Paul McCartney's Coat Read online

  There is one more thing. When I eventually came out of my stupor that night and as Tom began to make sounds of stirring I noticed once more the leaves that I had found in my hand earlier, which were now sitting strewn across the table. Dawn’s early light fell through a small window in the roof as if illuminating them in some way. I picked the leaves up and examined them, searching them almost as if willing them to give me some clue about what had happened. Eventually I gave up. They were after all just leaves. Amongst the green serrated edges of them however I found three smaller growths that I thought at first were simply smaller leaves. Upon closer examination however I noticed that they were the thin, papery growths that surround the elm’s seeds. I have removed three of them and dried them out. I shall tape them to the last page of this journal. Why I do this I am not sure, for it is not conclusive evidence of anything at all as such. Nonetheless, I shall place them there for anyone who reads this to see. It is not much to end a tale such as this with, but it is all I have, and with the placing of the seeds overleaf I shall be done.

  In conclusion however I shall lay down here several matters which may be pertinent to the relating of my tale. Firstly I shall say here and now that I have never seen that elm tree from that day to this. I have been quite remiss in noting down these events in my journal, and many years have passed since that night. During those years I have searched for the tree from one end of the park to the next, but I have never seen or heard anything unusual ever again. From this you could easily draw the conclusion that my two encounters with the strange elm were simply products of an over active imagination or hallucination. It would be a reasonable explanation. It would certainly be more reasonable than a bloody walking tree, anyway!

  There is however, a reason that I cannot draw this conclusion, for on that night I had heard the music the tree made. Sometimes when I least expect it I can recall some of its song. A tantalising refrain or part of the strange music it made. Yet never all of it. But I shall never forget that I did hear its music and I believe that I never will. Whatever happened that night I fear I shall never encounter its like again. Yet I am uniquely blessed, and shall be until my dying day. For I have heard what I genuinely believe no mortal man was ever meant to hear, and for that I am immensely grateful. Shall I ever understand what happened on that night? I have pondered it over the years it has taken me to write this down and I suspect that I never will. Am I the poorer for this lack of understanding? Again, I believe not, for if the memory of it ever frustrates me or drives me to confusion, then I always have the memory of the music and the moonlight falling down upon that majestic elm.

  That, perhaps, is enough.”

  ***

  Carefully I placed the journal down on the garden table and picked up my drink once again. Well! That was very unusual, was it not? I really did not know what to make of it! My great great grandfather certainly seemed to think that something very strange had happened to him. Though they were leaner times. Perhaps some effect of malnutrition or for all I knew he was a slave to the demon drink, or just a teller of tall tales! Who was to know? I sat in the sun for a little longer and finished my drink before I went indoors to prepare the evening meal.

  It was much later on when I was making ready to go to bed that I went into the kitchen and made to draw the blinds. As I did so I looked through the window and noticed the journal still outside on the garden table. Stupid me! Rain was forecast for the night, finally bringing to a close our two day summer. Unlocking the door I went out onto the patio to retrieve the book. As I walked across the garden the moon broke through the clouds and a thin ray of moonlight shone briefly across the journal and then vanished as suddenly as it had appeared as the moon was covered by clouds once more. How lovely! I picked the book up and remembered that I had not looked at the last page to see if the seeds were actually there or not.

  I flicked through the pages and sure enough, tightly taped to the last page of the Journal were what looked like three very dried out seeds. Not unlike pressed flowers I had seen before. As I looked at them the clouds cleared once again and moonlight fell upon the pages of the Journal. As it did so the seeds seem to shine slightly, almost as if they were sparkling. Then the clouds covered the moon and once again I was left standing in the dark.

  Returning indoors Journal in hand, I puzzled over the events of the last few days. I had not stopped to consider it at the time but when I had rather foolishly gone to search for the elm tree the other day I should have paid more heed to the fact that I was on a fool’s errand. Dutch elm disease had seen to that. I had of course half remembered that there were no elm trees left in Sefton Park, or indeed anywhere after the nineteen eighties. Turning the pages of the book I looked at the seeds once again, whereupon I experienced a slight feeling of inspiration. I would speak to Eddie in the horticultural department of the park in the morning. Perhaps he could confirm that they are indeed elm seeds. Not that proving that small fact would help with the rest of the story, of course. But perhaps Eddie would be interested in the seeds.

  Perhaps he would be very interested in them indeed.

  Author’s Footnote

  Sefton Park has the unfortunate distinction of being one of the first identified places in the United Kingdom to suffer from Dutch elm disease, which is named after the country where the strain was first identified. This devastating disease is spread by elm bark beetles and the last or most virulent outbreak of the disease in this country was first identified in nineteen sixty seven. By nineteen ninety, twenty five million elm trees had died in the United Kingdom alone, and much of central Europe was equally deforested.

  A chemical that was partially successful called almost universally, “elm fungicide” was developed in the late nineteen seventies, though this had to be injected into the base of each tree with specialist equipment every growing season. A later refinement made the periods between injections a little longer, every two to three years, but it was still required to be done using specially developed equipment. It was also remarkably expensive.

