Diagnosis – Bodies in a Window – Paperback/Kindle

Posted on by Opher

I drew on a number of incidents and people from my own life experience to compose this novel. It was cathartic. I was standing at the side of my dead father looking out the window.

Excerpt – Bodies in a Window 

Dad drove me in to the appointment in his flash blue Hillman Hunter car. I call it a flash car only because it was a damn sight newer and more expensive than my pile of rust. It was only two years old and he was very proud of it. He’d only just got it. In reality there was nothing special about it. It was a middle of the road saloon – a Hillman Hunter for fuck’s sake. But it was the best car dad had ever owned. He loved it. It was his pride and joy. I just wish he had managed to buy the thing earlier when he might have got a bit more use out of it. Trust him to start getting things together when he was about to fucking check out of the game!

On the day of the specialist appointment he drove that car like he had something to prove. I was glad we had seat belts in the front, my heap of rust didn’t. He drove fast. At one point a car pulled out of a side road in front of us. Did he brake? Did he brake fuck. He went straight round the back of it without slowing and with tyres squealing. Nice manoeuvre – unless some bastard was coming up behind the fool who’d pulled out. Maybe sitting on a death sentence made you a bit more cavalier with your life, though the bastard might have shown a bit more care and consideration towards me. I was planning on hanging around for a while to come. We lived and we somehow arrived at the hospital in one piece.

We sat in the waiting room and made small talk about football and cricket. Botham was the man of the moment. Dad talked about all of that incessantly. He was avoiding talking about his illness. Any distraction would do. He really did not want to confront dying. We assiduously skirted around it. I knew that if I hadn’t been there he wouldn’t have gone for that appointment. I was sure of that. But I got him there and he was going along with it.

Unlike that bastard of a doctor the specialist examined him thoroughly. Sent him for X-rays, took bloods and set us out in the corridor waiting again.

We were both quiet then. I looked out the window at all the people going past. I was deep into thinking. Those people out there all had dreams and aspirations just like me. Their lives were full. I could picture what some of their lives were like. I could even identify with some of them. I could fit in their shoes.

Dad just sat quietly, deep in thought.

Eventually we were ushered back in. The specialist had the X-Rays up on the screen. He did not bother explaining them to us. I could see the dark patches myself. I was a biologist. I knew the score. The specialist had everything he needed to know. The X-rays confirmed his suspicions. He pulled no punches. He sat us down and looked at both of us with a very serious face. I felt sorry for the guy. He must have to do this every fucking day. It was no fun telling people that they were dying. It had to take it out of you.

‘I’m sorry Mr Cooper you have inoperable liver cancer’.

Bodies in a Window: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781986269544: Books

Bodies in a Window – Paperback/kindle

Posted on by Opher

Well, I missed out the really sexual part of the girls. That was based on a real account but I thought it was far too explicit for a blog. I’d probably get banned.

I’ve skipped on to a different character. The novel is a mosaic that all comes together. I am standing at the side of mt dead father.

Excerpt – Bodies in a Window Paperback

I was brought up Catholic. It’s all I know. I go to church every Sunday without fail. When my girls were at home I made sure they went and had confession every week. I have brought them up properly. My Bill isn’t a Catholic. He doesn’t go to church. I don’t really know what he believes in. We never talk about it. He is not the type of man you have conversations with let alone talk about God, for sure. He’s a good man and that is good enough for me and it’ll have to be good enough for God too, or I’ll want to know why. My Bill is a simple man. He’s not one for thinking, or praying, come to that. He is a groundsman and is very handy with his hands. Bill is very loyal and quiet. He’s not one for telling you what’s on his mind. He spends most of his free time out in the garden on his own. We have a lot of garden with many hedges, vegetables and flower beds. He does a really good job. We might not be the wealthiest on the estate, in fact we are among the poorest, but we do have the best gardens of anyone. Bill ensures that. He’s at one with nature and I believe that is where you’ll find God.

