If you liked A Golden Age, why not download and enjoy the first two P.I. Wall novels, We Go Down Slowly Rising and Watching For The Dawn?
Sunday, 15 December 2013
Friday, 13 December 2013
A Golden Age (the Christmas 2013 P.I. Wall short story)
A Golden Age by
John Gimblett a P.I. Wall story
Part One: Christmas Eve eve
Ye Olde Murenger was quiet, but
then, it was still early. Christmas or not. Ed Wall, Rocket to his friends and enemies (and there was getting to be more
of a blurred line between the two these days he often thought) was sitting with
his old school pal D.S. Rob Jenkins. Facing the High Street window, Wall saw a
procession of human shadows trudge past, boots treading a fine dusting of snow
to a dull and razor-thin slush as they stomped the antique pavement.
Bursts of laughter accompanied the shadows, following them with an air of
Time; enclosing them in clouds of Spentness. Was that even a word? Wall asked
himself. All of Newport’s
history was there: processions of shadows, moving through the city. Beginning
at the port, at the railway- and bus station, and heading these days in the
direction of the M4. Exiting east, through the tunnels as if they were a means
to birth; a new life. Newer. Something experienced, finished, to be replaced. Spentness. Was it even a word..
‘Eh? what word?’ asked Rob Jenkins. Damn, this was always happening. More
so lately. The inside of Wall’s head and the apparition that was 21st
Century Newport seemed to be slipping and sliding into each other; one was an
ice block sloughing from an Arctic land mass and the other was a turgid black
sea being entered. Almost delicately, raising the most gentle of waves.
Which made him think, Where is Rosa? She
should be here by now.
‘Uh, sorry Rob, just head-stuff.’ Rob had also noticed this from his
friend; the belief that he was thinking things whereas he was actually saying
those things. It was the sort of thing that could one into all kinds of
trouble. And what’s with all the things?
Wall checked his phone. No message from Rosa.
‘Dr. Karmal not joining us after all then?’
‘Said she was. What’s the time?’ Rob looked at his watch. Told him. ‘Only
15 minutes late – she said 5 o’clock.’
They chatted a while, just stuff. Football, politics, Wall’s nemesis –
‘the bloody Council’, the weather, his very recent short holiday with Rosa.. but no mention of the events that had struck
everyone in Newport
a few months ago.
Well, the calendar said it was a few months. To Wall, it felt as if it
had all happened just yesterday. But at the same time, as if there was a
distance that drew it back into the last century. Time has its own machinery
and its own existence.
‘Sam ok?’ Rob asked. ‘George and the baby?’ This was dodgy ground, he
knew. Sam – Samantha – was one of
Wall’s assistants, as was George (he’d never ever heard her referred to as ‘Georgina’ and the subject had never come up. She was just
George).
Wall was quiet for a long time, staring ahead, past his pal, lulled into
a mesmeric cave where there was far too much blackness and possibly a few
bears, by the rhythmic marching of the shoppers in the snow. Some months ago, a
case he was working on with South Wales Police had ended up involving him
personally.
Again.
Some lunatic with an agenda inspired by an ancient Roman religion had maimed
and most cases killed several people, including one young lad – Nat Collins – a
student at the university in Caerleon who was now rebuilding his life with
significant psychiatric help somewhere in Cambridgeshire.
Which is bad enough, but the whole episode ended with this nutter
snatching George’s newborn baby, Edward, and..
Well, and.
‘Sam’s away for Christmas, visiting family somewhere or other. England? Scotland?
George is.. well, Rob, you probably know as much as I do.’ He looked at
Jenkins, who shrugged then nodded. What the hell did that mean?
‘I had a text last weekend from her. She’s settling into her new place.
Getting help.’
‘Still.’
‘Still.’
Rosa shuffled through the door at 6
o’clock and apologised. ‘Sorry, Rocket. Sorry Rob. Time playing tricks, what
with Russia
and everything.
She and Wall had been to Moscow
for a few days. Just got back, couple of days ago. Rosa
had taken her boyfriend (ha!) to meet her mother and a veritable Red Army of
relatives. It had been a good trip, cold and with less friendly snow than here.
They’d done the tourist thing, as much as there is a Moscow tourist
thing. Wall had had the chance to re-visit a few sights: that big bell in
the Kremlin; St. Basil’s cathedral and the rest of Red
Square; the GUM department store (Wall had once bought a bow tie
there) and a load of new buildings and skyscrapers that simply hadn’t been
there last time he’d visited.
It had been a good break, relaxing, with the initial stress of meeting Rosa’s family soon dissipating as soon as it became
obvious they liked him.
Well, someone had to. Other than Rosa,
of course.
She sat down now, and Wall went to the bar for more drinks: Guinness –
extra cold – for Rob, a vodka gimlet for Rosa
and a little something for himself to get his circulation going again. He chatted
a while with the new barmaid, Maria, who was wearing a Santa hat and had asked
him ‘Who’s your friend?’. Wall assumed she meant Rosa,
but in fact she was referring to Rob.
They both looked at him, shaking their heads but smiling. ‘How’s that
working out for you?’ Jenkins asked him, gesturing towards his glass. Several
drinkers nearby were looking over at him, and not just because he was still
almost-famous.
Wall’s mood lightened instantly.
‘It’s working out for me just fine, thanks.’ He sipped his sherry.
