Journey is an Arnolfini project in collaboration with the Centre for Fine Print Research at University of West England.
   

In conversation

2pm   

Saturday 27 November  
Join Julian Warren, archivist at Arnolfini and Paul Clarke, member of the Performance Re-enactment Society for a free talk about the exhibition. This event coincides with The New Art Gallery Walsall’s second Artists’ Publishing Fair.  

The New Art Gallery Walsall is run and maintained by Walsall Council and also receives significant financial support from Arts Council England. The gallery is currently open Monday to Saturday 10am to 5pm, Sunday 11am to 4pm. Admission is free.   Christmas opening/closing 2010:  The gallery will be closed 24 – 31 December 2010 and 1, 2 and 3 January 2011. The gallery reopens on Tuesday 4 January 2011.  For more information visit thenewartgallerywalsall.org.uk 

Three weeks to go and some of the Festival’s writers are in the papers…

Festival author John Lanchester in yesterday’s Guardian talking about the  winning streak the banks are still enjoying…

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One of three New Voices in Women’s Fiction, Priya Basil, in Saturday’s Guardian talking about her upbringing and being torn between her family’s wishes and her heart’s, – the subjects that also underpin her novel, Obscure Logic of the Heart.

Read The Article