I take people as I find them. I don’t care who they are, rich or poor, Christian or Jew, I treat them the same. Our next door neighbours are Jewish and they are fine people no matter what our priest says about the Jews. He’s a dappy sod anyway, that old priest. I think he’s a man who is too fond of the booze with his big red nose. At the blood of Jesus a bit too much if you ask me. I’ve never known anyone as stingy with the confessional wine. I think he begrudges every drop. He told me that God forbids contraception and that the Jews killed Jesus. Well I told him straight that our next door neighbours haven’t killed as much as a fly and that six girls is quite enough for anyone. I’m friends with them, Jews or no Jews, and from now on my Bill wears a hood. He didn’t like it much but he soon shut up and got used to it. I’m one for straight speaking. No priest was going to lay the law down to me. He could see my mind was made up. I saw what having twelve kiddies did to my old ma. I don’t wish that on anyone. God wouldn’t want that. I go to confession and do my penances. I reckon I’ll be alright with God when my time comes.

I’m friends with Madge too. She’s one of the few I have any time for round here. She’s like me – has no time for all this pretence and putting on airs. She calls a spade a spade and I like that. You know where you stand with someone like that for sure. Not like with most of the silly sods on this estate. They are all trying to be something they’re not. My priest tells me I shouldn’t consort with her either. Madge is a spiritualist. I don’t hold with all that mumbo jumbo spiritualist stuff myself – talking to the dead sounds peculiar enough to me. My priest says that it’s the devil’s work. Well that’s rubbish too. I just think it’s daft but I don’t think there’s any harm in it. Madge tries talking to her poor mum who passed away. If that helps her come to terms with missing her poor old mum then that is OK with me. Besides, it’s no difference to what the Pope and the Cardinals do when they have their holy communion. As far as I’m concerned she can do what she likes. It’s no business of mine what other people believe. Madge is a down to earth woman. She’s not evil. There’s no harm in wanting to speak to yer ma, is there? That priest of mine talks out of his arse sometimes. Don’t the Pope and all those bishops hold séances? They talk to the dead. What’s the difference? I think he consumes too much of that communion wine myself. I’ve never seen a man with such a red nose. I don’t hold with this spiritualism, and talking to the dead myself but I don’t see how it can be evil to want to talk to your old mammy. There’s not an evil bone in Madge. She’d do anything for you. That’s the proof of the pudding for me.

As far as I’m concerned a person gets on with their own life and leaves others to get on with theirs. If everybody in the world did the same thing we wouldn’t be having all this trouble. That’s my honest view and I tell that to the priest. There’s good and bad sorts everywhere. The Catholic Church hasn’t got a monopoly on goodness. There’s good and bad everywhere. He’s at a loss. He doesn’t know what to say to me, for sure. But I’m like Madge – I call it as I see it.

Bodies in a Window: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781986269544: Books

Bodies in a Window – The Diagnosis -Paperback/Kindle

Posted on by Opher

One look was all it took. He was dying. My novel flits back and forth – living, dying, old age, youth, sex, meaning, futility, hope, anger, rage, acceptance. Everything is there.

Now I’m standing next to the dead body of my father looking out the window:

Excerpt – Bodies in a Window 

There was no point in talking to him on the phone. He lied. According to him everything was hunky dory. He just had a stomach upset. The doctor had given him some antacids that would sort it out. No problem.

Except there was a problem – a big fucking problem. My old man was busy dying.

The guy was in denial. At least that was how it seemed to me. He did not want to face up to it. I’m sure he understood what was going on – he just refused to admit it to himself. His way of dealing with his impending death was to pretend that it wasn’t happening. And that fucking doctor wanted shooting. Regardless of what my old man thought he should have been on the ball and at least made an effort to see if anything could be done. That was his job!

I was fucking fuming.

I think I knew what the diagnosis was the minute I walked in and saw him. Any fool could see. He was seriously ill.

Fucking imbecile. There were things that could have been done. He’d written himself off. Burying his fucking head in the sand. Selfish bastard

I was furious with him – furious with the system that allowed it to happen and doubly furious with the sorry excuse for a doctor. I was furious with myself too. I should have become involved sooner. I should have noticed way back at Christmas. Perhaps if it had been caught earlier? But why hadn’t the fucking doctor done something? It didn’t take a genius to know something was wrong. That guy needed shooting and no two ways about it.

