CafeLit

Blind Date

2012-02-16T03:37:00.001-08:00

Blind Date

Trevor Belshaw

Anything that stains

Blind Date 1

‘He’s a free agent and he’s very good looking. He has a good job, he’s charming, isn’t full of himself and he’s happy to go on a blind date with you, even though he’s never been on one before either. Come on Petra, give the guy a chance. What more could you ask? We’re talking Amici’s here, not the local burger bar.’

Stella was getting frustrated. Half an hour of gentle persuasion had got her nowhere. She moved on to cajoling.

‘Honestly, Petra. What have you got to lose? Aren’t you fed up with the TV for company seven nights a week?’

‘Let me think about it, Stella. I’ll let you know by the weekend.’

‘No dice sister.’ Stella had her on the ropes and she wasn’t going to settle for a draw now. ‘I’m not leaving until you agree.’

Petra threw up her hands. ‘Oh alright, you win, but it’s your fault if it’s a disaster. Tell him I’m okay for Saturday.’

Stella whooped and threw her arms around her best friend. He’s a gentleman, it’s Amici’s. What could possibly go wrong?’

Petra looked at her watch for the twentieth time. Where was he? He was half an hour late, and counting. She snatched a quick look towards the door. Nothing! She could sense that people were beginning to take an interest in her. A woman on her own at a table for two? They must think I've been stood up. One or two of the women looked at her sympathetically. That made it worse.

Petra made up her mind to face the humiliation head on. As she picked up her bag she heard the door crash open and a gasping male voice ask where table nine was. Thirty seconds later he was at the table, red faced, blurting out apologies.

‘I’m so, so sorry Petra, please forgive me. There was an accident, the traffic, I parked up and caught the bus, got off at the wrong stop and had to run back here. I feel terrible. If I had your mobile...’

Petra held up her hand. ‘It’s fine Martin, honestly. I haven’t been here that long myself.’

Martin began another volley of apologies, but Petra stopped him in mid flow and almost begged him to sit down. She could feel the eyes of the whole restaurant on them. This was worse than sitting here alone.

She took him in as he removed his overcoat. He was about thirty five, and as Stella had promised, very good looking. He was tall, of medium build with a strong jaw and beautiful soft blue eyes. When he spoke his voice was deep, smooth, with a maybe a hint of Irish in there somewhere.

‘I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Petra. Stella's told me so much about you.’ Martin offered his hand across the table, caught the cut glass vase and emptied its contents over the table cloth.

Petra groaned inwardly. Martin tried to mop up some of the water with his napkin.

‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ he stuttered. ‘I’m so clumsy when I’m nervous.’

Petra looked on silently and breathed a huge sigh of relief as the waiter took control of the situation. Martin leant back in his chair, shamefaced, as the waiter cleared up the mess.

They were offered a new table but Petra refused in an instant. She was embarrassed enough already, moving tables would only make them the centre of attention again. She decided to take the initiative. Martin was obviously nervous and trying too hard to make a success of the evening.

‘What do you do, Martin?’ She asked, although she knew the answer before it came. Stella had primed her with all the details.

‘I’m a garage manager,’ he said, glad not to be taking the lead. ‘The same one Stella works at. She’s in sales.’

Petra refrained from saying that she knew exactly what her best friend did for a living. ‘Do you enjoy it? Been there long?’

Martin spent the next ten minutes telling her about how he had started as a mechanic and worked his way through the company. He was just about to relive his job interview for the manager’s post when the wine waiter arrived at their side. Petra looked at him gratefully.

‘Red, white or pink?’ asked Martin, feeling more confident.

Petra decided on the house Red and the waiter disappeared to see to the request.

Martin looked across the table. 'Sorry about that. I always prattle on when I’m nervous. I’m not like this normally, promise.’

Petra smiled. 'Prattle away,' she said.

The waiter returned and showed the label to Martin before pouring a small amount into his glass. Martin sipped it, nodded, then held up his hand as the waiter began to fill their glasses. ‘I’ll see to that. Thanks.’

Martin stood up, grabbed the bottle and made his way around the table in what he obviously hoped was a sophisticated manner.

‘Wine, Madame?’ he cooed.

Petra laughed, eager to lighten the mood. ‘Thank you, kind Sir.’

Martin poured the wine with a flourish and theatrically pulled back the bottle. A large gush of wine shot from its neck, splashed over the white table cloth and the front of Petra’s cream dress.

Petra shrieked and stood up. Martin dabbed ineffectively at the front of her dress with a napkin. ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ he stammered again. ‘I’m so sorry. What a clumsy fool.’

Petra grabbed her bag and almost ran to the ladies room. No chance of a dignified exit now. She tried to ignore the chatter as she made her way across the room.

Just wait until I catch up with you, Stella.

