Oxford Blue: A Non-Contemporary Novel, Memoir and Screenplay

By Gareth England

“OXFORD BLUE”, a semi-autobiographical novel and memoir moves the reader along with an almost musical cadence through suspense and danger in an underworld of shady and unusual characters. Two street artists, a Scottish picture-painter of fairies, elves and angels and a visually challenged, British puppeteer live ‘on the edge’ providing shelter to ‘down-and-outers’ in nineteen seventies Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, (USA).

The theme of the story, the anonymity of ‘Oxford Blue’ odds a delightful mysteriousness- keeping the Reader riveted to the book.
This style is a cross-genre of Non-contemporary drama and Mystery and simultaneously both modest and risqué.
A ‘different’ type of narrative, “Oxford Blue” promises not a drop of boredom!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781669841395

Gareth England

N/A

Book preview

Copyright © 2022 by Gareth England.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 02/06/2023

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

829219

CONTENTS

Dedication

Royalties

Foreword

Preface

PART FIRST

(One Entire Year, 1970)

Chapter 1     ‘A Reading at a Quarter to Two’

Chapter 2     ‘The Swine and a Sweet Scented Posy’

Chapter 3     ‘Dance of The Sugar Clock’

Chapter 4     ‘Never Mind The Fancyman’

Chapter 5     ‘Child of Atlantis’

Chapter 6     ‘The Return of Mr. Bosh’

Chapter 7     ‘Clandestine Collides’

PART SECOND

Begins at Chapter 8

Chapter 8     ‘A Water Color for Mr. Covington’

Chapter 9     ‘A Discussion of Delicate Means and The Death of a Guest’

Chapter 10   ‘English Puppets, Plum Cakes & Puddings at The Christmas’

Chapter 11   ‘Philadelphia Streeter Causerie’

Chapter 12   ‘The Tea Shoppe Re-visited: Fortune Full Point’

Chapter 13   ‘A Single Departure’

Chapter 14   ‘Fate’s Last Heart’

Afterword

Cast Of Characters

About The Author

More About Gareth England

DEDICATION

To the memories of:

To my beloved Mother, Rose whose dedication and brilliance as a classical musician, music teacher and educator was truly remarkable - notwithstanding admirable.

For my writing college instructor and mentor, Mary Rosenblum whose years of invaluable literary council would continue throughout my life.

My beloved, darling Kapepi (a little, grey bird) who died unexpectedly during the final literary dictations prior to the ‘Oxford Blue’s’ publication.

ROYALTIES

Royalties herein be directed and distributed to England’s street newspaper, ‘THE BIG ISSUE’ or ‘BIG ISSUE NORTH’ for England’s homeless poor in the United Kingdom.

FOREWORD

This work is dedicated to creating opportunity for London’s poor during times of hardship, illness and loss for those who have become homeless.

For England’s street newspaper, ‘THE BIG ISSUE NORTH’ with hope and inspiration.

A salute to the street vendors who sell these papers, their stories inside them- and the papers, themselves- providing a wealth of awareness of the reality of the homeless condition

A tribute to one precious person whose compassionate idea to create work opportunity for millions has brought untold blessing in the US and abroad.

PREFACE

                    "My task is to tell my own stories-

                        only my own-with my own memories

                            to write nothing but ‘poetic

                                autobiography’-

                                    to create a world to interest people

                                        in very personal memories-for

                                            all that the memories that make

                                                my deepest being what it is"

                                                        Alaine-Fournier

PART FIRST

(One Entire Year, 1970)

Week of the Ides of March 1970

Saturday Afternoon

CHAPTER 1

‘A Reading at a Quarter to Two’

I t was good to once again peer at the thickly painted, plump, black rounded tea pot on the sign above ‘Ollie’s Tea Room’. It swung with a dancy, jolly ferver, squeaking in the March winds. The ambiance lent downtown Philadelphia and Old World charm and fairytale flavor in the early nineteen-seventies. Yet, reality did underlie, as it always does. Today, on the Ides of March, Mysticism would chance to have its’ say. And my moments inside the café would prove invaluably important!