‘Cheers.’ They raised their glasses. The Landlord of the pub kept a bottle of
decent Amontillado behind the bar just for Wall; this started after the last
nutter-serial-killer case as a kind gesture. He was never charged more than
cost price for a glass of it.
‘And by the way,’ he added, raising his eyebrows at Rob and smirking,
‘Maria wants you for Christmas.’ Jenkins looked over towards the bar. Maria
jingled her bells at him.
They talked about the Moscow
trip for awhile. It had gone well, Wall said, but how the place had changed
since he was last there in the 80s when it was the capital of the USSR! The
obvious difference was that there were adverts for everything, everywhere.
Bright neon flashing things covering the entire sides of buildings rather than
murals and very large writing. He’d liked all that, and was saddened that the
city centre looked like Piccadilly Circus or Times Square.
And the skycrapers! Towering office blocks of smoked glass, their tops buried
in low snow clouds.
A massive Christmas tree resembling an inverted ice cream cone stood in Red Square near St. Basil’s, a massive triangle of
flickering LED lights bouncing off the snow. Lenin’s tomb was mercifully
lacking in festive decoration, and Wall had even been able to go inside this
time. Way back when, a week before Chernobyl
had gone postal, he’d been unable to get anywhere near the mausoleum for the
sheer length of the queue, which they’d been told was several hours long.
His old ‘local’ there, the bar of the Metropol hotel, was unrecognisable
now, but he made Rosa sit there for an hour,
reminiscing whilst nursing their vastly overpriced drinks.
At least there were no prostitutes eyeing him up this time.
‘A penny for them?’
Wall came-to and was back in the bar of the Murenger, his dainty glass
(Rob’s adjective) empty in front of him. Wall told them he was thinking about Moscow, and he and Rosa
talked about that some more. Rob went to fetch him a ‘proper drink’ and took
ages to do so. When he sat back down he was smiling. He put a pint of bitter
down on the table and a packet of nuts.
Wall looked at the nuts, then at his pal. ‘They were free,’ he said, by
way of explanation.
‘I’ll bet they were,’ Wall said.
‘No such thing as free nuts,’ Rosa
added.
Wall raised his glass and made a toast: To free nuts!
It was Christmas Eve eve. By 7 o’clock the bar was full and noisy. This
time tomorrow, Wall thought, it would be rowdy. In a good-mannered kind of way,
he hoped. Rob saw several people he knew; friends, acquaintances and people
he’d arrested at some point. Very few of the latter appeared to bear a grudge
however and one of them even offered to buy the Detective Sergeant a pint. The
Detective Sergeant declined, politely but firmly.
‘What’s with the Market?’ Wall asked him. Although he’d only been away
less than a week, he’d been working on a case for a few weeks – nothing
exciting – in Cwmbran and even though he’d had to go to the office now and
again he’d managed to avoid the High Street area. Or maybe he just hadn’t taken
any notice.
‘Well, it’s got a new front,’ Rob said.
‘I can see that, you pillock.’
‘What else do you need to know?’ Rob asked.
Wall pulled a face and shook his head. ‘And the new bus station?’
This time it was Rob who grimaced. ‘The words piss-up and brewery
spring to mind,’ he said. ‘It’s taken forever to get to this point and it looks
far from finished to me’ he added. ‘Doesn’t look like a year’s worth of work
does it?’
Wall had to agree, having caught a glimpse of it earlier. ‘It was meant
to open this summer, but there was a bit of a delay..’ Rob continued. ‘They’re
still saying it’ll be ready for Christmas.’ The three of them chuckled, as did
a couple of drinkers at the next table who’d obviously been eavesdropping on
their conversation.
‘Christmas? That’s.. tomorrow night!’ Rosa
said.
‘The thing is,’ Wall said, ‘when I was a kid the bus station was actually
where they’re building this one! My dad was a driver for a while, used to give
me the foreign coins that’d sneak their way past the conductor. I still have a
tin of them somewhere in the attic.’
They sat there in relative silence for awhile, thinking back to Newport town centre’s
Golden Age (from a town planning viewpoint) that lasted up to the late 60s. The
Old Green was lovely, the old Post Office was grand in a civic way and not in a
price of a First Class stamp kind of way (boom
boom!). Bridge Street had that little traffic island with a toilet in it,
outside the Queen’s. There were numerous cinemas and no empty shops. Joyce’s
toy shop in Cambrian Road
was the magnet that attracted all kids and their pocket money towards it.
Wall would go to the little Milk Bar opposite the Newport Arcade, near
Fussells sports shop with his dad; the latter would have Horlicks and little
Rocket would have a real, proper frothy milk shake. They’d sit on tall stools
at a counter that ran around the inside wall. The Council office was next door,
and if there was any money left after the drinks they’d go in there to pay the
rent.
Priorities!
Rosa was beginning to look bored, and
said she’d leave the ‘boys’ to it. She would get a taxi back to her place in
Caerleon and start preparing a light supper for later, if Rocket wished to join
her?
Rocket did wish to join her, though he shuddered, as always, at the word supper. Bettws Boys didn’t have supper back in the Golden Age; he’d had
jam sandwiches at dinner-time and fry-up at teatime. Jelly, blancmange and
Wagon Wheels Sunday afternoon, after a cooked dinner and before a school-next-day
bath.
The boys stayed in the pub
another half hour or so, another drink’s worth of many moments, Wall still
watching the flickering of shadows breeze by the windows and fighting off the
intrusion of chilled air every time someone opened the door to the High Street.
