Flamingoes in Orbit

By Philip Ridley

A teenager stares at his reflection and sees the Milky Way. A motorbike prowls and growls like a wild animal. A whale sings a song to end loneliness.

Philip Ridley’s collection of short stories – like his two adult novels, Crocodilia and In the Eyes of Mr Fury – became an instant cult classic when first published in 1990. Magical, poetic, heartbreaking and humorous, the sequence explores childhood, family life, romantic love in all its aspects – lost, unrequited, obsessional – and does so with a haunting mixture of both the barbaric and the beautiful that has become Ridley’s trademark. In particular, these tales deal with the experience of growing up gay in a world still bristling with prejudice, and they sing and howl with the need for equality and freedom.

This edition includes two new stories, “Alien Heart” and “Wonderful Insect”, and finally completes a seminal and compelling collection first begun over thirty years ago.

‘Menace lurks in the shady corners of family life ... Chilling.’ – Time Out

‘Ridley is a visionary.’ – Rolling Stone

• Language: English
• Publisher: Valancourt Books
• Release date: Nov 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9781948405041

Book preview

PHILIP RIDLEY

FLAMINGOES IN ORBIT

VALANCOURT BOOKS

Flamingoes in Orbit by Philip Ridley

Originally published in a different form in Great Britain by Hamish Hamilton in 1990

This fully revised edition first published 2018

The right of Philip Ridley to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Copyright © 1990, 2018 by Philip Ridley

All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the copying, scanning, uploading, and/or electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher.

Published by Valancourt Books, Richmond, Virginia

http://www.valancourtbooks.com

Cover by Henry Petrides

For Anna Frith

‘Beauty’s nothing

but the beginning of Terror…

Every angel is terrible.’

Rilke

THE TOOTH OF TROY FLAMINGO

Mr Kass, our lodger, used a cut throat razor to shave. Every evening he would spend ages sharpening it on a leather strop, then – the next morning – spend even longer meticulously shaving. Not just his face, but his whole skull.

Mum said to him, ‘Have you ever tried using an electric razor? It’s much quicker.’

‘It may be quicker,’ he replied, ‘but, personally, I’ve always found it a most unsatisfactory experience. Apart from not being close enough, it brought me out in a most unpleasant rash. No, no, that is not for me. Using a proper razor is how I was taught to shave when I was in the army. It has served me well ever since then.’

We’d never had a lodger before but – since Dad had run off with ‘another woman’ (no one knew who it was, or where they went) – money had been very tight.

The shock of Dad leaving us made Mum very ill. All she wanted to do was sleep. She wouldn’t shower or clean her teeth. Val, our next door neighbour – and Mum’s best friend – looked after Mum as much as she could.

Lloyd, Val’s son – and my best friend – asked me, ‘Is your mum having a nervous breakdown?’

‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘Your mum says she’s just not herself. She says Mum needs to know she’s still loved.’

Lloyd said, ‘Well, you love her, don’t you?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘Then what’s her problem?’

While Mum was ‘not herself’, Val cooked my meals and washed my clothes. She also did the housework. (I asked her not to tidy my bedroom, though. I could put up with my own mum snooping around, but I didn’t want someone else’s mum doing it).

Val said to me one day, ‘It would’ve been kinder if your dad had run your mum over in a car. At least then we’d be able to see her injuries.’

Mum was not herself for so long I started to wonder if she’d ever actually be herself again. But then, one day, I came home from school and she was up and dressed, the house had been cleaned, and there was a chicken casserole in the oven. It was as if Mum had returned, not just as ‘herself’, but in a revitalized, more vivid, version.

Val let herself in the house (Val had our street door key – and Mum had hers – in case of ‘emergencies’), just as Mum was dishing up dinner.

‘I’m all better now,’ Mum told her.