My appointment for a Tea Leaf Reading was fifteen minutes before two on this Saturday afternoon. I pressed the plastic, round, violet ‘entrance’, button-eager to enter through the front door on ‘Locust and Thirteenth Street’. A ‘carriage and four’ stampeded with abandon down the alleyway’s magenta, gray and pale rose cobblestones. Alas, the driver’s tall, top hat was thrust from his head by a strong wind. This vision of a ghost from another time period quite overtook me, as did a curious foreboding. Moments later, I noticed a blackbird at the gutterway. I brought one home, once-since winter’s chill is often severe in Philadelphia. She fed on roll breads dunked in broth, crisp spinach leaves, and fresh, sliced, yellow apples. In late Spring, I took her back to her familiar spot amongst songbirds and ripened juniper berries.

Loud squabbles emerged suddenly from the alley. Two children were engaged in quibblings and ‘flapdoodle’. I could hear their banter.

Go on you, and take your cap with you; one girl yelled to the other.

I hate you, came the response. In a flash, the little ones disappeared down the alleyway.

What was taking so long? I wondered, as I held my large numbered wrist-watch close to my eyes. To my surprise, it was a quarter to two on the dot. I tapped the door’s knocker, ever so gently. The Tea Room door sprung open under the sea green light from the nearby street lamp.

Are you Mandren Teeper? an elderly lady wearing a heavy shawl inquired. Slight and delicate, the servant was clad in black from head to toe. Crystal beads clung to her neck.

That is me! I exclaimed, quite shaking in my old brown, English boots with their thin laces.

Come in, she said.

Thank you so very much, I responded to her dark, piercing eyes. She soon stood aside after blocking my entrance.

Using my red wooden cane, I stepped into the café. The old woman slid by me, leading the way through a narrow foyer to the front of the shop.

Wait here, the shawled servant instructed. Do have a tea sandwich in that basket on the glass counter. You must pay for it, you realize.

Another time, perhaps, I answered. My eyes began to pain me. Yet, I could still discern the shapes of the familiar, quaint, iron, square tables in their rows by two walls. I had always been fond of the place. And in my favorite, far corner, I barely noticed a large, round cup-presumably of tea leaves. As it awaited, my heart thumped and I stroked my waist-long hair for several moments.

Olivia Onessa will see you now, called the sharp voice of the old woman. My turn had come.

Straining to focus upon the tea cup, I marched over to it like a wound up soldier toy. In but a brief moment, I found myself standing at close range in front of my Reader. Her handsome, buxom form wore a plain, long, black, woolen dress. A gold, rope-like braid, wrapped around her thin, whitening hair. Olivia’s grey eyes were most serious and stern. It was now time to begin my Reading:

Miss Teeper, sit across from me in the tall, straight chair. And, give me your right hand to hold, Miss Ollie gestered.

Yes, Madame, I said, extending my hand, allowing her to hold it.

Are you afraid that I am going to tell you something ominous? the fortune teller said, coyly.

No, Madame. I try to be hopeful, I said, staring into the grave eyes.

There is your cup, Miss Teeper. Drink around the tea leaves. Do leave some water at the bottom.

Please call me Mandren, Madame, I said. I began to sipped the ‘bitters’ leaving some as requested while thinking of my Theatre School days. My teacher, Mr. Peps always made me a ‘cuppa’ before my puppeteer lessons. Soon Miss Ollie raised her voice.

Mandren, you are becoming distracted. Give me the cup.

Yes, Madame, I answered, careful not to drop it. I handed the cup to her with both hands. She then jiggled it, swooshing around the leaves. Thereafter, she laid it down upon the sauser.

Turn your cup around counter-clockwise, Miss Ollie instructed. I wish to obtain energy from your aura.

Like this, Madame? I spun the cup most awkwardly, hoping that she was not becoming cross with me."

Yes, my child, Miss Ollie said. Now look at me. She literally glared into my hazy eyes. I found myself answering many questions before the heart of my Reading.

My dear, you do not see very well. Where are your eye-glasses?

On my lap, Madame, I answered.

Did you do that for me, knowing I might ask you to remove them? she asked.

No, Madame.

Why, then? the seer demanded in a curious tone.

I am embarrassed, I replied. I live in a muted world of shapes and colors which are opaque. My eye illness is degenerative, I do know. It is hard to read my own skits and ‘scat’ songs which I write for my puppets. I am a puppeteer, you know.

When did you receive your first pair of glasses? my Reader inquired, brushing away my boastful comment.

"I was four