He hadn’t noticed until now, but the bar was itself festooned with fairy lights
that instructed shadows to perform their own Christmas dance across old framed
photographs of the town. He still refused to refer to Newport as a city. No, it was a town through and through: his town. And with a sherry and three pints inside him he was on
the defensive; woe betide anyone who chose to have a pop at the ‘Port this side
of Christmas!
Rob took their empty glasses back to the bar, which was peculiar to say
the least. Well, unusual.
When they left the warmth of the Murenger, Wall noticed now pretty (just
the three pints and a sherry, was it?) the street looked when dusted with a modicum
of the white stuff. Rob pointed out that any place would look cute with snow on
the ground. They spent a while going through some gruesome places that might
look OK after snow - Penrhiwceiber, for instance. Nah.
They did a circuit of the Market building, just being nosey. The Cross
Keys in Market Street
was bustling, its doorway crowded with smokers like bees around a honey-pot, but
Rob said the punters (his word) were still seething over the removal of the
free pool tables some time ago. The new bus station was a building site, albeit
a pretty one with some snow on it. There was much to be critical of in Newport at the moment;
time had its own pace as regards ‘development’. Private housing estates and
office blocks seemed to go up like nobody’s business, but a simple row of bus
shelters had taken what seemed like forever to get sorted.
Wall had been to peep through the galvanised John Frost Square barricade just before
the Moscow
trip, and it was a total mess. In fact, the whole business of the Square and
the proposed development appeared to be an almighty cock-up. Same as it ever
was. The whole business with the Council and the Chartist mural was a disgrace
of epic proportions in Wall’s eyes. Cultural vandalism purely for the pursuit
of profit. As he’d had mentioned to him by many people, on many occasions in the
past couple of months, the fair citizens of Newport would not forget this.
The Square had never, since its inception forty-plus years ago, lived up
to expectations; there had been plans shown to the townsfolk at regular
intervals promising a space where urbanity met nature. Fountains, trees,
flowers and cleanliness. Instead, all we’d ever got, he told Rob Jenkins (and
anyone else who’d listen) was.. inadequacy.
Under-performing, disappointing, delusional inadequacy.
Wall blamed concrete. Not to mention the
bloody Council.
After gazing with despair at the building site, with the bright red Wave sculpture just across the way next
to the river, Wall’s good mood dissipated somewhat and he was ready to go home.
Home? He meant Rosa’s
place, where he had been living almost exclusively for a month or two now. If
he’d known it would turn out like this he would have suggested to George that
she stay longer in his own house near the Civic Centre. But considering how
little Edward had been snatched from there, then maybe not. No, it was better
she’d found her own flat outside the centre. Near the park.
‘Thanks for taking my glass back to the bar, by the way,’ Wall said as
they walked to the taxi rank outside the railway station. Rob knew what he was
getting at.
‘Maria wants an interview,’ he said. ‘She’s a journalism student.
Christmas break.’
Wall sucked in a cloud of cold air and it hit his cells like an ice cube
plunging into a cheap cocktail. ‘Tell her I’m busy,’ he said, exasperated.
Rob shook his head dismissingly. ‘Not you. Me.’
‘You?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Wonders never cease.’
‘They don’t, do they.’
At the top of Cambrian Road,
near where the Milk Bar used to be, a small group of young men dressed as Santa
were leading a reindeer out of Wetherspoons.
A real one.
No-one, but no-one, took the slightest notice of this.
‘Ah, the ‘Port,’ Wall thought, wistfully.
‘Indeed,’ Rob replied.
*
Part Two: Christmas Eve
Ed Wall, Newport’s ‘best and only’ Private
Investigator, was soaking up the atmosphere that is Christmas Eve afternoon on
the mean streets of Newport.
Except they weren’t at all mean
today. He’d come into town early; Rosa had some last fragments of work she
wanted to complete while it was still before
Christmas as she’d said she had no intention of doing anything else work-wise
until after New Year. Wall was
looking forward to spending this time together. He had no family here and
neither did she. Sam was away and wouldn’t be back in Newport for a few days yet – possibly the day
after Boxing Day – and George seemed to have withdrawn into her own life. Her
mum lived in Baneswell (‘The well of death’) not too far from Sam’s mother in
fact and Wall despaired at the woman; she had pretty much deserted George while
she was pregnant, continually blew hot and cold over her and her sister and was
generally, Wall considered, the bane
of George’s existence.
He decided to take a short stroll in and around the town. Not too far,
just a circuit of the centre perhaps. Heading up Stow Hill just after midday,
he popped into the cathedral to see what it was doing this Christmas – very
little, it turned out – then continued on his way towards the Handpost. It
hadn’t escaped him that he’d already walked past the locations of murders he’d
been involved in investigating. Another traumatic chain of events had led to
his then-girlfriend, Monica, being held at knife-point near the Wave by a serial killer he and the Police
had christened the Wren Boy due to his upbringing and folkloric pursuits in Ireland.
It had been an eventful and draining, utterly exhausting, year or so what
with one thing and another. Wall felt like he’d aged significantly in that
time. He sighed as he walked into the pub and ordered half a Guinness. It was
quiet there, any drinkers having already gone into town to soak up an
atmosphere of their own making. He left soon after, the weak sun behind him
shaving a thin layer of white dust from the trodden snow coating the pavements.
