wallflowers

wallflowers

 

fifty pairs of peacock eyes scoped Shirley

in a fire-red and antique-gold taffeta skirt

break cover from the wallflower ranks,

skipping from the girls’ side of the Palais

to the boys’

 

dappled by the dance hall glitter-ball,

Shirley became the object of desire

of a hundred obscure gazing eyes

 

the lads stood in a cloud of testosterone,

Old Spice, Brylcreem and Mum Roll-On

a straggle of Burton dummies swaying

like washing on a summer breeze line

 

Marlboro or Camels smoked to look cool,

were crushed underfoot or

docked behind ears for later

backs straightened, chests inflated

 

who would she offer her hand to jive

to Norrie Paramor and his Orchestra, live?

 

‘please God, let her pick me’

 

God was busy elsewhere.

Shirley chose another -

no change there

 

I grabbed a table, re-lit my Camel,

sneaking glimpses of Shirley’s knickers

as her skirt swirled

and her legs swung wide and high

before her thighs squeezed

her partner’s hips

and wished those hips were mine

 

when Norrie slid into the smoocher

Shirley came straight over,

pressed tight against him -

the same guy as before

 

she shut her eyes as

blissed in a clinch

they cheek-to-cheeked

 

the jammy bastard in her arms

with ‘right to roam’ the taffeta

winked at envious mates

making the most of it

 

they left the Palais hand in hand

just before

the National Anthem dash for the door

 

I followed close behind

 

that fascinating fastening pimpling

the back of Shirley’s blouse

should have been mine to fumble 

after we crept inside her house

and swigged her mum’s gin

topping the bottle with water

to the red ink marker

and crushed together

hot, sticky, panting,

on the living room

cut-moquette sofa.

 

but they took the last bus together

she leaned her head on his shoulder

 

I watched over summers

her belly swelling with child

and swelling again

 

I watched winter after winter

Shirley trudging shuttered-shop streets

her pushchair buckling under carrier bags and kids

 

I watched at the school gates

her eyes raw from crying or

blacked from ‘falling downstairs’

or ‘tripping over kerbs’

 

we never shared a word

 

through the window of “Smell the Roses,”

buying a Valentine’s Day bouquet,

a last-ditch try to save my marriage - do or die

Shirley was just a pavement away

                            

‘bugger the wife.’

 

I handed Shirley the small bouquet

she shook her head,

and walked, dejected, away

 

the flowers lit up my room instead

 

over time the water greened,

the petals turned parchment, drooped

and fluttered onto the growing pile

of invoices ‘pending’ in the hearth

 

‘Pathway Ward’ has a peculiar odour,

a blend of Dettol and flowers – hers,

and a délicatesse of urine – mostly mine

 

our families visit,

I wish they wouldn’t

they bring their children,

 

the brats finger the stents

poking in our parchment skin

make too much noise

with all the brawling

 

I don’t recall their names

except for a Tommy or is it Timmy?

they’re all the same to me

 

I watched nurses curtain Shirley’s bed

I waved - a final flutter

                                  

perhaps she fluttered back,

perhaps she nodded

 

the screens opened.

a cleaner busied in

 

Shirley’s personals,

grapes, wallflowers

pink slippers, dressing gown,

unopened Lucozade 

 

were trolleyed away, 

and the bed remade.