There was nothing for it but to head off down the long haul all the way down to see him every weekend. I had to do whatever I could. I just hoped my little Morris Minor would stand up to the pounding. I couldn’t take time off work, so it had to be weekends. I’d have to muddle through and do it. It meant heading off after work on Friday and heading back Sunday night. It was a good five to six hours by car, with a clear run. But there was no choice. I had to put the family on hold and do it. Who knows – perhaps it wasn’t too late? Perhaps there was something that could be done? They worked miracles these days.

Amazingly, somehow the guy was still dragging himself into work every day. He hadn’t missed a single fucking day. He’d worked up in Fleet Street all his life and only ever had a handful of days off in the entire time he’s worked there. He had to be at death’s door not to go in. But this was different. He was at death’s door. He didn’t have anything as mundane as fucking flu – no – this was no ordinary flu – no upset stomach, no common or garden illness. Something was seriously wrong. You didn’t have to be a medical expert to see that. They must have known that where he worked. You’d have to be blind not to notice. The man was an absolute wreck.

I took a few days off to take him in hand. I could see that his bosses were nor worried about his health – just as long as he reported in and did the job they were content. They’d allow him to work his way into the grave. They didn’t give a shit about him – but his doctor should have known better – That kept coming back to haunt me – the medical practitioner must have been having some kind of joke. And he called himself a doctor? In my view he needed a good kicking. You only had to look at the guy to see there was something incredibly wrong. Antfuckingacids my arse! That poor excuse for a doctor was seriously out of order. I wanted action and I wanted it right now! He should have got those wheels rolling long ago. Someone had to do something about it and as there was nobody else that someone had to be me.

I went in. I took the old man with me. I needed to make some kind of impression on him too. He wasn’t facing up to things. It wasn’t fair. He was being selfish.

We had quite a scene in the doctor’s surgery. I blew my top. I wanted a proper diagnosis. I wanted a specialist and I wanted him right now! I wanted action and I wouldn’t take no for an answer. I was ready to punch the guy’s lights out. I think he got the message.

Dad didn’t seem at all embarrassed about my outburst. It blew over him like a dimly noticed breeze. He was very non-committal through the whole business. Nothing registered. He allowed me to guide him here and there to the surgery and just stood there while I harangued the feeble excuse for a medical practitioner keeping himself aloof from what was being said as if it wasn’t about him at all. He stood there blankly – not seeming to register what was going on. At work he was on the ball and in command but now he stood around like a bloody nincompoop not understanding what was going on. Some act. It was as if he put his brain in park.

It hadn’t been easy getting an appointment at that surgery. In the end I thought the best policy was to simply turn up. I was in no mood for shilly-shallying around. After a number of angry exchanges at the receptionist’s window, that upset the festering routine of the stuffy waiting room with patients craning their necks to catch what it was about, they didn’t often get entertainment like this in this part of the world, the family doctor had finally deigned to accept that there might be more of a problem than he had previously thought and agreed to see him. He really did not want a scene in the waiting room. It had nothing to do with the state my dad was in, in any way impacting on his conscience. He was not amused by the scene I had made and he let me know it by the way he petulantly examined my old man while I was standing there watching. He did it right in front of me, in a perfunctory way – like he didn’t have the time to devote any more than was absolutely necessary, as if my old man, who was a damn important guy in London, who ran a whole office and kept down an exacting job, was nothing more than an inconvenience, a piece of shit. There was not even the pretence of a proper examination or any show of remorse over his laxity. I had forced his hand and he felt put upon.

I suppose, to be fair, one look at dad told him everything he needed to know. But what irked me was that the guy did not seem interested. My old man was dying and he was almost infuriatingly offhand and dad just let him be like that without protest. This was someone’s life and he did not seem to give a toss. His whole manner stank. Everything he did was infuriating. After a cursory prod around of his swollen stomach and a peer into his yellowy eyes and red throat he pronounced his liver was swollen and asked him if he drank a lot. He didn’t. The guy was almost teetotal. I went ape-shit. Why hadn’t the dipstick done all this three months ago? I was worse than furious by now – I was steaming. It was obvious that the stupid man had simply written him off from the beginning. He didn’t care and still didn’t. My outburst was brushed aside. He wrote up his notes and dismissed us with an expressionless gesture as if we were of no consequence. There was nothing he could or would do. He’d send his report to dad’s specialist. Thank you – goodbye.