It was snowing again now, very lightly. As soon as that sun went down, Wall
knew, there would be more of the stuff.
Maybe a White Christmas! He’d like that, if only for Rosa’s
sake. Well, for both of them; he needed more romance in his life, not less.
With this thought in his head Wall listened to the gentle crunch under
his shoes and imagined all the other feet that had marched over this space. He
smiled to himself.
Maybe, on that early winter’s day in 1839, the cracked black boots of
Chartists trod the ground he trod now, unaware that they were about to be mown
down by armed troops positioned outside the Westgate Hotel. John Frost – who
had been married at the church in Bettws not far from where Wall had grown up –
led more than 3000 men into Newport
that day; at least 20 of them were shot and killed outside the Westgate Hotel,
with dozens more wounded.
And what does the Council do in their memory? Bulldoze the commemorative
mural, that’s what. Wall’s mood blackened and the low sun sank into a cloud.
Back in the town centre, he decided to check on the office, close to the
old bus station which now seemed to have been razed to the ground. Good riddance, he thought.
There was a small stack of mail behind the door, which he dealt with
quickly. Nothing important, a couple of cheques and a couple of bills. A letter
from the Council advising him of something or other he really couldn’t be
bothered with. A handful of Christmas cards, which was a pleasant surprise. He
read them quickly; not one of them was abusive. Result! While he went through
the mail he sat in his chair, listening to Radio 4. He liked to waste whole
days there listening to the cricket with endless mugs of tea. Often Sam and
George would be around, chatting and moaning, browsing magazines and doing
something on the computer. Wall and computers were sworn enemies.
Outside the window it was already getting dark, and Christmas lights
flickered across the front of the Windsor
Castle pub. A trickling
of snowflakes fell slowly as if parachuting down. Swaying side to side, yellow
– almost golden – in the soft glow of the street lamps and the spotlights of
car headlamps turning from Corn
Street.
It wasn’t often he could bring himself to say it, but sometimes Newport was the most
beautiful place on Earth. Other times of course it was the most foul, the most
infuriating and arguably the ugliest place on God’s green Earth.
Now, as the snow fell onto already white pavements, and with Christmas
lights pricking the fabric of the city
– there, he’d said it – like kitten-claws raking soft cloth, Newport looked beautiful.
And its beautiful people ambled by, usually on the pavement but sometimes
in the gutter, giggling and celebrating. Toasting the Now. While he stood at the 3rd floor window clutching a
mug of cold tea looking down at streets and their buildings with a longing for Then: the Golden Age.
Past? Future?
He found himself by the Market again, stood awhile by the railings
alongside the building site. Upper Dock
Street. It was dark now and the snow was falling
faster.
When he was a child, there was a cobbler there, hammering nails and
leather in a dark cave of a shop Wall could remember the essence of even now. And
the smell: leather and glue.
A group of young women walked past, bedecked with tinsel and dressed for
summer, not the snow.
They were merry after what had probably already been a few hours of
drinking. Wall checked his watch: 4.15pm. He hadn’t eaten since an early
breakfast with Rosa.
His café of choice in the centre of the town was Nesta’s in the Market,
and that’s where he headed now. Took a short detour to the newsagent shop in
the new main entrance hall and grabbed a copy of the Argus to read while he ate
and drank. As he walked through the hordes of late shoppers he glanced at the
front page headline of the ‘paper: someone had ‘borrowed’ a reindeer from the
community farm in Cwmbran.
Wall sat in the café with an inch-thick slice of toast dripping with
butter and a mug of milky coffee, the mere scent of which took him to places
and times that could write their own history of Newport.
While he sat there, Rosa rang him. It
was only then he fully realised it was Christmas Eve. And despite being in a
relationship he was very settled and happy in, he was indeed sat there on his
own.
And in quiet, lonely moments such as this Wall sometimes still thought
about Monica and about what they went through together. What she went through, with that knife held
to her throat by a killer. The thoughts, the memories.. gave him pain. Did he
miss her? Yes. Did he want to be with Rosa?
Yes.
Occasionally he thought he was losing his mind. ‘The blood does not reach my brain. It hurts every day.’
He thought back to a week ago. He and Rosa stood at a table in a café a
block from the Bolshoi with coffee and pastries. Laughing and holding hands,
people-watching before heading back out into the snow. Proper snow. And he remembered being there, gazing out into the
street at Muscovites who looked uncannily like Newportonians.
And wishing he was back in Newport,
where he’d heard it was also snowing.
He paid, left a tip and wandered around the market. It was emptier than
the last time he was there. Some traders had been there forever it seemed. The
pet food shop and some greengrocers in particular. Upstairs was a disgrace; in
his teens it had been crowded with shoppers at the end of the week. There had
been numerous stalls selling all manner of things and he’d built up his nascent
record collection through regular visits to the used book and record traders
there. Well, the market and the second hand shops opposite ‘Gilligan’s Island’ downtown.
The flower shop outside Nesta’s was closing. Wall made them an offer they
couldn’t refuse for stock that wouldn’t last until Boxing Day and dragged the
hugest bouquet imaginable back past the Murenger again to a taxi. The driver
gasped when he saw Wall. Well, not Wall exactly; more a bouquet with feet and a
head.
Rosa was impressed. Very.