  Because of the ban on using any chemicals in public places in the Netherlands a more robust vaccine was developed by them and although this also needs to be injected once every growing season, results are good. Added to this the development and relative successes of more resistant vaccines and resistant cultivars then the future of the elm tree is looking considerably brighter than it has done for quite some time.

  The avenue of Elms in Sefton Park that links the statue of Eros to the Samuel Smith Obelisk was once an impressive sight, rows of majestic elms lining the walkway. Sadly, Dutch elm disease killed all of these trees and for quite some time it was totally barren.

  Happily, however, due to an anonymous donation of seemingly perfect and more importantly, unblemished elm seeds along with careful monitoring of their cultivation by the horticultural department of John Moore’s University, Sefton Park has elm trees growing in its grounds once again.

  The replacement elms are, apparently, coming along very nicely indeed.

  Interlude One: On A Bench by the Mersey

  I left work for lunch and as it was a bright sunny day decided to eat my sandwiches on the front by the river. I work on the Albert Dock, which is now a curious mixture of traditional businesses and tourism. I think tourism is winning though, judging by the endless amount of souvenir and sandwich shops that surround the black water of the dock itself. I often wonder what would happen if you accidentally combined the two shops. Something along the lines of, “Special Fred the Weatherman falls in the dock commemorative sausage roll” or the like. As the only girl on my team at work I sometimes took off on my own. Escape the talk of football and so on. Coming here helped me escape the tourists too.

  There is a hidden away part of the dock, though. Well, perhaps hidden is a bit strong. Off the beaten track, perhaps. Well, certainly off the beaten tourist track. If you skirt the side of the dock from the outside and go past “The Beatles Story” museum, being careful to avoid the Japanese to
urists and their slightly confused guides, carry on past the Holiday Inn Express and head for the river then there is a nice long walk along the promenade ahead of you. Ornate metal benches are placed at regular intervals and it’s a great place to pass an hour or so. Because the wall is the back of the residential side of the dock you can only really enter the prom from either end, which is a distance of a mile or so, and as there is a definite absence of souvenirs and hot dogs, it is usually relatively quiet.

  The view of the river from here is spectacular. Across to your right you can see the ferry terminals of Birkenhead and a little further along, Seacombe too. Off to your left what remains of the dockyards of Cammel Lairds and further along the clocks and towers of Hamilton Square. Add to that the traffic on the river and it is a great way to spend your lunch hour. Leave the stress behind you, as it were.

  On this particular day I had eaten my sandwich, my lunch bag on the seat beside me, my handbag placed upon my knees. It was a warm day but there was a bit of a breeze blowing in from the river so I still had my coat on. There were a few people wandering past along the prom, couples arm in arm, old people watching the river, some walking dogs and so on. The occasional call of seagulls high overhead. I was drifting away, my mind wandering as I watched that beautiful river sparkling in the sunshine. I hadn’t looked at my watch for quite some time.

  “Do you mind if I sit here?” asked a voice and I started. I looked up to see a relatively tall man with medium length hair standing before me. I waved to the free part of the bench.

  “Feel free.” I said, and he sat down. It was odd to have been asked, I thought. The bench was quite long and my bag and I only occupied about half of it. Good manners, though. I was impressed and watched the man out of the corner of my eye. He was staring at the river intently.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked. I nodded in agreement and smiled. He looked familiar in a way that I couldn’t place, but pale. Almost out of place on such a lovely sunny day. Nevertheless he had a middling strong Liverpool accent. Not a tourist then.

  “It is.” I said. “Nowhere quite like it in the world.”

  “You sound like a tourist guide.” he said, a thin amused smile forming at the edge of his mouth.

  “Perhaps.” I said, changing the subject. “Though the wind is cold off the river, don’t you think?”

  He shrugged. I noticed that he was dressed quite lightly in an old fashioned leather kind of jacket. Almost like something from a charity shop. A bit tatty too. Small round holes in it. I wouldn’t imagine that it would be very warm.

  “I’m alright.” he said, and adjusted his distinctive glasses. “It’s almost like being at New Brighton this.” he smiled. “I feel like a tourist, miss tourist guide.” and he laughed almost sarcastically at the thought of it.

  “Oh I think we have just as many tourists as we need at the moment, thank you” I chided and he smiled at this.

  “Grab a picture, George!” he said in a pretty good American accent and we both laughed then returned to watching the river. “When I was a kid” he said, without turning away from the river at all as if he was afraid of losing sight of it, “I used to dream that I was flying over Liverpool. Flying high up in the air.” He paused, as if remembering it, “I’d settle like a pigeon on the Liver birds, and then across the river.” He stopped again. Longer this time. “I always found me self back where I started though.”

  “That’s all about wanting to escape, that is.” I said and he smiled at me.

  “Psychiatrist, eh?” he grinned.

  “I wish.” I said. “I work in a call centre.”

  “Right.” he said, but I disagreed. It wasn’t alright in any way at all. I could see that he had registered my hatred of the place; presumably by the way I mentioned it. “You see the Liver birds?” he said, but from where we were sat it was more a general query as you could not see them from here at all.

  “Yes?” I asked.

  “There’s a male and a female one. Cormorants, apparently. Have you ever noticed that one is facing out to sea, the other facing inland?”