I was beside myself with pent up rage. I’m not sure how I managed to control myself. The only saving grace was that the lazy quack of a doctor agreed to organise a specialist appointment and that he’d assured us he would try to get one organised as quickly as possible. I think that was the only thing that prevented me from punching the supercilious prat right on the nose and strangling him to death in front of the receptionist – though from the look on her face she would have cheered me along, all the way.

I thought we were in for a long wait but miraculously there was a cancelled appointment the very next day. The receptionist rang up to inform us. Who the fuck cancels an appointment like that? – A life or death appointment? I figured someone had died before they got there. That’s how fucked up the system was. Unless you made a fuss and pushed it for all you were worth you got nowhere and dad had simply not pushed it at all. Consequently he’d been treated like shit. But then secretly I reckoned it was the receptionist that had pulled the strings. She obviously didn’t like her boss – Mr Sugballs, and had taken to us. It seemed to me that she liked the way I went for the bastard. I believe those receptionists have a secret cabal that operates behind the scenes. I wouldn’t give that shit of a doctor the slightest credit. Left to him we’d still be waiting for that appointment long after Dad had gone.

Looking back now I could see that dad knew all along. He just didn’t want to think about it, confront it or have to deal with it. He was probably pissed off that I had got myself involved. In his mind it would take its course and he’d go with the flow. In a strange way he had come to terms with it quicker than any of us. He allowed me to go through the motions but he already knew where this was heading. He had probably hoped that he could quietly go down without anyone being any the wiser or getting involved. Silly twat.

Bodies in a Window: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781986269544: Books

First Date – Bodies in a Window Paperback/Kindle

Posted on by Opher

This is very much based on autobiography. I am standing in the hospital room with my dead father looking out the window. Partially it it my own life. Partly it is the people walking past. We knit together.

Excerpt – Bodies in a Window

So for our first date I invited Jenny to this party. We were going as a foursome. I was bringing my friend Rich and she was bringing her friend Pat. Rich was not so much into Kerouac and poetry but he liked good music and knew what was happening. He was a good guy to have on board. We always seemed to find the hip joints and he always found the best bands. I was much too disorganised to do that on my own. I needed Rich to organise me. Rich was hip in his own way, different to me but he certainly knew where it was at.

I’d been at school with Rich. He had been the coolest cat in class. His hair was greased back with a big quiff that was so long it could reach his chin. Right from early on he had liked all the good loud Rock Music, Little Richard and Eddie Cochran. I bought that Eddie Cochran Memorial album off him, and had this cool motor scooter that he’d adapted. He’d taken all the fairing off and lowered the seat by taking away the petrol tank. He’d replaced that with a motorbike tank. Then he’d put these great ape-hanger handlebars on. It was so groovy. Everybody looked up when he rode it through town. It was a real girl magnet. They loved drooping themselves on it, hanging off the back. He was always popular. Rich was a good guy to have around.

The other thing about Rich was that he had well-off parents and was the first of us to get a car. He taught me how to drive. At least he sat there in the front of the car drinking beer while I drove. We just went off for hours driving aimlessly through the countryside. Whenever I asked him which way he’d say – straight on – it’s always straight on. We always got somewhere and found our way back home.

Rich was cool.

The party was a wash-out though. It was as dead as a doornail and Pat and Rich didn’t seem to be hitting it off too well either. It looked like the evening was turning into a disaster. We were sitting around in the gloom rather despondently wondering what to do. It was time to head out of there and nobody had any idea of somewhere better. It was beginning to look as if the pub might be the best option.

To my surprise Jenny announced that her parents were away and she had the house to herself. We could go round there. It sounded a bit too good to be true. I really fancied her and the idea of getting her alone was great. It sounded to me as if we might be up for some action.

We hustled up some beers from the offy and were out of there like a shot. Rich had his foot right down to the floor.

It didn’t quite pan out like I imagined. Back at her place, things went a bit pear-shaped, we sat around talking and drinking beer and having a laugh but somehow it did not develop into any raving sex scene, mainly, looking back, because Pat really did not fancy Rich one bit. Weirdly we found ourselves sitting around bemused while Jenny played the piano to us. Pat read us some French poetry – Baudelaire and Rimbaud – quite cool stuff but all too intellectual and intense the way that Pat delivered it. I was intrigued but Rich was bored to tears. He wanted some action. I did too. I only had eyes for Jenny.