‘But . . . how?’ Val said. ‘What’s happened?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Mum said. ‘I was lying in bed this morning and I felt like a cup of tea. So I came downstairs to make it. And then I thought I’d turn the radio on. And I started tapping my foot to the music. And the next thing I knew I was doing the washing up. And then I was in the bath. And then I was getting dressed. And then I was tidying the house and making a casserole.’ She smiled at Val. ‘You don’t need to worry anymore.’

Val looked more worried at being told not to worry than she’d been while doing the actual worrying.

A few weeks after Mum’s surprising comeback – and the day after school had broken up for the summer holidays – she said to me, ‘I think we might need to take in a lodger.’

I said, ‘Oh?’

‘Your dad’s not giving us any financial help, you know. We’ve got bills to pay. Lots of them.’

‘But Dad’s still . . . liable, isn’t he. I mean legally.’

‘I don’t want to get the law involved.’

‘But if he – ’

‘No! I’m not going to make him still care for us. If he doesn’t want us anymore, let him go.’

That evening Mum started to write the advertisement. It took her until nearly midnight. When it was finished she handed me a piece of paper, saying, ‘All the contact details will go below this.’

Room to rent in family home.

Meals provided.

Ideal for single lady or gentleman.

Must have regular employment

and regular income.

No riff-raff.

The day after it appeared in the local newspaper, a middle-­aged man came to see us. He was tall, immaculately dressed (in a pinstriped suit and the shiniest black leather shoes I’d ever seen) and totally bald. He said, ‘Mrs Winsley?’

Mum said, ‘Yes?’

‘Forgive me for not phoning first, but I happened to be in the neighbourhood so I thought I’d take a chance. I’m enquiring about your advertisement in the East London Chronicle.’

‘Oh . . . I see . . .’

‘I do hope I’m not intruding.’

‘No, no. Not at all. Please come in.’

‘Thank you.’ He stepped inside. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Trafford Kass.’

‘A pleasure to meet you, Mr Kass.’

‘Likewise, Mrs Winsley.’

Mum said, ‘And this is my son.’

I was sitting in the living room, reading.

‘Hello, young man,’ Mr Kass said.

‘Hello,’ I said.

‘Is that Great Expectations I see in your hands?’

‘It is, yeah.’

Mum said, ‘He’s studying it for O level.’

‘Great Expectations is one of my favourite novels,’ Mr Kass said. ‘A distant relative of mine once met Mr Charles Dickens.’

Mum said, ‘Really!? That’s amazing!’

‘The two of them were involved in a train crash.’

‘The Staplehurst crash!’ I said.

‘Oh, very good. It was indeed the Staplehurst crash. My distant relative and Mr Dickens both helped the injured after the incident. Mr Dickens gave my distant relative a signed first edition of Nicholas Nickleby. It was in the family for many years but, unfortunately, perished in the Blitz.’

‘Oh, what a shame,’ Mum said.

‘Yes, indeed.’

‘Would you like to come through, Mr Kass? I’ll make us a cup of tea and we can discuss . . . things.’

‘Yes, of course.’ He gave me a little bow. ‘Young man.’ Then followed Mum to the kitchen.

I heard Mum put the kettle on.

I could hear Mr Kass saying, ‘What a delightful home you have, Mrs Winsley. So exquisitely decorated and furnished, if you don’t mind my saying so. And – oh, my! – what a charming back garden.’

‘It’s a little overgrown at the moment, I’m afraid.’

I couldn’t quite make out Mr Kass’s response, so I crept to the living room door to hear – and see – a little better.

Mr Kass was sitting at the kitchen table. I’d never seen anyone sit so upright before. His legs were together, one hand on each knee, chin held high. Everything about him was so formal, so smart, so . . . exact.

Mum said, ‘Mr Kass, do you mind if . . . I . . . I ask . . . ?’

‘Ask whatever you like, Mrs Winsley. I have no secrets.’

Mum smiled and poured boiling water into the tea pot. She went to ask something, then stopped, shaking her head. She went to ask something else but, again, couldn’t quite get it out.

