Railway (Cosham)

Ray Kinsalla (Field of Dreams)

I'm 36 years old; I love my family; I love baseball and I became a farmer in Iowa (that’s how locals refer to the Isle of Wight – they’re not so hot on complicated English). But until I heard the voice, I'd never done a crazy thing in my whole life.

I don’t think I’m insane - although living on an island at the thick end of the gene pool, it’s kinda difficult to tell.

Mrs Kinsalla. Well she’s a regular festival-going hippy type. She was nothing but supportive at the outset. There were a few queries about the mortgage and crop harvesting (mainly instigated by her pain in the arse accountant brother) but nothing too serious. After all, this was my dream - literally.

“If you drink it, he will come.”

That’s the crazy voice I kept hearing in my head, as I got up early in the freezing Iowa mornings to plough and sow and that. At first I put the voice down to creaks and bumps from the ancient tractor, but then it dawned on me.

It had to be an aural message from beyond the grave, tuned directly into me.

You see when I was a kid I didn’t get along so well with my Dad. He wanted me to be a baseball player; I wanted to be a porn writer. He took our arguments to the grave and I became a farmer. On the fucking Isle of Wight. 

So when I heard that ghostly whispering, I reasoned there could be only one explanation. A spook mate of me Dad’s was telling me to leave the ploughing to some other mug, take the ferry over to the mainland every morning and sit in random South coast boozers drinking lots of Fosters tops. Then at some point - possibly after many years - my Dad would appear to me in a ghostly guise and we could sort out our differences.

I am a logical man.

Trouble is, a few months into my dream drinking, the wife (that’s Mrs Kinsella) started losing patience. Then, tonight, it all finally came to a head.

“Yeah, I heard the voice again,” I told her on the mobile from the Railway in Cosham, hiccupping a little off mic. “I’m sure Dad’s gonna come and talk to me later,” I added taking a sly sip. “Yeah, yeah, try not to worry about those bank statements….I know…I know……the crops….don’t worry….. it’ll probably be alright. Dad’ll sort it out.”

But she wasn’t reassured like usual, and angrily demanded that I took the next ferry home.

Aha, I reminded her, I’d also heard the second of my regular voices, the one making it absolutely clear that I should “go the distance”. Now it doesn’t take a spiritual man to tell you that this clearly means “under no circumstances leave the boozer until kicking out time.”

I wasn’t going to take any chances. If I didn’t follow the messages to the letter, there’d be no Dad - I put to her.

Mrs Kinsella didn’t see it that way. In fact she blew her top. "There isn’t going to be any fucking Dad," she yelled. "He's dead." Then she accused me of using ‘voices’ as some kind of ruse to get mindlessly wrecked and swerve my farming duties. Unbelievable.

Fortunately our argument was interrupted by another voice, coming through to me loud and clear. “Ease his pain,” it said

That was obviously a message for Mrs K – and I told her as much. Because, let me tell you the battering my ear ’ole was getting from her bleating was un-freaking-bearable.

That one didn’t go down too well and she slammed the phone down on me.

I ordered another eggy-smelling Fosters and went to the bogs for a piss.

And there, it happened……. I saw him..... stumbling out of the stalls as I perched by the pissers. True, the apparition didn’t look anything like my dear departed father, but it had to be him ‘cause this is what he said.

“Awight my son….......my son........f.f.fucking hell…… gotta stop boozing here…my ring piece is  in fucking t.t.tatters.....take my advice son, get out while you can.” Then he belched and left – very enigmatically.

As far as I was concerned I’d been totally vindicated. My Dad had appeared to me in the Railway and given me some sterling advice! I could die happy and my dad could be dead happy.

But Mrs K would benefit too, I quickly realised. Because much as I love despicable boozers like this, and similarly appalling dumps as far afield as Fareham and Havant (wouldn’t touch Southampton), boozing on the south coast is generally the stuff of nightmares!

Time to go home.
……,

Hmm, thinking about it, maybe that ease his pain message wasn’t for Mrs Kinsalla at all. Maybe it was a message for the chemist up the road. He’ll need to stay open late so I can stock up on Imodium. After another night on the Railway’s miserably kept Fosters, I'll be following my Dad's example - firing sweetcorn all over the bowl tomorrow morning.


Ray Kinsalla’s rating for the Railway at Cosham – 1 / 10

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