Jenny and I had a little snog before the end of the evening but that’s as far as it went. It was obvious that Pat wasn’t interested in Rich and that put a down on the whole thing developing any further. Rich was not sophisticated enough for her tastes. I wasn’t either by all accounts. She’d made that quite clear to Jenny the next day. To her eyes I was as uncouth as Rich. Though that didn’t come out until later and didn’t seem to put Jenny off me. We seemed to hit it off. I don’t think anything would have made any difference to that. It was visceral.

In some ways, many ways, it was a boring evening but strangely I didn’t find it so. I was besotted with Jenny. Just being around her was good enough for me. Sex was a bonus but did not seem anywhere near as important as usual. When I got home, with Rich’s grumbling in my ear, I was buzzing with Jenny. I’d spent the evening with her and she’d agreed to see me again. What could possibly be better?

Bodies in a Window: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781986269544: Books

Illness – Bodies in a Window

Posted on by Opher

Writing about my Dad’s illness was hard but cathartic. Using his illness and death as a backbone to this novel gave me an opportunity to rationalise and come to terms with it. It messed me up for a long while. He was far too young. I was angry. It puts life in perspective.

Bodies in a Window

It was Auntie Di who first alerted me to what was going on with Dad. She rang me up. I was at the other end of the country. I didn’t get to see him too often but I rang him up every week and he sounded fine. He’d come up for Christmas and he’d seemed OK. I let him carve the turkey. He didn’t have much of an appetite though and left most of his Christmas dinner. That wasn’t like him at all – but I didn’t think anything of it at the time. He was just a bit off colour.

Have you seen your dad lately? Auntie Di asked ominously.

There was a lengthy pause while I ruminated on the import of what she’d just said.

Not since Christmas, I informed her hesitantly.

I think you should go down. He’s not well. She kept all emotion out of her voice and somehow that made it worse. It was what she was suppressing that came through loud and clear – something serious was up with Dad.

What’s wrong? I asked with a feeling of panic welling up in me. What was she telling me? For her to ring me up and say that meant that something bad was up.

I just think you should go and see him.

Dad had been complaining of being off his food and having an upset stomach. But it hadn’t stopped him going in to work. But that meant nothing – the man was a workaholic. He never took any time off work. He was a juggernaut. He went in even when he had flu.  I knew he’d been ill for some time now but was making very light of it to me – just an upset stomach. The doctor was sorting it. But Auntie Di wouldn’t have phoned unless there was something serious would she? I had this horrible sinking feeling.

I couldn’t wait for the weekend. I drove down as soon as I could. It was quite a journey – 250 miles in my old jalopy. It took me nearly six hours.

I could not believe my eyes when I got there. He’d withered away to nothing in three months. His suit hung off him. His cheeks were hollow. He was yellow. I’ve seen worse victims coming out of concentration camps. To say that I was shocked didn’t come close. But I tried to cover it up as best I could. I didn’t want him to see my reaction. I covered it up by giving him a big hug and averting my face.

Bodies in a Window: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781986269544: Books

The young idealistic me – Bodies in a Window

Posted on by Opher

I wanted to capture the naïve innocence of that age in the writing. I wanted the writing to be as juvenile as the person I was. This is me at eighteen in 1967. I was full of it. Somehow I fitted this into the patchwork of the novel. Nothing could go wrong yet here I was standing next to the corpse of my father.

Excerpt – Bodies in a Window

I was on a high. I was eighteen years old and the whole world had opened up for me. It was like waking up from a long sleep. I was seeing so much. I was free to do what I wanted. There was nobody telling me what to do or ordering me about. I was shining with the brilliance of it. I felt like all the forces in the universe were conspiring to come together in some great ecstatic wonder. It all made sense. Every day was new – a great new adventure.

I had just read The Dharma Bums. Finished it last night. It was brilliant. I thought it was even better than On The Road. I reckon it was Kerouac’s masterpiece. I rate Kerouac as the best writer in the world. He was a crazy mad genius. He’d summed it up. Life was a mad journey. You had to live it to the max, get your kicks and seek out the meaning in it. There was an underlying truth to everything. All you had to do was dig it out. It made sense to me. There was a vibration running through the universe that connected us all. There was poetry, music and madness. I knew what I wanted out of life. I also knew what I didn’t want. I didn’t want a boring career like my parents were pushing me towards. I wanted a big dollop of Kerouac’s craziness. That would do me fine.