Mr Kass came to her rescue. ‘Perhaps you’d like to know a little about myself, and why I am here – at your wonderful establishment – in need of accommodation?’

‘Oh. Yes.’ Mum gave the tea a stir. ‘I’d be very interested to hear about that. If you don’t mind telling me.’

‘Not at all.’ Mr Kass took a deep breath and straightened the cuffs of his shirt. ‘As a younger man, I served in the army. I enjoyed the military life a great deal, but did not have the inclination to make it a full time career. There were things I wanted to do – things I wanted to experience – that the mili­tary was not equipped for, if you will excuse that meagre pun.’ He chuckled. ‘After I left the army I tried several – and very differing – ways of making a living. I was a labourer for a while. I helped build Keeling House, just a short distance from here.’

‘Oh, I used to know someone who lived there!’ Mum said. ‘Her flat was lovely. Very posh.’

‘Posh, indeed, Mrs Winsley. The building was designed by Sir Denys Lasdun.’

‘Sir Denys . . . ?’

‘Lasdun. The architect who designed the National Theatre!’

‘My goodness. Did you meet him, Mr Kass?’

‘I did. On several occasions. He was most gracious.’

Mum gave Mr Kass his cup of tea.

‘Thank you, Mrs Winsley.’

‘Do you want any sugar?’

‘No, thank you. I find tea far more refreshing without it.’ He ran his fingers over the side of the cup. ‘Oh, what charming crockery. Bone china, is it not?’

‘It is, Mr Kass.’

‘Quite beautiful . . . Now, where was I?’

‘Building Keeling House.’

‘Aha! Quite so.’ Another deep breath. ‘After Keeling House, I travelled the world for several years. Then I returned to London and worked in a bank for nearly a decade. I enjoyed many aspects of the job, but it still didn’t fully satisfy me. And I kept thinking about something an old schoolmaster once told me. If your job is something you love, then you will never do a day’s work. So I thought, "What do I love? What is my passion?" And the answer was . . . books!’ He took a sip of tea. ‘This is a most delicious beverage, I must say! Darjeeling! Am I right?’

‘Oh . . . I’m not sure. It’s PG Tips.’

‘A very respectable brand!’ He took another sip. ‘So, having discovered what I wanted my occupation to be, I decided, many years ago, to open a bookshop with a good friend and fellow bibliophile­.’

‘Bib-blio – ?’

‘A lover of books. My friend’s name was Rafe Kater, so we called our shop Kass & Kater.’

‘It’s a very catchy name.’

‘We thought so too.’

‘Can I tempt you with a biscuit, Mr Kass?’ She pushed a plate of digestives towards him.

‘Thank you, Mrs Winsley. I believe I will succumb.’ He picked up a digestive and dunked it into his tea. ‘The bookshop we opened was in South London. Nothing grand. But a place where, if you wanted a certain book – no matter how obscure – we would try our very best to find it for you. We started a weekly Readers Group. We invited literary experts to give talks on a particular work. One of my favourites was Professor C.J. Hammet discussing Mr Henry James’s masterpiece The Turn of the Screw. What a wonderful, if somewhat mystifying, evening that was.’ He took another sip of tea. ‘In short, Mrs Winsley, our bookshop was a place that brought the community together.’

‘You say "was", Mr Kass. Am I right in assuming . . . ?’

‘Alas, Kass & Kater is no more, Mrs Winsley.’

‘Why? What happened?’

‘There was . . . a fire.’

‘Oh, no!’

‘Our beautiful shop was totally destroyed. As were the rooms above the shop, where both I and Mr Kater had our respective living quarters.’

‘No one was hurt, I hope!’

‘Fortunately, no. Indeed neither of us was actually in the building­ when the blaze occurred.’

‘Well, that’s a blessing at least.’

