Born Under Punches by Martyn Waites Page A

tortoiseshells. Energy fizzed, focused down his arms. Fingers fed the machine. Black Uhuru on the stereo: ‘What Is Life?’. This is life, thought Larkin. Life like it should be. Like it shouldn’t be. Like it is.
    Thatcher and her boot boys are trying to change today into tomorrow using hatred and fear. And we have to fight back. Or we’ll lose more than a strike.
    Ping. Paragraph over. He batted the carriage to the next line, stretched, looked out of the window.
    Argument halted.
    He was on the first floor, his table/desk in the bay affording him a view of the street. Down below, the inhabitants of Fenham were going about their day, their lives. An ordinary, urban street in Newcastle. Real lives, real people. The view energized Larkin.
    He had it and he knew it. The heat of an impassioned, subjective heart wrapped around an objective, chip-of-ice core. A writer’s heart. And he knew how to use it.
    He sighed, flexed his fingers. His mind and gaze returned to the work in front of him. His fingers soon followed.
    Argument resumed.
    The record ended; he didn’t get up to change it. The room was alive with the angry staccato of the typewriter, back-grounded by the electrostatic hum of the stereo.
    Sound of a door opening and closing downstairs. Footsteps on the stairs. The flat door opened. Larkin raised his arm in greeting, kept typing with the other.
    â€˜â€™Lo,’ he shouted distractedly, not turning round.
    A sigh behind him, a bag being placed down, someone moving towards him.
    Charlotte swung her head round in front of his, coming between Larkin and the typewriter, her hair falling, covering the words.
    â€˜Kiss, please,’ she demanded poutily. ‘Attention, please. Charlotte’s had a busy day.’
    Larkin tried to hide his irritation at being interrupted, bent forward and kissed her on the lips. She opened her mouth, sliding her tongue into his. Larkin tried not to respond but, work or no work, he had to kiss her back.
    Her mouth was warm, soft and yielding. Her tongue insistent. She smelt of Poison. He began to feel a heat slowly building inside him. Charlotte sensed this and pulled away. She smiled. There was a note of triumph in the smile: I’ve managed to come between Stephen Larkin and his precious work.
    â€˜Don’t want you too distracted,’ she said, straightening up. ‘We’re going out tonight, remember?’
    â€˜I’ve got this to finish,’ Larkin replied, slightly annoyed at allowing himself to be interrupted, piqued that Charlotte had scored a pyrrhic point. ‘Then I’ve got to drop it off with Bob tonight.’
    Her voice rose a little. ‘But we’re meeting Claire and David. Francesca’s at eight, remember?’
    Larkin had remembered. Claire and David. She, a pretty, vacant airhead from a gormlessly moneyed family, he a maliciously snide Thatcherite whom Larkin had often threatened to deck after a few pints. He dismissed her, he hated him. Law students, trainee barristers. No wonder the country was so fucked up, he thought.
    â€˜Yeah, I know,’ he said.
    Charlotte looked at him. ‘Look, I know you don’t get on with David. He just likes to wind people up. Take no notice. It’s just his way.’
    â€˜Yeah.’
    â€˜Try to like them, please, Stephen. They are my friends.’
    â€˜Yeah.’ The typewriter began to clack again. ‘Well, I’ve got this to finish first, then I’ve got to drop it off. Then we’ll meet them.’
    â€˜But that’ll make us late!’
    Larkin stopped writing, turned to face her. ‘This is my work, Charlotte. This is what I do for a living.’
    â€˜This piece isn’t even going to be published.’
    â€˜No, but if they like this then I’m in. I’ve got a mainstream audience.’ He looked at her straight in the eye. ‘And they’re paying me for it.’
    She held his gaze for a second, then exited