My parents were all caught up in this mind-numbing, unreal trip. I wanted none of it. I looked at their humdrum life and thought it was all such a waste. It was all empty. I wanted something much more exciting and real. They wanted me to get into some heavy bread trip. Who was interested in that? That was like dying. You only had so much time in this life and I wanted my life full of wonder not working my arse off in some career to earn money to buy things and then being too knackered when you got home to do anything other than watch some vacuous rubbish on the telly. That was like being some boring zombie. I certainly didn’t want to become some boring zombie like all those deadheads on the estate. I wanted a lot more than that. I wanted to live and find out what it was all about – life, love, poetry and madness. I wanted some of that craziness that Kerouac wrote about. I wish I could have lived in the US back in the fifties. I would have loved that. He was a true pioneer. That would have been just great.

But anyway, I’ve found Kerouac – and Ginsberg, and Woody Guthrie, Bob Dylan and Roy Harper. There’s no end to it. I’ve finally woken up and come alive. The whole of life is a revelation. It feels like I’ve just woken up.

Not only that but I’ve met this girl and everything is great. I’m on a constant high. It never stops. Life is a buzz. There is a Zen to it. When you got it right it all came together. It is like all the currents in the universe are conspiring – a perfect moment. Marvellous.  It was certainly coming together for me right now.

I felt that I had it sussed. There was a vibe around and I was hooked into it. I could feel it. The music, poetry, beat stuff and now this girl. It was all in some perfect harmony. The world was a wonderful place once you got into the positive groove. I was riding the biggest wave and hooked right into that groove. Everything was coming together. Nothing could go wrong.

Bodies in a Window: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781986269544: Books

Bodies in a Window Paperback/Kindle

Posted on by Opher

Gave me quite a shock to read this. I haven’t read this book for many years. This new character was based on my Mum.

I am standing by a window at the side of my dead father looking out. I tried writing the different characters from varying perspectives.

excerpt – Bodies in a Window 

I don’t like it here. I never have done and I never will. I don’t fit in. I’m like a fish out of water. They are all a bunch of snobby gits. They put on their airs and graces – pretentious idiots. All they care about is showing off. They swank around like they’re the big ‘I am’.

It’s Jim’s fault. He wants to move up in the world. Still does. He thinks we should do better than our parents did. I can see that. I want my kids to have better opportunities than I did. Part of me says that we’re every bit as good as any of them. But it is one thing thinking it and quite another doing it. It feels so wrong to me – not how I was brought up. I wouldn’t mind the affluence of the estate but it’s the people. They all seem so false and unreal to me – plastic people living plastic lives. Jim thinks I’m daft. We scrimped and scraped to buy this bungalow. I love it as a house, don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing wrong with it as a home except that it’s just not me – well not so much the place as where it is, in the middle of this bunch. It’s not the bungalow that’s wrong as the people around on this bloody estate – the snobby gits. I was brought up among real people and I’m happy with people who are down to earth. I grew up in a community where people cared about each other, looked out for each other. People mattered – not things. This lot couldn’t care less about each other. They’d trample each other to death if they thought they could gain some advantage. They don’t care. I don’t want to fit in with them.

Here on this estate they’re out mowing the grass with straight lines, polishing the car and showing off with their dinner parties, golf and kids in boarding schools. Imagine having kids and even wanting to send them away to some bloody boarding school? What’s the point of having them in the first place if you want shot of them? It’s bloody peculiar, that’s what it is. I can’t stand it. They are so cold and selfish. They’re just not my sort and never will be.

The trouble is that I have no friends here, well, very few. There is Mrs O’Grady, but she’s a fish out of water just like me. The truth is that I don’t want to have friends here, leastways not with the likes of them. I’d rather be on my own. But Jim goes off to work each day and I’m all by myself. I’ve got nothing to occupy myself with. I’m not one for housework. It was fine when the kids were little and my mum was alive. She’d come round with the car and take us out for the day. We went everywhere. She’d knock on the door and shout through the letter box ‘come on open up. I know you’re in there.’ We’d come running. I’m lost without her. The kids loved her. But now she’s gone and the kids are at school and life seems empty. I don’t want to fit in and I’ve got far too much time on my hands.