‘Indeed, indeed. But there will always be the niggling thought that, had we been there, we could have put the fire out before it got a grip. We had fire extinguishers in every room, you see.’

‘Or perhaps you would have both gone up in smoke.’

‘That is also a possibility, yes.’

‘So that’s why you . . . ?’

‘That’s why I am here, yes. Since the fire, I have been living in various hotels and assorted so-called bed ’n’ breakfasts. But I need a home, Mrs Winsley. I need a place . . . like this. And, please, have no fear about me being unable to pay you the required rent. I have recently secured a position in a bookshop down Cecil Court. Do you know Cecil Court?’

‘Er . . . no, I don’t think I’ve ever – ’

‘It is in the West End of London, Mrs Winsley. It is the hub – indeed, the very heart – of the capital’s bibliophile life. There are bookshops everywhere! And, as you would expect, the pay is excellent. It will tide me over until I am able to open a new bookshop of my own.’

‘Kass & Kater will rise from the ashes!’

‘Alas, that is not to be. Mr Kater was so disturbed by what happened – the sudden incineration of everything he treasured – that he now seeks a livelihood . . . in pastures new.’

‘Oh, that’s such a shame.’

‘Indeed, it is.’

The next morning, a Sunday, Mr Kass moved in. All his possessions could be carried in one large (and very polished) leather suitcase. It was covered with stickers from all over the world.

‘Have you been to all these places, Mr Kass?’ Mum asked.

‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Those and many more.’

Mum looked at me, eyes wide. ‘Isn’t that amazing!?’

‘I’m going to see Lloyd,’ I said.

‘Make sure you’re back in time for dinner!’

‘I will.’

‘It’s Mr Kass’s first Sunday with us so – ’

‘I’ll be here, Mum, I’ll be here!’

I rushed next door and knocked.

Val answered. ‘He’s moved in, then,’ she said. ‘Your lodger.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘I saw him from the window. How old is he? Forty-five? Fifty?’

‘Something like that.’

She frowned. ‘Mmm.’

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

‘He looks a bit weird to me.’

‘Weird?’

‘All that shaved head stuff.’

‘He was in the army.’

‘So? Everyone shaves their head in the army, do they?’

‘No, but – ’

‘What’s he said to you?’

‘To me? Not much.’

‘Has he looked at you . . . in a funny way?’

‘How’d you mean, funny?’

‘You know what I mean. A middle-aged man like that. Over fussy with his appearance. In a house with a good looking boy. I know I wouldn’t let a stranger in my house so he can drool over Lloyd.’

I laughed. ‘I haven’t seen much drooling going on.’

‘It’s not a joke!’

I stopped laughing.

Val said, ‘Men like him are crafty. They brainwash boys into doing things. You should ask Lloyd’s dad. He’s got stories about his gym teacher at school.’ She stroked my cheek. ‘I’m only saying this because I care about you. You understand? First sign of anything funny, you tell me. Okay?’

‘Okay.’

I went upstairs to Lloyd’s room and knocked. He was the only person I knew who had a lock on his bedroom door. My mum and dad would never have allowed it. It was as much as I could do to get Dad to even knock before he used to come into my room. But Lloyd’s dad had said – now Lloyd had turned fifteen – Lloyd deserved some privacy. But that privacy came with a price. Lloyd had to clean his own room, and wash and iron all his own clothes (and bedsheets!) So, true, I would’ve liked a lock on my door. But I wasn’t sure I wanted it at such a cost.

Lloyd opened the door a crack, checked his mum wasn’t around, then flung it wide. ‘In! In! Quick!’

Although I was the same age as Lloyd, he was a good few inches taller, and possessed an Adam’s apple the size of . . . well, an apple.

‘What’s going on?’ I asked, as he hurriedly locked the door behind me. ‘You being spied on by the KGB or something?’

‘I don’t want Mum to see these!’ He indicated photo­graphs strewn across the floor.

‘What are they?’

