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Jackie Dearie
1.
Pushing,
pushing, pushing,
the
trolley loaded past eye-level
and
blinded anyway
with
the sweat
trickling
down my forehead.
Pushing,
pushing, pushing,
the
minute hand
slowly
spinning
slowly
round
the
spiralling stations
of
the broken cross,
the
clocking in
and
clocking out,
the
dreaming
of
streaming out
the
factory gates,
jubilant
after
all the waiting -
anticipating
the
five o'clock hooter,
the
steamy pubs,
the
TV dinner.
Here
I am then,
half-man,
half-donkey,
pushing
trolleys
thru'
caustic yards,
the
chemical smell
rotting
away nose tissue,
while
the storeroom boys
itchy
with boredom
puff
fly fags
in
the ceramic lined
box
room bog,
standing
by
fly
strewn windows,
watching
out for the gaffer,
wolf-whistling
the
canteen lassies,
desperately
trying
to
have a laugh.
2.
There
she was
in
the clinical brightness
of the
dispensary,
pinafored
in white
like
an angel in the ether:
Jackie
Dearie,
her
thin smile
full
of sad yearning
pulling
me inside out.
I
sensed her dreaming,
like
attracting like
through
a wilderness
of
nine to five desolation,
the
burned out entrails
on
the factory floor,
the
mangled souls
in
paper thin pay packets -
we
saw across a distance
of
bruised boxes,
of
bandages and bottles
and
antiseptic red crosses
hanging
in the sky
like
the battlefields
of
bloody Babylon.
Jackie
Dearie
with
her Botticelli smile,
her
faraway eyes,
her
gold hair
and
her soft hands held out
with
a box of band aids,
touching
my hands
for a
moment there.
I
loved Jackie Dearie,
I
loved her madly -
I
loved her grandly,
I
loved her gladly -
she
was a vision,
an
emanation
of the
goddess,
untouchable
in
the factory smut,
the
yuk yukking
over
page three girls
and
mince & chips
in
the grotty canteen
with
the yellow and grey
flickering
neon lights
paling
us all into ghosts.
3.
Tommy
was the factory wit,
one
of the vicious sect
who
specialise in the sadistic act
of
maiming and tearing down,
as if
we needed any further strips
ripped
from our skins.
He
had a special gift
for
spotting weakness,
he
scented it, like a wolf
sniffing
the factory wind.
You
could see him salivating,
sharpening
up his claws,
as he
smelt the insufferable sweetness
of my
infatuation.
‘Go
on then,’ he leered,
‘Ask
her out, she’s gantin for it,
no a
bad wee ride like, nice arse,
pity
she’s nae tits.’
I
just knew
there
was no explaining I could do -
it
wasn’t about muscles and glands,
but
something finer and brighter
than
mere copulation -
writhing
in the spotlight
of
Tommy’s malevolence,
I
wriggled out,
cold-faced,
in denial,
feigning
indifference.
It
wasn’t long
till
Tommy’s whispers reached her.
I saw
it in her eyes the next day -
a
quiet, searching questioning;
and I
tried to answer,
but
the words piled up in my mouth
crashing
into each other
as
they flew away from me.
Voiceless
as a formless ghost,
I
loaded the boxes onto the trolley,
my
hands not touching hers,
my
heart banging like timpani,
and
my back wet
with
cold cold sweat.
4.
Smoking
a cigarette
in
the shivering cold toilet
with
Wee Hamish,
my
first ever cigarette,
in a
spluttering choking
inarticulate
rage,
drinking
the smoke
deep
into my lungs,
deep
deep
deep,
putting
me to sleep,
breaking
me up,
pinning
me down.
And
wee Hamish,
a
dwarfed and angry runt,
thinking
I’d become
one
of the lads,
at last
Dee Rimbaud is an artist, novelist and poet.
He is author of two full-length poetry collections and one novel.
His third poetry collection, Red Dreams And Razorblades, which
contains over 100 of his illustrations will be published in 2006,
as will The Book Of Hopes And Dreams which he edited. Dee’s website,
which includes the authoritative AA Independent Press Guide is at
Thunderburst
Email: Dee Rimbaud
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