Doll

On the bric-a-brac shelf / of a nineties’ charity shop / a doll, feet glued to a wooden box…

Three lines in, and after a good deal of jiggery-pokery to centre them just so, I turn away from the screen, unsure of whether to grimace or grin, or if, indeed, there’s any point to my adopting either expression. The doll about which I’m writing, and whose shape I had hoped to recreate in the form of a calligram (Oh yes, I can do that, no problem, Mister Writers’ Group Task-Setter, Sir, I can attempt to rival George Herbert’s ‘The Altar’) will smile that narrow smile of hers regardless, and my partner, Daryl, now that I’ve heard him come in, will, in all likelihood, do the same…

So, you’ve got as far as the hat then…? Yeah, sure, the poet’s hat, the one I pretend to wear whilst downing my sixth espresso of the day and staring into space while you’re out there in the real world earning a proper living… Not that this patient, obliging man will ever complain. Instead, he’ll just tell me ‘it’s tiring’, his go-to stock phrase which could be read as ‘hello’ and which he tends to warble out to the kitchen walls on a daily basis, unsure of whether or not I’m actually home.

It’s two in the afternoon now and he left for work at three in the morning. He’s only contracted from five to one, so he’s under no obligation to do this, but as manager of the cleaning firm responsible for a large retail outlet which opens to the public at six, it’s best, he says, that he gets in early and stays a little later to ensure the bulk of the work is done to his (and every head of department's) satisfaction.

cardboard history book / underarm and a placard /bearing the words // No More School!

There! The doll has a face now. And a neck. But considering someone once said that this doll looked a bit like me, a brass one might have been more apt than the shadowy italicised three-word text which is supposed to represent this latter vital body part.

And whatever do you intend to do with yourself now, might I ask...? My mother’s words on the day she’d discovered I’d signed the leaver’s form without her knowledge and quit school halfway through my exams. And her face as she’d stood hands-on-hip in the doorway of my room! Funny then, I’d thought, seeing it all screwed up and old before its time, but now, and whenever I glance at the doll, the exasperation in her voice and her drained, pained demeanor comes back to haunt me. Likewise, my childish retorts.

I’d given her the usual lip, told her I’d make up for what she’d lost in child benefit off my fortnightly dole cheque, and out she’d stormed, roaring about the seven pounds fifty a week not even covering the cost of my muesli, me not having the brains I was born with, and knocking the doll from the sill before she went. ‘Just you watch, she’ll be burning it next, just like she did your diaries.’ The friend I’d been with at the time had laughed as I stuck on Pink Floyd’s ‘The Wall’ and turned the volume up to outrageous levels, hitchhiking planned for the long, lazy summer ahead.

I unfold a quid, put the change in the tin / and the doll finds its place on an unvarnished ledge.

Shoulders… To the grindstone, I suppose. I’d thought I was so grown up when I finally got a job and a flat of my own. Well, more of a bedsit really; above the Chinese takeaway where I'd languished behind the counter for a couple of years, taking orders six nights a week. Cash in hand, less than two-thirds the going rate, I discovered later, but not to worry, there were always plenty of blokes around willing to buy me drinks on my one evening off, and more so, because I did live alone… No parents? Cool, can crash at yours whenever we’re pissed. And no strings, eh, Doll? See you next Tuesday…

In checked cotton dress, blue pantaloons / straw hat over beige-blonde curls / wide painted-on oval eyes / and a one-line smile / the doll remains / in spite of the years /an end of term amusement

The body. That’s what my ex, the one I married, used to call me. The one who was so possessive he got jealous of me spending any time at all at the keyboard, never mind interacting with another human. Tried to terrorise me after I ended it. I’d penned a poem on the subject entitled ‘Fear’ and although I hadn’t named him, and had only written of demons lurking in doorways and skeletal trees, he’d taken it to his solicitor thinking he could drag me through the courts.

Daryl’s not like that. Never has been. And although he’s not a reader, a poet, or writer of any sort, he did come out with a killer line once. Fuck the body, love the mind. I was most impressed.

He’s in the room with me now… What’s he saying…? Oh yeah, he’s asking if I’m working hard, and if maybe something he’s said has inspired me again… He smiles - tightly - just as I knew he would. Then, ‘Not seen this for a while…’ He nods towards the doll… ‘Don’t tell me, don’t tell me… It’s the one you stole from your baby cousin and named after yourself…’ He laughs. But he’s got it wrong. That was the fish. The hollow plastic one I'd acquired at the age of four. The doll never had a name. Couldn’t give her one, could I? When a kid’s too cool for school, the last thing they want to do is admit to the naming of inanimate objects, face or no face, so best not do it at all.

Strange, I think, that our daughters never thought to name the doll either. For all they used to go around waving the placard and rhythmically chanting the slogan at the start of every holiday, it was somehow not thought of in this way. Grown out of that too now, I reckon. Just like they grew out of their baby dolls and Barbies. Close to leaving school themselves.

Vicky, the eldest, is seventeen, struggling with her Highers one minute and her hair and make-up the next. Skirts ‘worn up to her ninny’ as Mother would have said. More material used to clothe a doll. This doll. And goodness knows why Daryl claims he’s not seen it lately. It’s been stood on the living room window ever since we moved here. In the corner just behind the curtain, but I guess it’s always been me who's dealt with the drapes. Opening, but only ever so far, then closing them again, for nigh on twenty years.

But how long since I opened the box / where I stored all those household receipts? / A payment card for the meter, then a plastic key - / coins for fear I ran short before the end of the week / a ring briefly worn / seeds never planted / acorn husk and dust / old tarnished charms // No More School!

Have legs, will walk. But dolls, once they’re bought, don’t go anywhere, do they? Not really. They just get played with and placed, put on show for a while, then forgotten about. Passed on sometimes, providing they haven't been broken, then left to gather dust, seen as part of the furniture if they’re lucky.

3 o’ clock. Daryl’s upstairs now in his room. We’ve had separate bedrooms for a while. A bite to eat, a bit of recreation time in front of his own PC and that’ll be him until after midnight when I’m sure to be asleep. Still, I surprise myself with how well I’ve done with the poem. The doll has taken shape. Just the box to go… And there goes the door again... Please no interruptions… ‘Vicky, is that you…? What’s wrong, love? You’re early. You not feeling well or what…?’

A girl throws down her history book, laughingly quotes the placard / held by a doll on a wooden box with a one-line smile, painted eyes / and a round mischievous face, head turned away from the window.