‘They are totally brilliant!’ He picked one up. ‘Look, mate, look! This guy is a soldier in Vietnam. And he’s had his arm blown to shreds. You can see all his veins and bones. But he’s still alive. And he’s grinning. You see that? Jesus! And this one . . . Here!’ He picked up another photo. ‘This soldier’s wearing something round his neck. See what it is?’

I looked closer but, before I could say anything, Lloyd said, ‘Ears! He’s got a necklace made out of human fucking ears. But wait, wait! Here’s the best one.’ Another photo. ‘This soldier’s holding two severed heads. You see? Their eyes are wide open. Brilliant, eh?’

I said, ‘Wh-where did you get them?’

‘I found them.’

‘Where?’

‘The old warehouse.’

‘The one they’re knocking down?’

‘Yeah!’

‘But . . . when did you go there?’

‘This morning.’

‘But . . . but . . .’

‘But what?’

‘Why didn’t you knock for me first?’

‘You never get up before eleven!’

‘Nor do you. Normally!’

‘Yeah, well . . . today was different.’

‘So you wake up early and . . . what? Think, I really must go to that warehouse before my best friend knocks for me. ’

‘No. Mack phoned me last night and – ’

‘Mack Ottway phoned you?’

‘Yeah. So?

‘We hate Mack Ottway.’

‘We don’t hate Mack – ’

‘He’s a fucking psycho! How’d he get your number anyway?’

‘It doesn’t fucking matter! You’re getting in a state for no reason. Listen! Mack phoned last night. He said he’d been to the warehouse and found some brilliant stuff in the rubble. An old gas mask. Stuff from the war. You know? Mack said he was going there again. Did I want to come? I knew you didn’t like him so I said, Yeah sure! But – but! – I made sure it was early. Why? So it didn’t interfere with you and me. I thought I’d get it all over and done with by the time you woke up, then I’d show you all the stuff I found. And then we – we! – could talk about it. I didn’t think it was going to cause a bloody argument.’

‘I . . . I’m sorry,’ I said, calming down.

‘Okay.’

‘Okay. So . . . what was it like? At the warehouse.’

‘Brilliant! What I was hoping to find – obviously! – was a machine gun or something. But no such luck. But then I see one of these photos. Then another. Then a whole fucking drawer-full. Mack got all stroppy and said he wanted half. It’s me who told you about this place! he said. It’s only fair! And Mack is not someone you argue with, right?’

‘Right.’

‘So we did the whole one for you, one for me thing. Like we were back in nursery school or something. I could see some of the best ones were going to him, but there was fuck all I could do. There was one photo – oh, Jesus, you should see it, mate. It was of a man crushed by a tank. It was brilliant. I might ask Mack if he wants to swop it for my Doctor Who alarm clock. He still likes all that stuff.’

‘Retard!’

‘Yeah.’ Lloyd grinned. ‘Come on! Let’s look at the rest of them.’

We settled next to each other on the floor, shoulder to shoulder, our backs against Lloyd’s bed. At first, we had specific comments to make about each photo (‘You can see the bullet hole in his head’, ‘That one’s being burnt alive’, ‘He’s stabbing the prisoner in front of the other soldiers’), but, gradually, the comments gave way to, at first, murmurs, and then . . . silence.

I could feel Lloyd’s heart beating.

I could hear the click of his tongue.

‘Hello?’ Val knocked on the door.

We jumped as if receiving an electric shock.

We dropped the photos and stood up.

Lloyd called, ‘What do you want, Mum?’

‘Your dinner’s on the table,’ Val called back.

‘Dinner!’ I cried. I looked at Lloyd’s Doctor Who clock. ‘Shit! I’m late.’ I rushed to the door –

‘Wait, wait!’ Lloyd said, pushing the photos under the bed.

I helped him, then unlocked the door.

I rushed out, pushing past Val.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ I said. ‘Mum will kill me.’

When I got home, Mum and Mr Kass had already started eating.