So I’ve got my bike. I cycle everywhere. I cycle in to Kingston, up the big hill at Esher, to go to the cattle market. I used to take the kids there on the back of my bike. Can you imagine that? It’s a good way – a good seven or eight miles – but I don’t mind. It passes the time. The exercise is good for me. Cycling up that bloody hill you sure get enough exercise I can tell you. I used to be able to do that without stopping, even with the kids on the back. I can’t now. I have to stop and push it up the last bit – fair takes the wind out of me I can tell you.

I like my bargains. That’s why I like the market. I hunt out bargains. There’s plenty of reasonably priced stuff to be had there. Then on Saturdays I go round all the jumble sales. You can pick up stuff for next to nothing – good stuff too. I enjoy doing that. It stops me thinking about my mum. It fills in the time. I live for my bargains – and the kids of course.

Bodies in a Window: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781986269544: Books

Bodies in a Window – The young girl

Posted on by Opher

My new character was a difficult one – a young girl trying to find her way with boys and getting it very wrong.

I based this on a real experience as a Headteacher when the distraught father of a young girl came into school to tell me about what had happened and blaming the school for the boys’ attitudes.

It highlights misogyny, sexism, toxic masculinity and the difficulty of dealing with all those raging teenage hormones. Sexuality is so difficult to deal with. This is the introduction.

Excerpt – Bodies in a Window

I made it my business to keep in with Oz. Oz was the key to Doug. He wasn’t interested in me. I knew that. I was not up there in the A-list. To show the slightest interest in me would have been a black mark against him. That’s how the world works. He was always after chatting up the pretty girls and had no time for a chubby wretch like me. It didn’t worry me much. I wasn’t bothered about Oz that much either. But boys were not, as everybody assumed, only interested in sex; no – they were interested in other things too. They liked sport and fast cars for instance. It paid to know a bit about that – at least to offer an opinion. So I supported West Ham and made sure I knew everything about the players and scores. I’d become quite an expert. I don’t know if it impressed them or just accepted me as one of the lads and didn’t see me as a girl any more. But at least they knew who I was and talked to me. That’s better than being ignored. I could eulogise about all the goals and moves. They were well impressed. They were boring though, those boys. They would talk endlessly about sports cars they would own when they were older. That bored me to death but I happened to know a lot about sports cars. My dad had owned a few so I was able to express an opinion on makes and models. I came out with all the guff my old man kept gushing out about acceleration, gears and top speed. They were well impressed with that too. Not bad for a girl. I couldn’t really understand what there was about sports cars that was special, but they all wanted one. They wanted to look flash and thought that owning a fast car was what it was all about – that it would be good for pulling girls. They talked about that as if I wasn’t there, as if I wasn’t a girl. I suppose they are right. Lots of the girls are impressed with stuff like that. I probably will be when I’m older. But that was all still a long way off. I just associated sports cars with my old man. They left me cold. They were boring.

Doug was different to most of them though. He wasn’t interested in big red sports cars. He liked animals. He was cute. He kept guinea pigs and used to let us go round and help clean them out. I think I’ve always had a crush on him. He’s sweet.

One of the other things boys liked was booze. Oz and Doug both fell into that category and that was where I really came in. My dad and mum had an extensive drinks cabinet and did not miss the odd bottle or two. Not surprisingly they were very lax in that way too. Not only that, but I had plenty of pocket-money – quite enough to supply a lot of drinks. That was more than sufficient to keep Oz on side. He was easy. I knew exactly how to play him.

Doug was friendlier to me than Oz, a lot friendlier, but I knew the score. He was playing the same game as Oz. He was a player, and technically out of my league. He was nice to me though, but he kept his distance. Perhaps he was only interested in me and Les cleaning out his animals. But I didn’t mind. I liked the animals too. I didn’t mind cleaning them out and it got me close to Doug. I knew that he would never ask me out or even dance with me at parties, even when all the pretty girls were taken. Doug tended to go for the older girls – the ones with a bit of experience who would give him what he wanted. But he was nice though. He knew I fancied him rotten but didn’t put me down for it, or mock me like some of the other boys would have done. He was kind to me and that made me fancy him all the more. The dreams I had about him.