*
Part Three: Christmas Day
The snow had come down in the night like a bleached sheet, a
gossamer-fine web that enveloped Newport
in a clean whiteness. An attempt at imposing purity upon the town, city.
As soon as Wall and Rosa had eaten the
night before she told him she wanted to wake up in his house Christmas morning,
not her own flat annexed to the Halls of Residence in Caerleon. A nice set of
rooms, yes, befitting a university Professor. But impersonal enough for her,
let alone Ed Wall, barely-national man of mystery and arbiter of good taste and
all things classy. Bettws does that to you.
So with the clock edging towards 10.30pm he rang for a taxi. Actually, he
rang Rob Jenkins first to enquire about cadging a lift from any police car that
might be going from Caerleon to Newport
anytime soon. The D.S. wasn’t impressed and told him to ring a cab. Hence the
second phone call.
The taxi arrived soon after, and Wall had to sit down as soon as he
entered his house on account of the fare, which was considerable. Very.
‘Should have chartered a helicopter and saved some money,’ he told Rosa. She raised her eyebrows and shook her head. She and
her family had chartered very many helicopters in almost as many different
countries - back in Afghanistan,
Russia, Ukraine and Kazakhstan to name but four such
places.
The house was freezing; he hadn’t spent a night there for almost three
weeks. He put the heating on and while they waited for the air to lose its
chill they sat at the kitchen table wearing their coats scarves and gloves
warming their hands on mugs of steaming tea. In half an hour or so it would be
midnight..
Christmas morning, bright and early. Wall had got out of bed early to
make a pot of tea; had looked out of the window at the white street, before
sun-up. Light emanated from the ground, pushing out a flood of brightness that
drowned every atom of air in false dawn.
The house looked bleak; he hadn’t put any decorations up, or a tree. How
was he to know he’d be waking up there rather than in Caerleon?
He knew Rosa wouldn’t mind; she’d already told him that for her,
Christmas wasn’t happening until January 7th, the date it’s
celebrated in the Orthodox church and tradition; as a Russian, atheist or not
these days, it was the culture she grew up in and it sort of kept its hold on
her and her extended family back in the Mother
country.
If she wanted to spend Orthodox Christmas there at his place they could
decorate the house together.
Not only were there no decorations, there was no food either. Even the
tea which he carried back upstairs was black. Perhaps they should have thought
this thing through a little more.
‘Black?’ she asked.
‘No milk. No food.’
‘Was there none in the box we brought from mine?’ While they’d waited for
the taxi to arrive, she had put together an impromptu hamper of random things
from her fridge and food cupboards. He’d forgotten about this – must have been
the shock of the cab fare.
They decided to go for a walk after breakfast and wrapped themselves up
in several layers against the cold. Despite the snow – a few inches thick on
the pavements – they were already overheating by the time they reached the
bottom of Bridge Street.
The Christmas tree stood there outside the banks, in front of Sir Charles
Morgan, whose bronze head wore what Wall imagined was a Phrygian cap, made of
snow.
No tinsel, no frippery but for numerous drips of white lights, its
branches heavy with last night’s downfall. Although it had stopped falling before
dawn, the sky, though bright, was a consistent grey, each cloud merged and
leaden with unique pattern.
They stood looking at the tree awhile, the entire city centre their own.
No other living soul about at this time on Christmas morning. They decided to
walk to the river.
Half way down Skinner Street
(once there were tanneries here alongside the pill that reached up to where the
Christmas tree stood now) they stepped over a meandering trail of reindeer
tracks. Their owner appeared to have been heading towards the new bus station.
The tide was in.
Near Austin Friars Wall’s phone rang and he answered it. Sam wished them
both a Happy Christmas and they arranged to meet for a drink at lunchtime on
Boxing Day. George rang moments later and he invited her along. She said she’d
try, but he had very little expectation she’d actually turn up. Still, he’d
asked.
While the phone was in his hands he texted Rob Jenkins. Did he want to
come along for a drink tomorrow?
Well, the more the merrier.
It was mid-morning by the time they’d walked up to the cathedral,
discovered it was empty of cheer, and strolled down through a slippery
Baneswell back to the railway bridge by the Engineers. Five minutes later they
were back in the house. Wall felt guilty about there being no decorations, no
tree, but Rosa said again that she didn’t mind if he didn’t as for her it
wasn’t even Christmas for another 2 weeks. They agreed that if they decided to
spend January 7th at his place they would definitely decorate the
house together. They’d already – a few weeks ago – decided that presents would
also wait until January. But for now, their lungs still full of cold air and
their toes in need of warming, mulled wine was in order.
The sun went down early, not that they or anyone else in Newport saw it happen, and with the drawing
in of the night just after 4pm. it was dark soon after. Light snow fell gently
again, drowning footprints and giving streetlights something beautiful to do.
At the tail end of 1962, and for the first seven weeks of 1963, Newport was frozen solid;
a blizzard brought the worst snowfall since 1947. It all but shut down the town
and supplies of everything, from food to coal, ceased. Wall was a young child
with no memories of that winter other than what a few family photographs gave
him later.
Just five months later, June 11th was the hottest day in Wales
for 45 years. A Golden Age began that day: with hindsight, Wall saw that punch
of summer as the real start of the 1960s; a decade that was good to the people
of Newport, indeed to the people of Britain.
Sure, bad things happened that year: JFK was a shock, though not for Wall as a
toddler.
