Ironbridge Tales from a Bag of Bones
Sitting on the riverbank with Stephen King
“I climbed the ladder to the float, wet and dripping, preceded by my engorged sex — is there anything, I wonder, so unintentionally comic as a sexually aroused man? Jo stood on the boards in her wet bathing suit. I pulled Mattie into bed with me. I opened the door to Jo’s studio. All of these things happened at the same time, weaving in and out of each other like strands of some exotic rope or belt. The thing with Jo felt the most like a dream, the thing in the studio, me crossing the floor and looking down at my old green IBM, the least. Mattie in the north bedroom was somewhere in between.
On the float Jo said “Do what you want”. In the north bedroom Mattie said “Do what you want”. In the studio, no-one had to tell me anything. In there I knew exactly what I wanted.
On the float I bent my head and put my mouth on one of Jo’s breasts and sucked the cloth-covered nipple into my mouth. I tasted damp fabric and dank lake. She reached for me when I stuck out and I slapped her hand away. If she touched me I would come at once. I sucked, drinking back trickles of cotton-water, groping with my own hands, first caressing her ass and then yanking down the bottom half of her suit. I got it off her and she dropped to her knees. I did too, finally getting rid of my wet, clinging underpants and tossing them on top of her bikini panty. We faced each other that way, me naked, her almost.
“Who was the guy at the game?” I panted. “Who was he, Jo?”.
“No-one in particular, Irish. Just another bag of bones”.
Bag of Bones (1998) by Stephen King
Life comes to a beautiful full stop when in Ironbridge. The quarterly, half-hourly and hourly chimes of freedom may ring out from St Luke’s and the church high atop a hill, but the full stop remains firmly in place and time, that intangible thief on a moonlit night, continues to ride the ripple of the river that flows through this toy town but on sunny days such as these, time becomes as inconsequential as the life you leave behind when entering this unreal reality of a living monument to a history of yesteryear. “Stephen’s Bench”, located on a square viewing platform almost within touching distance of the “Grand Old Lady” and the oldest known iron bridge in the entire world, was pleasingly unoccupied for large swathes of the past two days and so this old bag of bones, armed with a Stephen King novel and a head full of wistful dreams, did what he does best these days, these and the best of his days really, he took up residence, marvelled at a beautiful bridge gleaming in the sun, did some people watching, smiled at excited tourists catching perhaps their first glimpses of the grandest and oldest iron lady of all, and sizzled his English white skin into a reddish and now very pleasing shade of chocolate brown.
Yesterday’s and Today’s. Today’s and Tomorrow’s. Such trivial titles have no relevance should you ever be lucky enough to be in Ironbridge on sunny days such as these. Today was a later affair and after a meeting with a stranger to discuss strange and complicated matters of an existential strangeness best kept to oneself. We were halfway through an awkward exchange that comes with the territory of such social strangeness when it transpired that we both hail from the same city. Two strangers two hundred miles away from home on the highway of life and although a generation apart, we would have, in another time and another place, lived mere streets away from each other. The mood lightened, I made him smile with a Quentin Tarantino joke before going in for the Kill Bill and asserting I dropped my home city accent as it was as ugly and uncouth as the current town I reside in, and a town that clings to Ironbridge like Kate Winslet clinging to a piece of the Titanic. They’ll never let it go but if the roles were reversed, Ironbridge would drop my new home town quicker than you could say Leonardo DiCaprio.
Ah, we all have life rafts and pieces of driftwood we cling to I guess and that’s three song titles I’ve dropped into this rambling musing already and I’ve tangentially veered into movie territory too when I had planned to continue my tale today of moving from Stephen’s Bench (copyright pending) and after a brief paddle in the river by the rowing club I settled myself on an altogether different bench and put down my bag of bones every time a dog came hurtling from the nearby woods to throw themselves into the river. That particular joy will never leave me. Here comes the dog, newly released from his or her lead and full tilt into the river, scattering ducks hither and thither and today we had the spectacle of a black and white sheepdog playing submarines with only his or her head visible above the water line, patiently waiting (and waiting) for their elderly owner to arrive. Ball thrown. Ducks scattered. Ball retrieved. Back into the river. Back into submarine mode. A treat and a pleasure for any bag of bones to enjoy.
When all my troubles seemed so far away, yesterday was a return to Stephen’s Bench (copyright still pending) and an elongated day of people watching and eating far too many Army and Navy (aniseed sweets) and the rather more fruity delights that are Rhubarb and Custard, a particular favourite from the “Old Fashioned Sweet Shop” and the smallest emporium of floor to ceiling sweets of yesteryear this side of the sun. Jeremy the genial owner and friend and confidant of over a decade now could see I had a thousand things to say and only one troubled mind from which to unleash them. Luckily for all concerned I didn’t, deciding instead to bask in the company of my old friend and complimenting the young artist I watched earlier sketching an outline of the iron bridge in her notepad. I couldn’t resist leaving aside my bag of bones to watch her as she etched a pencil memory of a holiday in the sun of Ironbridge, daydreaming the day away and blissfully unaware of the man in the Radiohead t-shirt watching an artist at work. This beautiful interlude came after three separate touring parties descended on the viewing platform with the best seat in the house with first a German (or maybe Dutch) party all eager for their group photo with the Grand Old Lady, then a very excitable gaggle of Japanese tourists (“A-B-C-SMILE!) and then, the largest and most cosmopolitan party of all led by an Englishman with a Madonna style microphone as he extolled the virtues and history of the old lady gleaming and shining in the mid-day sunshine. I rather hoped that he’d break out into song, “Papa Don’t Preach” perhaps or the jaunty swagger of “Vogue”. But that was clearly a Borderline he wasn’t prepared to cross, and now I’ve inserted at least a lucky seven song titles into this musing and when you’ve checked each and every one off on your bingo card, please let me know, and I’ll be sure to send you your prize, labelled with love.
Tomorrow? Tomorrow never knows. Or perhaps she does. Who knows?
All I do know is that I only come alive, truly alive, when I’m in Ironbridge.
And I miss the old girl with all my heart when I’m not there.
Thanks for reading. Here are some more Ironbridge tales from last summer and all wrapped up in 170+ of the finest pages known to man or woman, free to read on Kindle Unlimited, but reasonably priced and a pip and a dandy in paperback and hardback:
"My Ironbridge Summer" - link to Amazon
Very good prose. I felt like I was right there on the bench with you, soaking up the sun and watching that submarine dog do its thing. Ironbridge sounds like a proper escape.