Mum said, ‘There you are! What did I tell you about being late?’

‘Sorry, Mum. Me and Lloyd got talking and – ’

‘Time went whoosh, eh?’ Mr Kass said.

I smiled. ‘Yeah. Time went very whoosh!’

Mum got my dinner out of the oven. ‘The plate’s hot,’ she said, putting it in front of me. ‘Be careful.’

Mum had cooked roast chicken with more trimmings than I’d ever seen.

‘This meal is utterly delicious, Mrs Winsley,’ Mr Kass said, putting a forkful into his mouth. ‘Compliments to the chef!’

Mum blushed. ‘I thought I’d do something a little bit special. To celebrate you being with us, Mr Kass.’

‘Well, I’m very glad you did, Mrs Winsley,’ Mr Kass said. ‘I am feeling quite spoilt.’

Mum looked at me. ‘What were you and Lloyd talking about that was so engrossing?’

I said, ‘Oh . . . things.’

She looked at Mr Kass. ‘He doesn’t tell me anything anymore.’

Mr Kass smiled. ‘I remember having a friend I used to talk to for hours and hours too.’ He leaned in my direction. ‘Not when I was your age, young man. I didn’t have many friends when I was your age at all. But a little later. When I was in the army. I met someone and he, like me, shared a passion for poetry. In particular, the poems of Wilfred Owen.’ He leaned closer. ‘Have you heard of Wilfred Owen?’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘The First World War poet.’

‘Excellent, excellent! My friend and I used to memorize Wilfred Owen’s poems and recite them to each other.’

‘That’s certainly not army life as I imagined it,’ Mum said.

‘Oh, some of our greatest poets have been soldiers, Mrs Winsley. Wilfred Owen and his good friend, Siegfried Sassoon, to name but two. My friend in the army also wrote the most exemplary poetry. I said to him, You should publish these. ’

I asked, ‘And did he?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Is he still in the army?’ I asked.

‘Oh, no, no. He left the same time as me.’

‘Are you still in contact with him?’ I asked.

Mum said, ‘Stop interrogating Mr Kass!’

Mr Kass smiled. ‘It’s perfectly all right, Mrs Winsley.’ He looked at me. ‘Alas, I lost contact with my poetic friend soon after our army days concluded. I believe he became a pig farmer in Norfolk.’

I said, ‘Perhaps he’s writing poems about pigs now.’

Mr Kass chuckled. ‘Yes, yes! Turn up the gas! Quick boys! An ecstasy of pork sausages! ’

We all laughed, though I was pretty sure Mum didn’t get the allusion to Wilfred Owen’s poem, Dulce et Decorum Est. But I got it. And Mr Kass knew I got it. We exchanged a smile.

That night, in my room, I searched through a box of old books. I had a collection of First World War poetry somewhere. We’d studied the war poets at school last year, and Dad had bought me the book as a present. Dad bought me lots of books. When he left us, I put them all in a cardboard box, out of sight. I had intended to throw them away, but hadn’t got round to it yet.

The book was called The English Poets of the Great War, by John Leland. I sat on the edge of my bed and flicked through the pages. There was a photograph of Wilfred Owen. Underneath it said that Owen had suffered from neurasthenia (or shell shock) and had been sent to a hospital in Edinburgh, and it was while there he met and became friends with Siegfried Sassoon. A friendship that would ‘transform both

Reviews for Flamingoes in Orbit

[kayla.krantz · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

So, I was encouraged to pick up this book based on the cover and the unique title. I wasn’t sure what to expect of the story, but the stories inside were all wonderful. This collection of short works is rough and raw, full of emotion, and they all fit together in one way or another to tell a truly compelling story.

Since I listened to the audiobook, I didn’t have the words in front of me to see when one story ended, and another began. The narrator, Josh Shirt, however, made smooth transitions. The characters were also well voiced.

This book was given to me for free at my request and I provided this voluntary review.