etticut nostalgia

ETTiCUT ISSUE 3-NOSTALGIA 11/09

NOST ALGIC

Contents emma parry

p4

SAm srushton

p16

Mark Whitford

p20

aaron gilles

p20

Tracey hollowood

p28

that old chestnut rachel barker chris russon

p34 p34 p38

editing/designing/curation by matthew macro

Emma Parry

Homecoming King A DVD of Pulp Fiction was in the machine, playing John Travolta being shot to death on a seventeen inch television. A hazy smog of tobacco smoke snaked through the damp air, occasionally flitting across a white knife of sunlight between damp curtains like at grandma’s. Two old friends sat on a couch, broken and smelly with sleep. “What time is it?” said one of them. The other didn’t respond. Every movement caused vomiting, the effort of thought drew him out into a sweat. They sat in silence for a while as the movie rolled on.

Once it had finished the healthier of the two got up, pressed play and started again, knocking over half a can of forgotten, stale lager. Both stared as it dribbled out onto the carpet, the brown liquid resembling an image of the Virgin Mary before fading out and being lost in the sea of similar brown stains resembling something or nothing. It was a Sunday.

Another two revolutions of the disc had made them both hungry enough to go outside into the dusk, sun setting like it did every day. They walked around for a while, most places had closed. “I think...I’ll head home now.”

“Really?”

“There might be something there.”

“Alright. In a bit.”

He walked away, head heavy and two aspirins bleeding his stomach. A silent bus journey of staring at his reflection on the window made him feel a little better, but not by much.

Quiet men and women huffed off slowly in bunches, the winter air slapping in at every stop until he was eventually back home. Stepping off, he watched the box of lights and beige metal roll over the road and away, heading East. All the leaves were dead. Bins overflowed with wrappers, delicate plastic bags holding lumps of fudge and other stuff nobody needed. A flaccid black and yellow banana peel oozed slowly out, which he watched as he rolled a cig and pinched it off at the middle. He snorted, smiling softly. He hadn’t been home for a while, but it hadn’t changed. The pub was still open and empty, the trees still stood, the occasional dog walker shuffled around looking at nothing, most of the time with no dog at all. It was a dead end, but it made him happy. Like an old ex-girlfriend or an old pair of shoes, there was a certain comfort into squelching around in either of them.

Familiar.

He took a couple of drags on his cigarette, taking his time in getting back. No rush. Pavements that he had drawn on in chalk or smashed bottles hadn’t been replaced for years.

Every generation must have done the same and still would do. One, two, three houses, a ginnel, down the path and under the sycamore trees, up two streets, home. A terrace like any of the others, though he knew this one the best.

The key slid in the door as familiar as ever, though upon entering he realized things had changed. A fridge covered in magnets, a lick of paint, a new bulb. That wasn’t it either.

He wondered for a moment if he had gone into the wrong house, it had a new smell. He paused at the doorway, his brain spinning. “Uh...” he said quietly. “Hello?” he called out.

Television sounds in the other room went quiet. “Hello?” called somebody else. “Uh...

Hello? Uh...” he called, face flushing. Ready to run. He heard a bit of whispering then a short man appeared at the door, frowning. “What are you doing in my house mate?” he said, coming across as intimidating and confused. “This is...your house?” he said, checking the number on the front door. “Who are you?”

“Trev...I’m sorry mate, do you mind stepping outside?” said Trev. He nodded, not really sure what he was doing. “Where’s my mum?” he said. Trev now just looked embarrassed.

“Oh. Sorry, we’ve had this house a while now. Not sure who lived in it before.” Trev was joined by a woman, looking over her husbands shoulder. “Who’s he?” she whispered loudly. “I lived here before, sorry. Sorry. It’s just a bit of a shock. Did they leave any uh... contact details or anything?”

“No mate, sorry.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Don’t you have a number for her, anybody else?”

“No, she didn’t like phones. And my sister’s not old enough. It’s alright.”

He started to panic, not really knowing what he was doing or saying, stepping back from the house. “We could ring the police or something if you want? Make you a brew?” said Trev. He shook his head and set off walking away. Trev called out to him a few more times then went back inside. He didn’t know what to do. Nobody did really. It was an awkward situation.

He walked back across the pavements he had drawn on and broke bottles on. He’d have to get a bus back now, he thought. Down two streets, up the path, ginnel, where he stopped for a moment in the dark. The pub sounded tempting but he only had his bus fare and five pence. Tears welled up in his eyes as his mind raced, where had his family gone, why hadn’t they told him, where could he go. All of his old friends had moved away. One or two had died. The comfort he had felt was forgotten, the place was alien, hostile. Letting a few tears dribble down his face, he wiped them with a sleeve and set off walking again, reaching into his pocket to finish the other half of the cigarette. As he focused on tapping the last of his dry tobacco into a rizla, he skidded along the floor, heart racing, neck yanked back, half a fag flying in the air. Putting all of his weight on his ankle, he felt something give as he hit the floor. Head swimming with pain, he looked behind on what he had slipped on. A banana peel. He screamed.

Words and illustration by Sam Rushton

Whitford and Gilles

Tracey Hollowood

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