Three R’s: Resolute, Resilient, Relentless

Conversion of St Paul on the Road to Damascus

Conversion of St Paul on the Road to Damascus (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Paul never wrote about his time in Arabia.

Between the time of his conversion on the Road to Damascus and his time with Ananias in Straight Street, and his appearance in Antioch with Barnabas, it is thought that Paul went to Arabia where he lived by his trade and studied and thought about all he knew about Jesus from the Gamalielite tradition of his Pharisaic learning: but he never wrote anything about it, and we have no record of his even preaching about it.

Perhaps that is what set the struggles of Paul against the struggles of others in life: Paul grew through his struggle where others constantly looked back on theirs and lived from the struggle. Or in the struggle, never actually leaving the place of struggle. Adolf Hitler’s Mein Kampf perhaps is the prime example of this: one man’s “my struggle” lead to the death of tens of millions and the ruin of the lives of a billion more.

Joseph was a slave the entire time he lived in Egypt. For all his becoming prime minister and second only to Pharaoh we are never convincingly informed that he was released from his status as slave. Perhaps Potiphar had no further claim over him following his imprisonment; but was he actually emancipated, or did he just serve at a higher level of submission?

So, this is my account of the Middle Eastern desert: my time in Egypt and Arabia, (but not Munich). I write this as a record for my own keeping, so as not to forget the lessons I learned in preparation but to consolidate them into what comes next. I believe it may well be an ongoing record, perhaps looking backwards to begin with; but only in the sense of dropping down a few gears so as to get up the mountain with constant velocity.

With Smaller Windows

This is a short-story which I wrote in 2008 for a writing competition being run through the Trade Union at work. It has a certain amount of autobiographical detail, far too much I think, but it suited the competition. I hope you like it too.

They really do make that noise you know. Doors, in gaols, go clang. It wasn’t a sound I was ever expecting to hear for myself, but then you never know what tomorrow will bring you. The other sounds in a prison are as you’d expect them as well, but they seem omnipresent in the context of being the prisoner yourself: especially the sound of the silence of your cell at night.

People like me don’t belong in cells, well not to stay in them anyway. I used to visit Young Offenders’ Institutes from time to time as part of my role with our county’s Children, Schools and Families’ Pupil Referral Service. It was young men I worked with mostly, boys really, with EBD or ADHD or CFA. Actually I made that last one up, CFA: Chronic Father Absence, but that always seemed the most ominous of the three. Sometimes it was young women as well, but they weren’t in YOIs so much as maternity units, and to be honest it was more often than not that Deborah or Amanda was sent to work with them.

I wonder who they’ll send to work with me.

+++

I never realised that a bunch of keys could be so heavy. A wing officer carries keys which when dropped yank quite solidly on the chain which connects key ring to key pouch: but better that than the keys should hit the floor. Only last week one of the SO’s pulled me over to one side on D-Spur and asked me to drop my keys for her: I did so and she was pleased to see that they hang a good inch above the linoleum at the fullest extent of my chain. Still, with keys one side and the bulk that constitutes Mike Charlie Outstation: Echo-Three, my radio, on the other, I shall have to be careful that my trousers don’t fall down should I ever be detailed to answer an alarm and have to run the length of the establishment at the drop of a hat.

My first week on Thomas wing, Prison Officer Entry Level Training all finished now and as Officer Russet rather than POELT I proudly display the solid black officers’ epaulettes of IS-122 knowing that they are mine for keeps now.

+++

Her Majesty’s Prison Isleworth: home for the next eight months depending upon so many factors that I’m not quite sure what will happen. What I do know is I no longer have a Christian name. I’m Mister Vine at best; and IS-5572 at worst. Mr Vine was what I was called when I worked for county, except for one boy, Michael, who called me “Miss Devine” as some sort of joke; his understanding being that Teacher is a woman’s job. I certainly showed him, or did he show me?

