The Realms of Probability

The Realms of Probability


(1) The writing on the wall

'Fuck,' I hissed through clenched teeth as I got to the crux of Andrew Haughton's letter. 'Double-fuck and sod it!'
The bulk of the letter was polite enough, amiable even: 'thank you for submitting your novel to Snowstorm Books', followed by the somewhat elitist boast of their ‘long-established tradition of introducing new writers to the discerning reader', ill-preparing me for what was to come in the last paragraph: 'I am sorry to inform you that in my considered opinion “The Realms of Probability are not Fahrenheit” has no commercial potential.'
My instant reaction was, What the fuck does that mean?; but I knew what it meant all right. It meant that Paula’s list of six “connections” was now exhausted, each having posted the same reply, basically 'Thanks, but no thanks'.
Handling the returned CD, '“The Realms of Probability are not Fahrenheit” a novel by James Starke', I realised that I had reached the end of the road.
The writing had been on the wall for a long time, despite Paula’s repeated reassurances that I would eventually find a publisher. But until now I had steadfastly refused to take the writing on the wall at face value. I'd waited patiently until all the i's had been dotted and the t's crossed, and Andrew Haughton’s letter had done exactly that.

I was locked in the moment: the moment when I finally accepted the fact that I would never get my novel published: my mind had hermetically sealed itself against any would-be invading emotions and was oblivious to everything except the weight of my 39 years hanging heavy around my shoulders. I remained that way for some time.

Don’t give up your day job kiddo, a passing thought brought me back to engagement with the world.
What will Paula say? ‘The artist laughs in the face of adversity’ Or some suchlike pump up the deflated Jimbo-ism. I allowed myself a little post-ironic chuckle at the thought.
What’s all this telling you James?, I asked myself. It’s telling me that I should wave goodbye to “The Realms of Probability are not Fahrenheit” and get started on some new writing, I replied as I began re-reading the letter's last sentence: 'Of course we would always be pleased to read any new work you might care to submit in the future.' But telling myself to get started on some new writing and getting myself to do it are two distinctly different animals

I put the letter back in the envelope, and had a good think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life. No answer. Re-jigged the question: What am I going to do with the rest of the day?
What a way to start the weekend, eh? What's the time? 11.30am. Time for a drink!

(2) The street where I live

The houses on the street where I live have hardly changed in appearance since they were built shortly after the end of World War One. Twelve terraced blocks of ten houses each side of the street: here and there sash windows have been replaced by PVC-framed double-glazing, and several of the original glass-panelled front doors have been replaced by sturdy hardwood jobs, making it harder for would-be burglars to break in; a few roofs have been re-tiled, some in slate, some in slate-coloured plastic; but basically the houses have hardly changed.

Go out of my front door, turn to your left, you're walking through the post-World War Two influx Irish quarter. Labouring folk; housing, roads, civil engineering; spiritual descendants of the old navigators, the canal boyos. A lot of them worked hard, saved, waited until the market was right and then bought into the semi-detached area up Bishopswaite, to the south past The Seven Stars and The Bell. Some of the Irish folk worked hard but saved not one chocolate bean, quite easily done. Consequently they stayed put; like Mam and Dad stayed put until they popped their clogs six months apart in the 1983, aged 55 and 59 respectively; like I have stayed put and evermore shall do so.

Go out of my front door, turn to your right, you’re walking towards the estates, populated in the main by African Caribbeans, succeeding generations of the Windrush boys; the first wave were mainly carpenters and joiners, although not too many of them managed to secure jobs in those trades: and the Ugandan Asians, who arrived in the early 70's, having fallen foul of a black fascist government; the majority of them soon slotted into jobs in the local textile industry. In the 50s the houses to the north, down Clayborough, past The Moonraker and The Boatman, were terraced, like ours. They were all knocked down in the early 70s and replaced by tower blocks, which in their turn were all knocked down in the late 90s and replaced by ‘community housing’ estates. During the clearances some of the families moved on to the ‘green’ estates further north, outside the urban sprawl; but most of them have stayed put, moving out temporarily only during the times when Clayborough was being demolished and rebuilt.

I go out of my front door, turn to my left and walk towards The Seven Stars.



(3) Time for a drink

Tony McIver’s motor was parked outside The Seven Stars. Tony is a taxi driver, cut-rate pirate, family, friends and known faces only, keeps it sweet. He has six kids, a cards-in job would be out of the question, he’d just be undermining himself and his family. Tony and I go back a long way. In the early 70s we were both at Moorcroft Junior School, although not in the same class; and in the 80s we both played for The Bell in the Sunday League, I played centre-forward, Tony played centre-half. Like me, Tony has stayed put. Where the fuck’s he going to go with six kids, Knob Hill?