In the house, Christmas afternoon, sat with a drink, a woman he loved and
an old film on TV, he’d drifted off into this reverie of nostalgia.
He remembered that day in June, 1968 at his uncle’s house in Eveswell
when the television News came on as he sat playing in the living room there.
Bobby Kennedy’s assassination. Remembered that. But 1963.. no.
The sixties: Harold Wilson with his proper Labour government; England
winning the World Cup; the Prince of Wales Investiture street parties across
Newport; the moon landings. And the building of Bettws.
To Wall, now, the sixties began that hottest day in June 1963, and ended
at the General Election in June 1970 when Edward Heath became Prime Minister.
It was about that time in history that Newport began its slide towards decay; it
seems everything from the Old Green, the top of High Street and Cambrian Road, down
to Austin Friars and beyond was demolished and remodelled with concrete.
Kingsway was constructed and the promise that was John Frost Square never lived up to
expectations; the endless architects’ – and
developers’ – idealistic plans never quite reaching fruition.
June 1963 to June 1970: a Golden Age. A decade of hope, expectation and
optimism. A decade when the working class of Newport mattered.
And what was there now? Well, for now there was Christmas, a drink and a
woman he loved. Who knows what next year would bring? Maybe some work, more
happiness, less worry..
Maybe a Golden Age starting over.
*
* *
© John Gimblett, 2013
This story is dedicated with great Christmas cheer to those
people who have bought, read, enjoyed and promoted the P.I. Wall novels –
thankyou! In particular I would like to thank:
Allan Mills, John D. Leonard, Graham Price, and Maria
Williams
P.I. Wall will return in a third
novel, Walking The Edge
Monday, 9 December 2013
A Christmas Rocket
A Golden Age, the #PIWall Christmas story has been spurned by the South Wales Argus but will be available to read - free! - on the blog later this week! #NewportNoir
Saturday, 30 November 2013
P.I. Wall Christmas story
I'm still writing the Christmas story, now titled A Golden Age.
It begins in the Murenger pub in High Street. This is interesting:
"There is also the present public house called the Murenger House, at 53 High Street. It has been claimed by tradition that it belonged to the Murenger (an official responsible for town walls and for collecting money for their maintenance in the Middle Ages). In fact the Murenger House has a mainly modern timber framed frontage, with three upper stories under the gable. The first floor front room has a plasterwork ceiling decorated with a Tudor roses and floral pinecone finials. It appears to be Tudor, or, according to John Newman, early 17th century in date, and therefore after any town wall would have been in use. However the thickness of the side and rear wall may indicate these were built of stone, and they could be considerably older than the frontage .The building is only referred to in local directories as ‘The Murenger House’ after 1880.
There are earlier references to another Murenger House, with a shield and arms carved over the front door. In 1801 William Coxe refers to the Murenger’s House as being ‘an old spacious building, with an ornamented front, and a coat of arms, carved in stone, over the door’, and it appears this building was demolished in 1816. It stood on the corner of High Street and the modern Bridge Street, on the site now occupied by the NatWest Bank. In 1750 it was referred to as ‘The Great House’ and in 1553 was the house of George ap Morgan and was described as ‘the strongest place in all the town’"
- http://www.newportpast.com/early/wall/index.htm
It begins in the Murenger pub in High Street. This is interesting:
"There is also the present public house called the Murenger House, at 53 High Street. It has been claimed by tradition that it belonged to the Murenger (an official responsible for town walls and for collecting money for their maintenance in the Middle Ages). In fact the Murenger House has a mainly modern timber framed frontage, with three upper stories under the gable. The first floor front room has a plasterwork ceiling decorated with a Tudor roses and floral pinecone finials. It appears to be Tudor, or, according to John Newman, early 17th century in date, and therefore after any town wall would have been in use. However the thickness of the side and rear wall may indicate these were built of stone, and they could be considerably older than the frontage .The building is only referred to in local directories as ‘The Murenger House’ after 1880.
There are earlier references to another Murenger House, with a shield and arms carved over the front door. In 1801 William Coxe refers to the Murenger’s House as being ‘an old spacious building, with an ornamented front, and a coat of arms, carved in stone, over the door’, and it appears this building was demolished in 1816. It stood on the corner of High Street and the modern Bridge Street, on the site now occupied by the NatWest Bank. In 1750 it was referred to as ‘The Great House’ and in 1553 was the house of George ap Morgan and was described as ‘the strongest place in all the town’"
- http://www.newportpast.com/early/wall/index.htm
Friday, 29 November 2013
Christmas Rocket
There will be a #PIWall Christmas story available free in mid-December as a seasonal thankyou to those people who have bought and read the two #NewportNoir Kindle novels so far: #wegodownslowlyrising and #watchingforthedawn
The title will almost certainly be A Golden Age.
The title will almost certainly be A Golden Age.
Nat Collins
Junction of Isca Road and Bullmore Road, Caerleon ultra pontem
(scene of the Nat Collins attack)
Caerleon ultra pontem
Junction of Isca Road and Bullmore Road, Caerleon ultra pontem
(scene of the Nat Collins attack)
'5 Minutes With', South Wales Argus 29.11.13
The '5 Minutes With' feature in the South Wales Argus this week is with me:
http://tinyurl.com/p7b9st7
http://tinyurl.com/p7b9st7
Thursday, 28 November 2013
South Wales Argus 29th November 2013
Check out the South Wales Argus tomorrow - this week's '5 Minutes With..' interview is with.. me #NewportNoir #SouthWalesArgus #PIWall
Follow @johngimblett
Follow @johngimblett
Friday, 15 November 2013
Public art, Newport
Archform, by Harvey Hood, outside Newport railway station.
