Kanita’s Story – taster…


Kanita Pali

The Calling

He was so much shrapnel; a whole cacophony of a life which within a few months – events had shattered all plans of peaceful retirement. His wife was so much meat- a breathing living thing of no value whatsoever, a severe stroke victim. He watched from a window of their three storey home, a home of excellence and achievement- traffic hummed in a highthen low key by…rudely passed without even acknowledging his existence…ignorant of his contribution to society. He stood with a baggy beige short sleeve jumper hanging from his sixty year old shoulders which sulked toward his concave chest. He was tall and so athletic at school. Time turned energetic smiles into miles of regret, piles, and prostate, and bladder state which he put down to too much wine…too little women. He loved Birmingham. He walked proudly- head and shoulders above the iminutive populous through the streets, adored Moseley, and had cosily prepared himself for intellectual withdrawal with intellectual friends.

The lecturer’s wife didn’t give a shit for Moseley, for Birmingham, for English literature, never had. Julia hated Rose’ and those evenings of social discussion and Stilton. Julia wanted something else but left it too late and was speechless, communicated via pencil and scraps of paper…her piano now silent…her two children…one in New Zealand, feminine and pregnant, the other male and magnificent…prospecting with BP and couldn’t say where. The offspring were mysteriously indifferent, stoical, and above all-absent.

The intellectual home situated in the more prosperous zone of Moseley is blessed with mature trees, lead flashing, and a long and ample, if not unkempt, driveway that imparts a certain confidence to all those who walk up to and declare their presence at the porch. There’s a black door and brass knob, stained glass, and a high bristled foot mat, and the inevitable smell of success and cottage pie.

It was here he wanted to die, surrounded by admiring students and followers of his literary contributions. Julia wanted her demise to be played out far from a fireside – in open air, drifting on a beach in the Far East, breathing in azure sky and amber dawns. Carers uncaring stripped her of dignity and soiled nappies, washed her, combed her hair, looked at their watches and walked away.

Another day, another slap in the face, teams of carers, no romantic talkers of poetry, the cream comfortable environment of John and Julia Sinclair had turned sour, sweetness of life taken in milky tea. Five bedrooms stood still and impatient for the next generation. Their life together had become a soap opera of fusty old scripts…and on it goes…life…and all its pretences, all its privileges, it was a comfortable environment to die in; a sort of Viking burning boat but indoors.

Indoors was awash with the smell of the unwashed…shit humming, sweat…urine… the mulch of dying enthusiasm…dying and dry…as wallpaper peels…and relationships are ripped and squealed -from the old use of tenderness to the harsh set concrete of last earthly gasps…a clawing back…a plead for another chance… a hidden thought that it may all be a dream this awful life, and oh! To die painlessly…blindly letting go of all the visions of one’s loved ones and immediate comfortable-crying for years picked and packaged, sobbing at the futile work that went into the vista of surroundings of the home they made.

No matter how many times he descended the stairs- early morning into his wife’s boudoir of the infirm…he could not reel back time- pinch the skin that refused to withdraw on the back of his hand instantly. This was the time of life when control of it-is selfishly wrenched from ones grip, he knew it…John Sinclair was almost resigned to submergence-as and when events dictated.

Economics were set to play an important role regarding his tired will and inclination. The social system leeched him without much struggle. He consulted his selfishness, and decided on a brighter way to progress his domestic circumstances, the prospect of a live in and reliable student was born in his mind, and being a master of the imagination he would whelk it out. He would have control…and if the girl was up to it…she would have it all…no doubt about it.

Copyright Steve Jones 2012©