‘Yo Jim-bo.’ Tony called as I entered the vault.
‘Yo Toe-knee,’ I shouted back.
He was sitting with a guy I didn’t recognise: handsome looking geezer, early-thirties, short fair hair, wearing a denim jacket over a black t-shirt.
I paid for my pint of Guinness and walked over to their table.

‘Jamie,’ Tony looked from me to the new guy, ‘Teresa’s brother, he's over here visiting the clan.’
‘ Jim Starke,’ looking from Jamie to me.
‘Pleased to meet you Jamie,’ offering my hand, ‘How long have you been over here?’
‘I arrived at Holyhead at eight o'clock this morning,’ he replied in a gorgeous soft brogue, ‘I’m staying over until Monday, and then I’m heading down to London to visit our Tom and Jane.’
Jamie was drinking Guinness, Tony was on Coke.
‘You working this afternoon Tony?’ I asked, pointing at his Coke.
‘Yeah, I’ve got two airport runs on. Going to wrap it up after that though, promised to show Jamie a bit of the local colour.’
Tony’s mobile buzzed.
‘I’ll have to take it outside, this place is full of fuckin' static.’

‘Are you in work Jim?’ Jamie asked as Tony made for the door
‘Yeah, I’m working at a freight forwarding warehouse, stacker-driving and slinging.’
‘Decent job?’
‘Nah, the money’s shite. We haven’t had a wage rise for three years. We’ve had an overtime ban on for the last eighteen months, not that there would have been much overtime going anyway. We tried a series of one-day strikes the winter before last, but it wasn‘t getting us anywhere so we had to go for the softer option.’
‘Not much work in then?’
‘No, the manufacturing industry in this country has gone to the dogs nowadays. It's this globalisation fix, the big engineering companies can shift their plants to anywhere in the world at the drop of a hat, chasing cheap labour and raw materials - and by the time their new set of workers get organised and start demanding decent wages and conditions, they're ready to shift the whole show on to somewhere else. I'm just hanging on for redundancy now.’
‘How long have you been there?’
‘Twenty years, doubt if I’ll get a big payoff though, you get fuck all nowadays, just the basic rub.’

Tony came back in.
‘That was your bird.’
‘Paula?’
‘Yeah, she’ll be arriving at Victoria in about ten minutes.’
‘She wasn’t supposed to be coming this weekend.'
‘I didn’t tell here you were in here. Do you want me to drop her off at the house?’
‘Nah, the place is a fuckin' tip. She’ll only start tidying it up, and she’ll be putting all my books in all the wrong places. Bring her here Tony, that would be the safest bet.’

Jamie returned from the bar with two fresh pints of Guinness.
‘Cheers. Are you in work Jamie?’
‘Yes, I’m a barman.’
‘Sounds interesting.’
‘Yes, it is actually. Never a dull moment, and you’re always learning something new.’
‘Money ok?'
‘Not bad, keeps the wolf away from the door, as our ol' Dah used to say.’
‘Are you Teresa’s youngest brother?’
‘Yes. In order, it’s Jane, Tom, Teresa, Sheila, me and then Sue.’
‘I’m a one and only, my parents took one look at me and then gave it up as a bad job.’

I went to the toilet, and had a good look in the mirror. Good job I had a shave before I came out I didn't look too bad, considering I'd been up half the night.

We were just finishing our pints when Paula and Tony came in. Tony was carrying her holdall. He plonked it down next to me.
'Hi Paula,' I said, pulling up a stool for her 'I'll go and get you a drink.'
'No, I'll get them. What's everyone having?'
'Guinness, Guinness, Coke and your own. This is Jamie, by the way. Jamie, Paula. Paula, Jamie.'
'Pleased to meet you Paula.'
'Hello Jamie.'
'I don't want any more Cokes, I'll be belching all afternoon if I drink any more of ‘em.' Tony stood up as he spoke. 'I'll give you a lift with the drinks Paula.'

Paula and Tony came back with the drinks. A Bacardi and Coke for herself, she sat down next to me.
'I thought you weren't coming until next weekend.'
'I decided to come on the spur of the moment. I've been trying to phone you since seven o’clock this morning, but you were continually engaged.'
'Oh shit, I was on the Internet until the early hours and I forgot to plug the phone back in.'
'Rating the midnight camel toes, eh Jimbo?'
Jamie laughed, knew the score. The puzzled expression on Paula's face indicated that Tony's joke had flown over her head.
'No, I was in a chat room, chatting with a Canadian writer. We've been chatting over the past couple of nights. She won't tell me her real name, calls herself romancier_en_bleu, but she really knows what she's talking about when it comes to writing, and she's got some very interesting new takes on love.'
'Love?'
'Yes Tony, luurrv.'
'Do you work Paula?'
'I'm in education Jamie'
'Teaching?'
'Yes.'
'Paula's a lecturer at Bleston Metropolitan University.' I informed him, not in the mood to let her get into dumbing down mode.
'It used to be Bleston Polytechnic.” she quickly interjected, keeping an amazingly straight face.
'Oh, you do surprise me. If you don't mind me saying, you look awfully young to be a university lecturer. What subject do you lecture on?'
'English Lit. What do you do Jamie?'
'I'm a barman.'
'Where are you based?'
'Dublin.'
'A Dublin barman, creme de la creme. Pub or club?'
'Club, I'm a night person by nature.'