(See the relevant pages of the artist's website: http://harveyhood.blogspot.co.uk/2011/11/archform-newport-railway-station.html )
Review on Amazon.co.uk
Graham Price, from Newport, posted the following review of We Go Down Slowly Rising today:
"Living in Newport for most of my life I'm familiar with the places mentioned so this helped me to visualise the locations. (Tho' I'm still looking for the shed against the wall of St Woolos' cemetery!) A fascinating plot kept me on the edge of my seat and the finale was a wowser. Rocket is a fascinating character and I couldn't wait to read the sequel - what a shocker"
Follow @johngimblett
"Living in Newport for most of my life I'm familiar with the places mentioned so this helped me to visualise the locations. (Tho' I'm still looking for the shed against the wall of St Woolos' cemetery!) A fascinating plot kept me on the edge of my seat and the finale was a wowser. Rocket is a fascinating character and I couldn't wait to read the sequel - what a shocker"
Follow @johngimblett
Sunday, 29 September 2013
Friday, 27 September 2013
Albert Camus
I post this link only because Camus is one of the greatest influences on me and my writing.
Why is Albert Camus Still a Stranger in His Native Algeria?
Saturday, 14 September 2013
Grim
'Got to Chapter 4 of your book and had to stop. Does it get worse? That was horrific!! I felt sick!!.. Yes, I did find it sickening. My stomach turned over. It's pretty grim John!'
(Comment on Watching For The Dawn by a friend!)
(Comment on Watching For The Dawn by a friend!)
Thursday, 12 September 2013
Saturday, 7 September 2013
BRFM interview
If you missed it, you can listen to it - or download it - here:
http://www.podcast.canstream.co.uk/brfm/index.php?id=15190
(NB. apparently the interview starts 9 minutes in...)
http://www.podcast.canstream.co.uk/brfm/index.php?id=15190
(NB. apparently the interview starts 9 minutes in...)
Wednesday, 28 August 2013
BRFM Radio, Brynmawr
'Hi John, I saw your feature in the South Wales Argus today and was
really intrigued by your story and poetry. I was wondering if you'd be
up for doing a radio interview on BRFM in Brynmawr, talking about your
life and work along with a reading of some of your poetry?'
South Wales Argus article
The South Wales Argus piece is in today's 'paper. It's in the centre pages, a double page spread!
If you didn't manage to get hold of a print copy, you can find it here:
http://tinyurl.com/o23lr9z
This link at first worked for me earlier, then didn't.. then did. So if it doesn't, look in the /news/features section of their website (www.southwalesargus.co.uk).
(Photo by Mark Lewis/South Wales Argus and copyright as such.)
If you didn't manage to get hold of a print copy, you can find it here:
http://tinyurl.com/o23lr9z
This link at first worked for me earlier, then didn't.. then did. So if it doesn't, look in the /news/features section of their website (www.southwalesargus.co.uk).
(Photo by Mark Lewis/South Wales Argus and copyright as such.)
Tuesday, 27 August 2013
Contact details
If you are interested in following me on Twitter, you should be able to do that here:
Follow @johngimblett
If you have any questions for Ed Wall P.I. or would like to contact our hero you could try emailing him here:
PIWall@gmx.co.uk
Though as you're probably aware, Rocket isn't the most tech-savvy P.I. in the world. Though he is the most tech-savvy P.I. in Newport. Mostly thanks to his Tech Guy - Stan - in Shaftesbury. And of course due to him being the only - and best! - P.I. in Newport.
Follow @johngimblett
If you have any questions for Ed Wall P.I. or would like to contact our hero you could try emailing him here:
PIWall@gmx.co.uk
Though as you're probably aware, Rocket isn't the most tech-savvy P.I. in the world. Though he is the most tech-savvy P.I. in Newport. Mostly thanks to his Tech Guy - Stan - in Shaftesbury. And of course due to him being the only - and best! - P.I. in Newport.
South Wales Argus
Remember to look out for the interview / article in the South Wales Argus tomorrow, 28th August 2013.
Saturday, 17 August 2013
Friday, 16 August 2013
3
And no sooner than Watching For The Dawn is published (yesterday - didn't you notice?), the first paragraph of the third P. I. Wall novel Walking The Edge is written!
#walkingtheedge #watchingforthedawn #wegodownslowlyrising #PIWall #NewportNoir
#walkingtheedge #watchingforthedawn #wegodownslowlyrising #PIWall #NewportNoir
Thursday, 15 August 2013
Watching For The Dawn
Watching For The Dawn, the sequel to We Go Down Slowly Rising, has been published and is available for download now!
Wednesday, 14 August 2013
Watching For The Dawn published!
Watching For The Dawn is actually available now for download but in the U.S. only:
http://www.amazon.com/Watching-Dawn-P-I-Wall-ebook/dp/B00EJKH564
If you are in the U.K. you will have to wait a few more hours until amazon.co.uk lists it.
http://www.amazon.com/Watching-Dawn-P-I-Wall-ebook/dp/B00EJKH564
If you are in the U.K. you will have to wait a few more hours until amazon.co.uk lists it.