Bodies in a Window: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781986269544: Books

Another body – Bodies in a Window

Posted on by Opher

I am standing in the hospital next to my dead father, peering out the window.

Here is another body or two. I introduce another character. Can you glimpse where this is going?

Excerpt – Bodies in a Window

Joe and I are mates. We go back to the year dot – blood brothers. We were brought together as babies as we were the same age and lived a few houses away from each other. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t know Joe. We grew up in each other’s houses and were out on the streets as soon as we could totter along. It was quiet on our estate. There was hardly any traffic, and the cars there were had careful drivers who always looked out for us kids. We rode our little trikes up and down on the new concrete slab road without any danger. Our mums knew we were safe. They didn’t have to worry. Those streets were out playground. We learnt to roller-skate, played tennis using the concrete blocks as our court, climbed the trees, hoicked frogspawn out of the ponds, played football, cricket and block. We were as wild and free as leaves in the wind.

 When we were little Joe and I had our gang – the Black Arrow Gang. We had our flag that we’d made together – a black arrow that we’d painted on a square of old sheet that we’d tied to a stick – Joe and I had drawn it and stitched it up ourselves. We were right proud of that flag. We’d also built a gang house out of mud. We’d dug up clods of grass and made cement out of gooey mud to stick it together. We’d built these walls up as high as our chest and then covered it with an old tent to create this huge room where we held our parlays. It was serious stuff that gang. We had solemn discussions about what we were planning to do and took notes and everything. No messing about. We really got into it. All the members had to swear allegiance to the gang. We cut our thumbs with penknives and mixed our blood so we were blood brothers until death.

Bodies in a Window: Amazon.co.uk: Goodwin, Opher: 9781986269544: Books

Bodies in a Window – Mrs Warner

Posted on by Opher

Introducing another two characters in this story. I wrote this book about a short period of time. I was standing in a room in the hospital next to the body of my father. He had died in the night. I was staring out the window struggling to come to terms with my emotions and thoughts. Watching life go on in the unreality outside.

Excerpt – Bodies in a Window

Mrs Warner was one of a kind. Sometimes I wonder what I am doing working for the madam but I know exactly where I stand with regards to her and her sort. That’s alright with me. Madge would call her a snob, probably to her face but I’m not like that, for sure. I am quite happy to talk to Mrs Warner. She doesn’t frighten me. I tell her what’s what. I don’t stand for any nonsense. I do my job and give her good value for her precious money. She is no better than any of us. But at the same time I know my place. She employs me to do the washing up, clean and hoover. That’s what I do – nothing more, nothing less. We don’t have to be friends or like one another. As far as she is concerned I’m an old Irish woman who is only fit for skivvying. But that is alright with me. It’s all I’ve ever done and I enjoy it. I can wash up and clean as good as anyone, and I don’t mind doing the toilets neither. If she thinks she’s better than me just because she has a plum in her mouth, doesn’t like getting her hands dirty, and her old man works in banking and earns a fortune, she can think again. Money doesn’t make anyone better than anybody else. In fact I think it usually makes people worse. I wouldn’t swap with her for all the tea in China. She can have all her swanky parties and get me to do all the clearing up, she can put on her best lah de dah, she can dress up in her glad rags with all her fancy diamonds, but I’ve got my six girls and she’s got no-one. Who’s the biggest loser? My riches are in warm flesh and blood hers are cold coins. One’s warm and one’s cold. I know which I prefer.

I work round here two days a week, sometimes three if she’s on an entertaining spree. I tell you they are a bunch of no good wasters, these swanky rich people. You should see the mess they leave after a night of it. All those half full plates of food left to waste. Why take more than you need in the first place? It’s a disgrace, they are worse than pigs, not that I say a word about it to her face about that. She can live how she chooses to live. She pays for it and she can waste it if she wants. She has all her rich friends round, well she calls them friends but I think they are just people to show off to, they aren’t real friends – at least what I’d call friends. I’ve seen some of them when they’ve called in though madam keeps me well out of the way at parties. She doesn’t want them catching sight of the likes of me. That doesn’t stop me from seeing them every now and again arriving in their posh cars all dressed up to the nines. I know the type. I wouldn’t want to be here at their posh dinners. The mess they leave says it all.