Mick: A Counterfeit Life
- socialresearch4
- Sep 30
- 5 min read
The winter had arrived with a vengeance. The wind was howling outside, rattling the old windows in their frames, and driving the rain onto the glass. Inside the small terraced house all was still and warm. Billy was content, Billy was doing, what Billy liked best, curled in a tight ball on the lap of the man. Drifting in and out of sleep, and on occasion stretching out, rubbing his head back and forth, and stretching out a paw to touch the man’s chest. It was necessary to make these gestures to remind the man that he was there, and more importantly that there was no need to move.
The man liked these moments, the cat, contentedly sleeping on his lap, keeping each other warm. It reminded him of how much he cherished his home. Surrounded by the books he loved, the worn but comfortable furniture, and the strange collection of knick- knacks. He had converted the top room to a writing space, putting in a round window, like a porthole, to look out at the sea while he wrote. This was his, or should he say their home, their refuge. At times like this he felt he could stay here forever, just like the cat wanted, but he knew he wouldn’t.
He craved solitude, but felt compelled to go back out into the world of people. He had always felt that deep down something was wrong with him, sometimes this feeling would push itself to the surface. When that happened everything broke down, he ceased to function. So, they would put him back together again, it would be ok for a time, but there was no cure, only suppression.
The cat stirred, the man put his book down next to his chair. Reaching back, he carelessly, stroked and fussed the cat. The cat opened its eyes, uncurled, and stretched, purring noisily. The man looked down, smiling, with pure affection, the cat rubbed its head back and forth. “Come on you silly old bugger, up you hop, I am going for a quick pint”.
Billy, couldn’t understand this man, why would you go out on a night like this when you didn’t have to? He was also said to be very clever with words, but never got this statement right. It would neither be quick or a pint, he would be out for the evening and it would certainly be more than one. Billy was not going easily, with claws out, he hooked into the jumper with a look of grim determination. The man stood holding the cat, whilst also trying to remove the claws out of his jumper, one paw freed, to be replaced with other paws and more claws. He finally extracted himself, and put the cat down on the floor, “come on I will feed you”.
The man went into the kitchen, and put the food into the cats’ bowl, and replaced the water with fresh. Walking back into the living room to get his coat, he dressed like he lived, modestly. Putting on his black coat, what the English would call a donkey jacket, the coat was warm, which is useful when you live this close to the sea. Unthinkingly he slipped the book in to his jacket pocket, this was another advantage, it had large pockets that you could easily fit a book into. Standing in the open doorway, keys in hand, the thought occurred to him, there were thirteen pubs within walking distance from his home, and fortunately, on a night like this, one within crawling distance, he ventured out into the awful night.
The weather was getting worse, the wind had become stronger, and the rain was torrential. The sea at the end of the road was crashing over the quay side, driven to foam in the high wind. He walked the few yards to the pub door, the light spilling through the glass, forming a welcoming mat on the rain-soaked pavement.
Entering the pub, a wall of warmth and the wonderful smell of beer engulfed him. It was almost empty, just a couple of hardcore regulars sitting at the bar, they turned and said “hello”. Returning their greeting he ordered his pint, taking it over to his favourite table by the door. The first one went down quickly; he replaced it and sat back down. He took out his book and began to read. The beers went down easily, only interrupted by the odd hardy sole coming in “hello Mick, how’s it going”, followed by general chit-chat. This suited him perfectly, no depth, just superficial conversation.
When he was left alone, he smiled to himself, he was known as Mick or sometimes Mike, that’s just how he liked it, he could be a seaman or a truck driver. He remembered telling a journalist once, ‘he never had a pseudonym for writing, but had got one for living’. The beer had started to take effect, he wasn’t drunk, just nicely numb. It was a good feeling, it made it easier to distance himself from a world that he never really felt like he belonged, or was comfortable in. Arthur called last orders, time for home, Billy, wouldn’t be happy!
He left the pub turning left for the short walk home, it was still blowing hard but the rain had eased. Unlocking the door, entering, and switching the light on. Billy was waiting, head slightly to the side, giving him ‘the look’, “I know, I know”. He took his coat off and poured himself a large glass of his homemade sloe gin. Telling Billy it was “only a nightcap”, taking it over to the chair and sitting down. He took a long drink, enjoying the feeling, the liquid warming him as it went down. Billy was sitting on the floor by the chair, looking up at him. He put the drink down and patted his lap, for Billy to hop up.
The man could feel his eyes getting heavy, and a wonderful warmth spreading through him, as he drifted into a deep sleep. Billy lightly jumped up unto his lap, but he didn’t lay down, he sat, watching the man sleep. He watched him with affection tinged with sadness.
Julian Randolph Stow
Born: 28/11/1935, Geraldton, Western Australia
Died: 29/5/2010, Harwich, Essex, England
Stow, moved to Harwich in 1981, writing his final novel there, published in 1984. He continued to write poetry, but with no real intention to publish.
He published:
8 Novels
1 Children’s book
3 Collections of poetry, (an anthology of his poetry was published posthumously)
2 Librettos
He is considered one of the greatest Australian writers of his generation.
The literary world, and his readers, knew him as Randolph Stow:
His friends and the people of Harwich, called him Mick.
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