Mountains of the Moon

MOUNTAINS OF THE MOON

MOUNTAINS OF THE MOON

I. J. KAY

VIKING

ALWAYS LEARNING

PEARSON

In memory of Lynn Robertson

who lost her life on Ben Nevis, January 2001

People with nowhere to go

do go, they go somewhere

and somewhere else after that.

They go somewhere else in the physical;

somewhere else in the mind.

OVERTURE AND BEGINNERS

ACT ONE

ACT TWO

ACT THREE

FINALE AND REPRISE

THE VELVIT GENTLEMAN: Anton Konstantin

MUM / SHUT-UP: Joan King

THE JOKER: Heath Crow

DADDY / THE FUCK: Bryce King

PIP: Philip Kendal-King

THE OAK TREE: Peter Eden

GRANDAD: Bill Burns

NANNY: Rose Burns

BABY GRADY: Graham King

WELSH SLAPPER: Gwen Llewelyn

THE SANDWICH MAN: Richard Draper

ROBERTSON: Lynn Robertson

NEIGHBOR: Norman Baldwin

THE JACKAL: Jimmy Smithers

ELLIE: Eleanor Smithers

ETON BOY: Quentin Sumner

IRENE: Irene Sumner

DANNY FISH: Will Withywood

THE ANGEL MICHAEL: Michael ?

AUNTIE FI: Fiandre Krammer

OLD GEORGE: George Hewel

POTTERY MANAGER: Tim Evans

TONY GLOUCESTER ROAD: Tony Williamson

SHEBA: Lucky

ALL OTHER PARTS ARE PLAYED BY INNOCENT BYSTANDERS.

T
hree keys: one for the main entrance; one for the letter box on the wall outside and one for my brown front door, which comes complete with fist holes and crowbar dents around the lock. You wouldn’t think it, looking from outside. The building is an old vicarage, tall and imposing in a horseshoe shape with a gravel car park at the front. Sideways onto the street, it overlooks a park. Well, a railed bit of grass with mature trees; it belonged to the vicarage once. There’s a bench and a slide and probably a bird if you wait long enough. It’s used mostly by dog owners and heroin addicts, who don’t mind the dog shit or the discarded needles. I’ve never understood the bond between people and drugs, people and dogs, always wanted a real friend myself.

The intercom bell is violently loud, shattering. I skid into the hall and snatch up the receiver. Hopefully it’s Tim from the pottery; he said he’d drop off some stuff.

“Hello?” I say.

“Special delivery,” Tim says. “Sleeping bag, camping stove, sewing machine.”

It is good of him. I volunteer at the pottery three times a week; it gives me something useful to do.

“Come up, Tim,” I say.

I press the button to release the main door and run down the stairs to meet him coming up. The vicarage belongs to a housing association now; they have converted it, badly, into one-bedroom apartments. Perfect for people going back into the community.

“I see what you mean,” Tim shouts.

He sees nothing; he freezes in my hall, stalling for time while his eyes
adjust to the gloom. Migraine-patterned music is pumping through the floor.

“I’ve got built-in surround sound,” I shout.

It’s a hot and sunny July teatime but the apartment is like a cave; low ceilings compound the effect in booming echo and chill. The bathroom doesn’t have daylight, just a vent to outside that comes on with the light, assuming your giro came, assuming you can afford electricity. In the bedroom there’s a lumpy futon mattress that I hauled from a skip down the road and carried up two flights on my head. The lounge is vast and rectangular. It’s got filthy walls of gutless green covered with holes and coffee stains. On the dominant wall, spray paint splutters “
Cunt
.” Mustard paintwork screams at the gray tile floor and black doors scream back. It is the ugliest place I’ve ever seen. Tim surveys it with his hands on his hips.

“It’s got potential,” he shouts. “You could paint it all white to brighten it up.”

But white paint in poor light always looks gray, I know that. The windows are small, tall and arched in vicarage stone, blackened with mildew and condensation. The tree outside is blocking most of the natural light.

“The tree is beautiful,” I say.

Broad-leaved lime. The vivid soft leaves press against the glass; backlit, they seem surreal like stained glass. The housing association has given me a thirty-pound decorating voucher; I’ve spent half of it on filler and bleach.

“It’s a good size, Tim,” I say.

He flicks the light switch in the lounge but there’s no electric.

“It’s one of those key meter things; my giro didn’t come.”

“I can lend you a fiver,” he says.

But I’d rather not owe if I don’t have to.

“Does it stink in here?” I say.

I know it does, of something specific; I can’t put my finger on what it is. The kitchen consists of two gray base units and spaces waiting for a cooker and a fridge. There’s a walk-in larder.

“You’ve made a good start,” Tim says.

The kitchen floor was a job for bleach and newspapers and wallpaper scrapers. There’s no electric for the kettle but Tim has brought a camping stove. No tea or coffee or milk or sugar; my giro didn’t come.

“Nice cup of hot water?” I say.

He has to go; dual furrows in his brow, his beautiful schizophrenic wife and pregnant schoolgirl daughter are waiting in the car. I thank him for the loan of the stove, and sleeping bag and sewing machine. And the anorak, which he won’t take back.

When Tim has gone I realize I could slide down the wall and sit on my heels sobbing but I don’t, I’m too tired for that. I salvage an old tea bag from the bin, then sit on my bucket in the lounge and boil water on the camping stove that Tim has left behind. The boom of bass from Techno downstairs is making the pan vibrate. I swing between gratefulness and disappointment. I’ve been a long time getting here, when I think about it.