Tony got up to go to the toilet. I followed him.
Another of Tony's sidelines, he sells Viagra, gets them on script from his doctor.
'Got any Viagra Tony?' I asked while waiting for him to finish his piss.
'Only got 100mil tabs, eight quid each. Can do you a half for a fiver. Or are you planning a fuck fest?'
'Never you mind what I'm planning. I'll take two halves, I can't be arsed with fuckin' about splitting a full tab,' I said, handing him a tenner.
Tony withdrew a plastic bag from his shirt pocket.
'Listen Jimbo, I’m being serious with you for a minute. You don't want to go popping too many of these little fellahs, you'll end up not being able to get a boner without them.'
'Wise words my mate, I'll bear them in mind,' I replied, taking the two small silver wraps from him.

I got a fresh round in on my way back from the toilet.
'If you don't mind me asking, how did you two come to meet each other?'
'I read one of James' stories in a magazine. And, well, I'd never read anything quite like it before. I was so intrigued, I just had to write to him. So I sent a letter to the magazine, asking them to forward it on to him. James wrote back, and things blossomed from there.'
'You're a writer then Jim?'
'I write fiction, or at least I used to do.'
'Do you make any money out of it?
'Nah, the magazines that take my stuff pay me in chocolate beans.'
'What type of fiction do you write?'
'Smart-arsed pleb stuff.'
'James writes Nouveau Proletarian fiction.'
'What's that when it's at home?'
‘Stuff that not many publishers want to publish. Anyway, have you decided where you're going tonight Tony?’
'Don't know yet. There's a country and western duo on at the Bell.'
'Same as there ever was,' I groaned.
'Drove past the Boatman earlier, there was a big poster in the window, Rastootin is DJ-ing there tonight, worth trying a pint in there, maybe?’
‘Yes, let’s go to The Boatman James, we've not been there for ages,’ Paula chirped in.
‘Yeah, right,” I said, 'What about you Jamie, are you up for a night of garage sounds courtesy of Clayborough's number one spinmeister?’
‘Sounds cool to me.’
‘Right, The Boatman it is then Tony, right?’
‘Right.’



(4) Home James

I carried Paula's holdall, heavy little bugger, like she was carrying half her world around in it, she linked my other arm.
'Jamie seems a nice guy.'
'Gorgeous accent, hasn't he?'
'Obviously gay.'
'I wouldn't know about that, you're the one with the built-in gaydar.'
'Emm, touchy eh? Mi thinks James might have a little fancy for Jamie?'
'Leave it out, will you. I don't find that sort of stuff amusing anymore.'
'What's wrong with you?' she asked, withdrawing her arm from mine. 'There's nothing wrong with me.'
'There's something wrong with you, I could tell the minute I walked into the pub.'
'I wasn't expecting you this weekend, you took me by surprise, I'm not mentally prepared for it.'
'I'm sorry, but I only decided last night, after Sonia flew off to Amsterdam for the weekend with her new girlfriend.'
'And is that not within the parameters of your ground rules?'
'Of course it is. I just didn't fancy being on my own this weekend, that's all. I tried phoning you last night, as well as this morning. You ought to get yourself a mobile, I don't know why you wouldn't let me buy you one for your birthday.'
'Fuck mobile phones!'
'What's the matter with you? Have you already made other arrangements for the weekend? Am I stepping on someone else's toes?'
'No one else's toes come into it. Snowstorm have rejected my novel.'
'Shit!' she said, linking my arm again 'You feeling bad about it?'
'Very.’
'Then it's a good job that I'm here to console you, isn't it?'
'It certainly is.'
'Did I detect a hint of the post-ironicals in your voice there James?'
No answer.
She nudged her shoulder against my arm. 'Miss me?'
'Sure did babe, it's been a long lonely week here in the industrial wastelands.'
Making sure that there was no one on the street watching, I ran my hand down her back and gently squeezed her bottom.
‘Geez Doctor Godwin, you must have the cutest set of buns in the whole of the higher education system.’
‘That’s as may be,’ she said, removing my hand from her bottom, ‘but I think you had better tell me a little more about this Canadian writer person, Romancier en bleu, indeed! And after that, you can enlighten me as to what midnight camel toes are.’