Michael has a point; this would all have ended so differently had I not been the only man on staff. Of course there was the maintenance fellow, but that doesn’t count towards discipline in the school. No, I believe it to be true that the absence of any other man, and the vacancy in the role of Deputy Head, lead to my tragic set of circumstances. What can you expect when called to do a man’s job in a woman’s workplace, surrounded by liberal feminists who exacerbate the difficulties experienced by boys with CFA in the first place? No, this would never have happened if I had not been left alone after Mr Taylor resigned.

He had been pushing it for a while, Michael. Arguing back at his form tutor, running through the football games of the older pupils and stealing the ball from the younger ones, making noises in class: it was all becoming a bit silly. I had called him to one side for a quiet word on several occasions, we had had a regular series of 1:1 Outreach Programme sessions using material provided by the county’s advisory bureau, (material which I had assisted to produce) and he had been sent home on Afternoon and Twenty-Four Hour Fixed Term Exclusion: nothing seemed to have much of an impact on him. So when he began barging through the groups of girls who stood in small circles to chat at break time I thought I’d try something new.

It all came to a head one Thursday in November when one particular group of girls turned on him. There was no spite in what they said, nothing like the usual Bitchkrieg this particular group of girls were known for, they simply asked him to please leave us alone Michael and turned back to their conversation. I don’t know what Michael saw in their firm politeness; but whatever it was its colour was red because he proceeded to kick two of the girls in the backs of their knees, dropping each in turn to the asphalt. I was immediately on the scene and took Michael inside with me for some Time Out while Deborah tended to the wounded. I went through my mental checklist: time out (been there, done that), short-term exclusion (b.t.d.t.), modified timetable to keep Michael out of the yard during Middle School break times (b.t.d.t.), interviews with mum in the Deputy Head’s office (b.t.d.t.), Man-to-Man conversation with the only male teacher in the school. That I hadn’t done, and since this had been an occasion where Michael had hit girls and had hit them from behind, I thought it worth the attempt. But what does one say in a Man-to-Man with a fifteen year old who isn’t your son, who indeed is no man’s son?

I decided it wasn’t what you said, but it was how you said it.

So I told him his conduct was unacceptable. I told him it was unmanly and cowardly. I told him it was not chivalrous. And I pushed him in the chest to punctuate each point: man-to-man we don’t hit girls and we don’t hit anyone from behind. He burst into tears and fled the room.

Seven months later here I sit in the Induction Wing at HMP Isleworth: one charge of Actual Bodily Harm (Battery) upon a Minor, to which I pleaded innocent before the court but was found guilty. I was both a test case for the Union, and an example to be made by the liberal feminist Baby-boomer magistrate. People like me don’t belong in cells.

+++

Personal Alarm from Echo Six, Location Unknown.

The mechanical, feminine voice of Mike-Charlie burst through the radio. Echo Six; that was Officer O’Connor, and even if Mike-Charlie didn’t know where he was I certainly did. Kevin was here on Thomas wing, (all the Echoes are) and he would be in the TV room between B-Spur and D-Spur. I turned to run up the staircase as the voice of one of the Comms Officers came through the speaker: Personal Alarm from Echo Six, Officer O’Connor, Thomas Unit: acknowledge Oscar One. Mike-Charlie Out. I turned the corner and bolted up the staircase, taking three at a time. General Alarm Thomas Unit Bravo Spur, I say again General Alarm Thomas Unit Bravo Spur: acknowledge Oscar One…

+++

I didn’t see him coming; like his boy he came from behind, but it was more than a kick in the knees that knocked me into my cell. I scrambled around on the ground but I was too close to my bunk to get up before a powerful kick crashed in to my ribs. I could hear the whoop of the General Alarm ringing down the corridor, and the voices of prisoners and officers outside my cell, but he had kicked the door shut behind him so it was only the two of us behind a locked door. He didn’t say much, didn’t even introduce himself actually; but I recognised from the emptiness of his eyes who he was, and he obviously knew who I was. I managed to scramble up the frame and onto my bunk, but with my elbows sinking into the spongey mattress I was unable to gain any purchase to move much further.