Monday, 12 August 2013
Watching For The Dawn imminent
The book file for Watching For The Dawn went off to The Electronic Book Company for preparation today and should be uploaded within 48 hours.
This means the book will be available for download before this weekend!
#NewportNoir #watchingforthedawn #PIWall #wegodownslowlyrising
Follow @johngimblett
This means the book will be available for download before this weekend!
#NewportNoir #watchingforthedawn #PIWall #wegodownslowlyrising
Follow @johngimblett
Wednesday, 31 July 2013
WFTD publication / Newspaper interview
Watching For The Dawn should be available for download sometime around mid-August!
The South Wales Argus has asked if they can do an interview with me for the 'paper! I'll arrange that in a week or two.
The South Wales Argus has asked if they can do an interview with me for the 'paper! I'll arrange that in a week or two.
Is P.I. Wall licensed?
'Operating as an unlicensed private detective is to be made illegal, Home Secretary Theresa May has announced.' BBC News story here:
http://tinyurl.com/nlh24s9
Wednesday, 24 July 2013
Watching For The Dawn
"He put the coffee machine on, jumped in the shower quickly then brought two cups of Joe back upstairs. 7.34.
She was lying on top of the bed, stark naked.
7.53."
#NewportNoir #watchingforthedawn #PIWall
Thursday, 18 July 2013
WGDSR updated version now available!
We Go Down Slowly Rising has been re-formatted with some added graphics and is now live for download again after being unavailable for 48 hours while the formatting work was being done by The Electronic Book Company.
It looks great now, offering a smooth eye-catching reading experience!
I can get back to the final read-through of the sequel, Watching For The Dawn, now and it will be available soon, having been formatted and prepared for publishing by the same professionals.
http://tinyurl.com/pn5nwfl
#NewportNoir
Follow @johngimblett
It looks great now, offering a smooth eye-catching reading experience!
I can get back to the final read-through of the sequel, Watching For The Dawn, now and it will be available soon, having been formatted and prepared for publishing by the same professionals.
http://tinyurl.com/pn5nwfl
#NewportNoir
Follow @johngimblett
Tuesday, 16 July 2013
WGDSR News
We Go Down Slowly Rising has been re-formatted and updated and will be available for download after 'review'. It has now been divided into 4 loose parts, and turned into a smoother, more reader-friendly text.
I can now announce that the sequel, Watching For The Dawn, will be formatted and published by the same company of professionals - The Electronic Book Company, of North Wales - and will develop the character of Ed. Wall and his colleagues further, leaving readers - hopefully - breathless for more!
I am looking at the 'Ed Wall P.I.' series as a Trilogy, but this will depend largely on what you, the readers, want! I am mixing together the recipe and ingredients of a third Ed. Wall book now and as soon as Watching For The Dawn is published, will begin to get things down on paper/screen.
www.newportnoir.co.uk
#NewportNoir
Follow @johngimblett
I can now announce that the sequel, Watching For The Dawn, will be formatted and published by the same company of professionals - The Electronic Book Company, of North Wales - and will develop the character of Ed. Wall and his colleagues further, leaving readers - hopefully - breathless for more!
I am looking at the 'Ed Wall P.I.' series as a Trilogy, but this will depend largely on what you, the readers, want! I am mixing together the recipe and ingredients of a third Ed. Wall book now and as soon as Watching For The Dawn is published, will begin to get things down on paper/screen.
www.newportnoir.co.uk
#NewportNoir
Follow @johngimblett
Monday, 15 July 2013
We Go Down Slowly Rising ebook news
PLEASE NOTE:
Due to ongoing formatting issues with We Go Down Slowly Rising I have removed the ebook from sale today 15.7.13 and have employed a professional ebook company to re-format the book. The novel should be available again by the end of the week.
Many apologies for the inconvenience!
Due to ongoing formatting issues with We Go Down Slowly Rising I have removed the ebook from sale today 15.7.13 and have employed a professional ebook company to re-format the book. The novel should be available again by the end of the week.
Many apologies for the inconvenience!
Wednesday, 10 July 2013
Reader comment
"I read [We Go Down Slowly Rising] and enjoyed every minute of it."
- John D. Leonard, via Facebook. 9.7.13
Thursday, 13 June 2013
Friday, 7 June 2013
Watching For The Dawn.. snippets and teasers
Update
Chores done, coffee drunk. Now to get back down to work: final read-through on 2nd P.I. Wall crime novel set in and around Newport: Watching For The Dawn. Should be available as an ebook this summer.
Saturday, 1 June 2013
Friday, 31 May 2013
Thursday, 30 May 2013
Latest review of 'Monkey' (Selected India Poems) posted on amazon.co.uk
"John Gimblett illuminates the transient and fleeting into a tangible solidarity of senses. For a moment in time you see what the poet sees and understands of India and we learn from his affinity with the place. From his compassion for the people of India in his poems Man in Calcutta where he lets us know that this man with his twisted body will not be forgotten to Ignored Again where he highlights the dead man by the line `We gave him barely a glance, travelled on' giving recognition to him as a person in a context that was determined to give him no such recognition . He can also turn the spotlight on us, in The Stared-at where we become the object, the viewed, the different. Not all of the poems are set in India but wherever John Gimblett travels you can almost feel you have journeyed there too. You can see, smell and think his poetry."
by Atticus 1, 29/5/13
by Atticus 1, 29/5/13