(5) Life’s great adventure

'Got behind with the housekeeping James?'
'Yeah, well it will have to wait until tomorrow, I can't be arsed doing anything now. Would you like a coffee?'
'I'll have a glass of fresh orange juice, if you have any.'
I gave Paula Andrew Haughton's letter and then went into the kitchen.

I popped a half-tab of Viagra while waiting for the kettle to boil.
A familiar aromatic fragrance drifted into the kitchen as I poured the hot water into the cup.

'That one sentence says it all,' Paula said as I re-entered the living room with her orange juice and my coffee. She was merrily puffing away at a joint, '”No commercial potential”, they can't recuperate your art into their system, you are too far ahead of your time James.'
Pump up the deflated Jimbo-ism number six, in a series of six.
'Paula, you're a sweet little angel of mercy, and I love you very much, but the last thing that I need at this moment in time is that sort of guff.'
'I think what we both need is a little adventure.'
'What I need right now is a couple of puffs on that joint.'
'Right, yes, sorry.'
Paula got up from couch, handed me the joint and walked towards the music centre,
'Puff away. I'll put some music on.'
I sat down on the couch and took a deep draw on the joint.

I'd finished the joint by the time Paula finally sorted out a CD, Aretha Franklin's “Love All The Hurt Away”.
She walked back over to the couch and sprawled herself out on it, with her head in my lap, and I ran my fingers through her hair while we listened in silence to the unsurpassable Ms Franklin.

While I changed the CD, putting on Vivaldi's “Four Seasons”, Paula fished out another ready-made joint from her holdall.
'That's pretty powerful stuff, what is it?'
'Sensimelia. It’s expensive but it's worth it. One of my new students has a really good connection.'
Connections, everything and everyone connects.

‘I’m going to smoke half this joint, and then I’m going upstairs, and I hope your bedroom is not in the same state as downstairs.’
‘No, it’s clean, I always keep the bedroom neat and tidy, you know that.’
‘Never know when you might be called upon to entertain a young lady up there, eh James? Naughty boy.’
‘Shut up and puff your joint.’

‘Here,’ she said, grabbing her holdall, and passing me the joint. ‘Finish that off, then give me another quarter of an hour or so to get ready.’
‘OK, I’ll have another coffee and then come up.’
My eyes were fixed on her bottom as she left the room, hauling her holdall with her.
The cutest set of buns in the whole of the higher education system

Paula is into role-play. Not that it’s one-way traffic, I too play, and thoroughly enjoy, my part. Basically she has two stock characters, Ms Tarty and Ms Demure, but she has several variations on both. I for my part am expected to improvise in accordance with which character she presents me. There is only one rule, and that concerns initiation: Ms Tarty always initiates; and with Ms Demure, I always have to do the initiating.

I knocked on the bedroom door and walked straight in.
‘Yes, what do you want?’ Ms Demure was sitting on the edge of the bed, she had her hair up, tied with a broad black ribbon. She was wearing a high-necked, long-sleeved, white cotton blouse, a long brown woollen skirt and brown leather medium-heeled shoes.
‘Oh, sorry, I thought my girlfriend was in here.’
‘A likely story. This girlfriend of yours, assuming that she does actually exist, describe her.’
‘I am sorry but I cannot do that, for if I were to speak the truth I fear it would prove to be offensive to you.’
‘Let me be the judge of that, describe her or leave the room.’
‘Well, if I may be so bold, she has an uncanny likeness to yourself in body and facial characteristics, but there the resemblance ends. My girlfriend is what persons of a coarser disposition than your good self would call a tart, a woman who shamelessly flaunts what for the sake of decorum I shall term her uninhibited femininity.’
‘This girlfriend of yours, does she offer her sexual favours to other men?’
‘Yes, and women too.’
‘Well, there is no one in this room who would fit that description, or do you have the audacity to suggest that I myself were such a person?’
‘No, no madam, it is obvious to me that you are a woman beyond reproach,’ I assured her as I walked over to the bed. ‘In fact, I am only too well aware that I would have more chance of winning the National Lottery than I would have of getting into your knickers.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t go as far as to say that. After all, your chances of winning the lottery are somewhere in the region of fourteen million to one.’
‘I tip my hat to your sobriety dear lady,’ I said as I untied the black ribbon, causing her auburn hair to cascade down around her shoulders. ‘As you so correctly inferred,’ God, Paula you don’t half remind me of my mam. 'the realms of probability are not finite.’

Michael Rowe