  I was quite impressed by this. I had never noticed, and I passed the building at least twice a day five days a week on the way to the train.

  “Yeah” he continued. “The female one is looking out to sea, guiding the sailors safely to port.”

  “Really?” I asked and he nodded slowly, his attention on the river once again. I turned to face him and caught him in profile. “What is the male one looking for?” I asked and he grinned.

  “The male one is looking inland to see if the pubs are open.” he laughed, and I joined in, blushing. I was difficult to believe that I had fallen for that one.

  So there we sat in the sunshine, laughing quietly as we watched the river. I felt sure that it may just possibly be time to head back to work but there was no way I was going anywhere. Not for now. I wanted to sit here on the banks of the Mersey, relaxing with this stranger. Well, I say stranger. He wasn’t any more. The laugh had given it away.

  Now I knew exactly who he was.

  The Lipstick Girls

  My name is Sheila Teresa Roberts and I’m a lipstick girl. Or at least that’s what some people call me. Others can be just a bit more brutal. To hell with them, I say, though I would say it quietly, and perhaps under my breath because believe it or not, I was brought up to be, and am, a good Catholic girl. I work in the big fancy department store in Liverpool. Not the one with the statue above the door where it seems like everyone in town decides to meet. The other one. The posh one. I’ve worked there for nearly thirty years now. Always on the makeup and perfume department. It kind of suited me really, and even though I’m not one to bang my own drum I’d say I’m still a bit of a looker. Still got it. Helps with the job. No doubt about that. More than a few wrinkles perhaps, but presentable. Yes, presentable. That’s me. Sheila Teresa Roberts, the presentable lipstick girl.

  Of course, if you work on the makeup and perfume counter then you have to have a certain look about you. A lot of the other girls on there (and I use the world “girls” very lightly) wander around with their noses in the air. Not me. Though I can do haughty as well as any of them. Especially when someone comes shuffling in five minutes before we close and wants to try every bloody lipstick that we have. Then I can do haughty, believe you me. Most of the time however I just speak as I find. Someone looks down on me as if I’m something stuck on the bottom of their shoe and they get the same back. The only difference is I smile when I do it. It’s a good smile, and I use it whenever I get the chance, even if I don’t actually feel like smiling.

  So. Thirty years. Well, actually, twenty nine years, ten months and four days. I’d give you the minutes if I was sad enough to want to work it out, but I’m not going to. We’ll round it up. Thirty years will do. Nearly three decades and still a shop assistant if I want to be dramatic. Do you know? I’m not sure if working in the same shop for that long is a bad thing or not. I get fed up of it. Who wouldn’t? But most of the time I simply don’t think about it. Check my bank every payday, sort out the bills; make sure that the rent is paid. Life goes on. Yet where do the days go? Seems to me these days that once Tuesday is out of the way it’s very nearly Friday again. Sometimes I think that perhaps I should be more ambitious. Well. Maybe. I never really seem to think that way, though. Couldn’t do with all the hassle and the false smiles and arse licking. I leave that to Mr Georges, the manager of the department that I work on, and a more spineless little bugger this side of Runcorn Bridge you’d be hard pressed to find.

  I have very little contact with him usually, but for half the day I am on my own till by the door that takes the money for all the accessories. It’s a bit out of the way and in the winter you can freeze your bloody feet off. In the summer it’s a bit nicer though. You can see the sun through the doors as people come in and out. Every day though, bang on twelve Mr Georges comes and changes the till roll and the float and takes it off to the cash office, and I swap with Andre
a. It’s a bit of a pain, but I always think when that happens that if nothing else it is just an hour till lunch. I’ve been put on there for just over a year now and I’m stuck on the bloody thing every single day until lunchtime like a lemon. I think it’s another one of his daft ideas. A bit like the hair brushes shaped like Christmas trees that we have to drag out of the stock room every November.

  “Sheila” he said the other day, the fat little sod suddenly appearing behind me as I was having a staring match with the big clock over the door that leads out on to the pavement. I was convinced it had stopped. “The Carrera Masara range is looking terribly depleted. See to it, will you?” and off he went, mincing his way to the other side of the sales floor. Having given him the obligatory finger behind his back I proceeded to mess around with the little boxes of wrinkle cream on the counter, most of which seemed to have pictures of twelve year olds on them.

  You see, that’s how the cosmetics industry works. Look at this. Twenty five quid’s worth of wrinkle reducing cream, and you can’t deny it, the girl on the box most definitely has no wrinkles at all. In fact she looks like a bloody doll in that picture. The fact that I’ve probably got knickers in my drawer at home older than her has got nothing to do with it at all. Of course she hasn’t got any bloody wrinkles. She looks about twelve years old, if that. Mind you, the customers just lap it up. Must be soft if you ask me. Not that I’ve noticed a queue of people waiting to ask my opinion, though.

  I have a few friends at work, but not many. It’s bloody cut throat in there. Imagine it. Thirty five women preened and made up to the nines all working together, day in, day out. There isn’t a single day when at least one of them doesn’t have some kind of drama. Most days it is like a Roman gladiator’s arena in there.