THE BEGINNING
[Our Hero, Norton Parkway, arrives home but decides not to return to his normal life. Fleeing his imaginary foes, he hires a car and heads for the Lakes]IN THE END, all that I wanted was to be happy. Happiness became a fixation. If I was not happy, I would move on to the next thing that I thought would make me happy. First, I quit my school, then I changed college twice, jobs, well, I have had a few and now this: my life inside a career that robbed me of youth and ate away at my soul.
As I woke again from dreams setting me against imagined foes, I scraped at the black stubble that had formed during the night and shook my head, hurting from too much vodka from the night before. I was in a place where I felt that I could neither turn away from nor go any further.
So, I called you and you told me to come home.
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My first night away was tough. I slept for only three hours and must have torn a dozen sheets from the pad that I had bought in the central station with a view to writing you the reasons for my going. The pencil was yellow, HB, and made writing uncomfortable as it scratched across the paper.
Dear [●], I cannot forget the ways that you have made me happy. My Darling [●], when we met my heart sangMy various ill conditioned thoughts continued through to pleas for forgiveness and requests that you understand what I had done. But you cannot. Nor, do I expect that you will ever understand.
It was enough that we looked lovingly into each others' eyes as I left the car that day, it was enough that we spoke on the telephone during my absence, it was enough that I told you I had landed and that I saw you waiting for me at the airport on that rainy Sunday afternoon. I could not return. I felt that I was drawn towards a different path.
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At the airport, I hired a car and drove the 700 miles to the place called "Bendy Leg" and stayed in a pension known as "Under the Jews". The landlady, Mrs Dorothy Thin, welcomed me into her home, gave me a kitten to look after and put me in the "executive suit". The room was big enough, but when inside it, you were unable to stand. The ceiling was 1 metre in height. The hammock that hung between the rafters touched the floor when under strain. I could not imagine what I would do with the elephant in the corner which doubled as a wardrobe or the 40 watt bulb, which Mrs Thin had given me as a present (the pension had no electricity).
Sister Caroline, the Carmelite Nun who spent most of her time sauntering around the kitchen humming Slayer's "Angel of Death", saw me on my first night there and suggested that we go for a walk. I was happy with such an approach as my legs had become lazy with much sitting and I was keen to stretch them like a cat. We strolled toward the river, Sister Caroline regaling me with stories of her musical proclivities and Mother Superior's take on them.
As we wandered, I caught the site of a group of travelling Otters. One, a spats wearing fellow, with lush whiskers and a trilby placed jauntily on its head, broke into song as the bass playing Voles hit home, in what seemed like eight-four or six-time, elf-time. Whatever, it was wonderful.
"Jive my monkey.
Live for the Lucy.
Spider up and gambol,
You the lamb, the crown green cymbal.
Yip the yow. The fourgrain old style?"
And with a "JAWOOOOOOOL", the set was over.
I strode over to this feral frolic machine. "I am Norton Parkway, and I am going to make you a star."
"I am, yea verily, a star already you cuckoo clock, you pango. You full jar of jam. I will have no more of this, you bowling ball."
I left, a flea in my ears but knowing that I would be back to hear more and to pursue this further. This Otter had spirit, a spirit that was all full time, swing time, moon chime, oatmeal, syncopated, JAZZ.
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