+++

My first thought was one of relief, Kev O’Connor was unhurt. I could see him standing outside B27 madly trying to get his cell-key into the lock. Officer Buchannan was there as well trying to move a group of prisoners away from the door. Kev seemed to know I was there as he just began to speak, telling me that the new guy had been jumped and was inside the cell with a prisoner whose name I didn’t recognise, and that from the sounds of it the new guy was getting a right kicking.

Personal Alarm…personal alarm from Echo-Three, Officer Russet, Thomas Unit: acknowledge Oscar One…

“Russ, move!” I turned to see the Orderly Officer with the Wing SO behind me. Kev had had the door open and stood back as Oscar One changed in to the cell, to return almost immediately with the big prisoner in a restraint hold between him and the SO. Kev was calling for Healthcare assistance and behind him I could see Vine IS-5572 was in a bad way.

+++

In the end it wasn’t as bad as it appeared, I’d lost an earlobe where it had been jammed between two of the wires on the bunk and my nose and lip had been spilt: more bloodied that bruised but I’m sure it made for a good deal of cleaning up. Three days in hospital was all it took, Officer Russet on bed-watch, and I was back in HMP Isleworth. My attacker had spent the evening in the Care and Separation Unit before being transferred out to a prison up north, apparently he had a reputation for aggression but he’d never jumped a fellow prisoner before.

Three weeks later I had my first VO, and the visitor was Deborah. She was allowed to brush my cut face with her hand, prisoners at Isleworth are not put behind glass, and she made the appropriate womanly sounds of concern. Wasn’t I sacred to be in gaol? Of course I was. Wasn’t it a shock to have been arrested, charged, convicted, and sentenced for something most men would think little of in terms of socialisation of the younger generation: even if their wives and girlfriends wouldn’t understand? Of course it had been, but thanks to Deborah who even as a woman had understood. And wasn’t it so very alienating to be in a place of verbal and physical violence, where the constant sense of threat and danger made every moment a knife-edge of the unpredictable? Not at all, it’s just like school…but with smaller windows.

Darkening Crashes

Love in the afternoon

Love in the afternoon (Photo credit: photoholic1)

This is a short story which won third place in the March 2008 running of The Mystery Prompt competition on writing.com I have made some changes to it based on the comments I received from the WDC judge, and post it here for you to read now. Enjoy!

“But that is still a long way off yet.” The optician spoke as if that were the brightest news ever spoken by Man. You are going blind. Eventually you will not be able to see, but you are not blind yet. Louisa wasn’t sure whether that made it a death sentence or a life sentence; neither sounded particularly comforting to her.

Six months ago Louisa had not had a worry in the world. Pretty, intelligent and doing the job she loved; she felt at the top of her game. Then, one ordinary morning, she noticed an odd bloodspot in her eye: as if someone had dabbed a finger into the not quite dry paint of her portrait and smeared the iris into the white. Brown iris, white white, a rusty coloured smear of colour from tear duct to pupil, Louisa thought nothing of it: simply tiredness and perhaps the stresses of her new job. She promised herself she’d get it checked when next she had space in her multicoloured planner for an appointment with the GP: and promptly forgot all about it.

Over time the smear deepened in colour and both eyes became decidedly bloodshot. Louisa began to worry, but never enough to see the GP; continuing to put the cause down to stress-inducing busyness at work and to too little sleep and too much caffeine. But now she was seeing blurring, like looking through a rain-splattered windscreen. She made the appointment with the GP, she was referred on to her optometrist and finally to a specialist optician who had delivered the cheerful news: she was going blind, but only slowly. Like pace mattered.

Paul knew something was wrong. He’d known Louisa for over a year and at last he had managed to convince her to spend some time in his company. He had noticed that Louisa had loads of friends; whereas Paul, whilst not a loner, seemed to enjoy the pleasure of his own company above too much social kerfuffle. On that darkening afternoon in Moss Park he saw her and decided she needed a friend, and with a deep breath he offered himself into the role.Louisa did not understand at the time why she had chosen to confide in Paul. A voice and a face from home, he like her was Trowennan and they had been contemporaries at the University; but she hardly knew him. Indeed to say she knew “of him” was possibly even an exaggeration; but still she shared, and he came through for her. Paul asked all the right questions, left all the right pauses, and like the girl in the apocryphal story of the late returning daughter he “helped her to cry”. Paul could not change Louisa’s medical prognosis, but she knew that with him about she would have support.

***

“Miss, what do you want with them books? They’re for grannies!” Louisa looked around with a start. It was not often she was stopped by the sound of one of her pupils’ voices at home, since she lived two towns across from the school where she taught. Louisa caught herself and offered her warmest smile.
“Perhaps this is for my granny, Elizabeth; I’m not too old to still have a nana.”
“Oh, okay Miss. Have a lovely day with her.”
The girl walked off, pausing only later to remember that Miss Davidson’s family all lived in far distant Trowenna.

Louisa tuned back to the shelves and felt the welling of a tear in her “good eye”. Large Print books were indeed for grannies, that’s why the covers were in such bold secondary colours and the pages smelled of old saliva. In truth she’d only stopped to see if there was a large print edition of a novel she wanted as the regular print, paperback edition was already out on loan. It had not occurred to her until then that one day she would only be reading large print, and then… And then, well “and then” was still a long way off yet. Paul had just that morning teased her, as her friends often did, that the notoriously clumsy Louisa parked her car “by Braille”. It didn’t bear thinking about. In the mean time there was another appointment with the optician.

***

Paul looked up as Louisa entered the restaurant. Dusk had overtaken the daylight outside; ensconced in the brightness of the booth Paul hadn’t noticed the gathering darkness. Louisa gently placed her book on the table and waited for Paul to embrace her.
“How are you?”
“How do I look?”
“Stoned.”
“Ta.” Louisa sat and idly fingered the wineglass in front of her. She sighed and smiled. “At least I can still touch and taste…restaurants are so wonderful. Ooh and hear, what lovely music this is.”
“And smell,” added Paul. “You smell too.”
“True story.” Louisa flashed her wicked grin.

The dark had completely overcome the day when they left to walk home, Paul via Louisa’s. The light of the half moon above them lit the path, but it was a familiar walk which either could have made with their eyes shut. Louisa tried to do so and promptly walked herself into a rubbish bin.
“Ouch! What’s the point of walking with you if you let me bash my legs on bins?”
“What’s the point of walking at all if you’re gonna close your eyes and hope for the best? Do not rely on what you think you know but in all your ways acknowledge Him and He will direct your paths.
“I acknowledge he let me walk into a bin.”
“I wasn’t talking about me; now, take my hand.”

***

The brilliance of seven spotlights lit the room as Louisa idly flicked the switch and kicked off her boots in the one coordinated movement. The room was warm and Louisa realised that she had left the heater on again. She paused to smile at herself in the mirror; eyes red where they should be white she did look “stoned” as Paul had said. Louisa dropped her shoulders and exhaled the stress: deliberately relaxing herself she consciously thought “smile” and allowed her face to follow the thought. She looked into the mirror again and saw that she did indeed look beautiful, relaxed and happy. The red in her eyes was uniform in distribution, the original incursion into her iris had gone and she was responding well to treatment. The optician’s prognosis has not been the best, but it had been better than the original: she was not going blind but she was losing the ability to see in colour. “Quite simply”, she had been told, “your eyesight will diminish to black and white.” Louisa looked across at the painting on her wall, W.C. Piguenit’s Mount King William from Lake George, Tasmania. Black and white, yet almost photographic in its quality, Louisa allowed her gaze to pass through it: it would be okay after all. Dull: but then all life is dull. It would be up to her to fill the colour in, and Paul would provide a start.