After doing her best to repair the damage, Petra slunk out of the ladies room, retrieved her coat, and sneaked out of the door. Martin was waiting outside.

He began to apologise again but Petra interrupted.

‘Some things are just not meant to be, Martin. Go and find your car.’

Petra turned away quickly before he could reply. After walking five yards she almost fell headlong as the heel of her shoe caught in the pavement and snapped. She shook her head in disbelief and limped off towards the taxi rank half a mile across town. She wasn’t at all surprised when the heavens opened up before she had gone a hundred yards.

Blind Date 2

‘No, never, not again, not ever! And this time I won’t let you talk me round.’ Petra stuck out her jaw and put on what she hoped was a, ‘final answer,’ face.

Stella, shrugged. ‘Oh, come on Petra. I know there were a few teething troubles but...’

‘Teething troubles?' Petra was aghast. 'It was a disaster. I still can’t get those wine stains out of my best dress and I can never go into that restaurant again. I’m having nightmares about it.’

Stella made sympathetic noises. ‘I know,’ she soothed. ‘But let’s not be too hasty, you could be onto a good thing here. He’s desperate to make it up to you.’

Petra began to waver. ‘If, I were to agree, there will be no restaurants, no best clothes, no wine and definitely no audience.’

Stella cheered silently. 'This time it will all be perfect. Trust me.'

Petra cursed as she turned the key in the ignition for the umpteenth time. The engine made a short whirring noise, then went quiet. Battery’s dead now, it had to happen today of all days.

Spots of rain appeared on the windscreen, heavy rain was forecast. Typical, just typical.

The rain was teaming down by the time the rescue services reached her. They had promised to be there in thirty minutes but had taken well over an hour.

Petra watched the mechanic as he worked on the engine, anxiety increasing with every, ‘tut,’ or shake of his blond head. Eventually he came out from under the bonnet. ‘Electrics have gone,’ he announced.

‘That sounds expensive,’ Petra said.

‘Can be,’ he said. ‘It depends where the fault lies. It could just be a bad earth.’

Forty minutes later Petra was back home, her broken down car parked outside on the road. She checked the wall clock. Christ, he'll be here in thirty minutes.

Petra ran upstairs, undressed quickly and had a shower. After a rubdown with the towel she slipped into her dressing gown and plugged in her styling wand. Soft curls tonight, nothing formal.

She had managed to do one side of her head and half of the front when the power cut struck. Seconds later there was a knock at the door.

Petra pushed her hair back from her eyes, grimaced and opened the door just as Martin was about to knock again. ‘Hi Martin, sorry, err, I’m a bit behind.’ The attempted smile froze on her lips as a mass of hair flopped in front of her eyes. ‘Bad hair day,’ she quipped.

Petra led Martin through to the kitchen. ‘I can’t even offer you coffee,’ she complained. ‘We’re in the middle of a power cut and I'm all electric.

‘Look on the bright side,' said Martin. 'The power might be on again by the time we get back from the theatre. Your hair looks, err, will look, nice,' he ended, lamely.

Petra headed for the stairs. ‘Back in a few minutes, Martin. I just need to do something with this. Make yourself at home.’

Petra hurried to the bathroom, soaked her hair in the tepid water, then rubbed it vigorously with a towel. She looked at the results in the mirror. Soaking wet, but at least it hangs evenly, now.

Petra wrapped the towel around her head and walked through to her bedroom. She opened the wardrobe and studied its contents.

She settled on a calf length, black lace dress with a short red jacket. After applying the minimum of makeup and patching up her nails, she felt more or less ready to take on the public. Her hair was still damp so she pulled on a woollen crocheted hat. In the end she was pleasantly surprised with the results.

Martin was standing where she had left him. ‘Ready at last, she said. 'Sorry about the delay.’

Martin walked her to the front door and stood gallantly aside to allow her through, then stepped out himself and pulled it shut.

'Bugger, I've left my bag in the kitchen,' said Petra.

‘Is it such a disaster?’ Martin asked.

Petra sighed. ‘My house keys are in it.’

As if on cue the power came back on and the burglar alarm went off.

One broken rear window later, Petra and Martin were once again sat in the kitchen. Petra made coffee while Martin cut a piece of board to temporarily fix the window square he had just smashed.

‘I think the fates are against us, Martin,' said Petra.

‘Martin nodded sadly. ‘We haven’t had the easiest of starts have we? Do you still want to go? We still have time to get there.’

Petra thought for a while then nodded. ‘Okay, let’s see what else the fates can throw our way. It's beginning to look like a quest from a Sinbad movie.’

Martin laughed and led her down the drive to his car. ‘Our luck must turn soon,’ he said. He looked up to the leaden skies in mock prayer. ‘I wish this rain would stop, it’s been coming down all afternoon.’

He opened the passenger door and Petra climbed hurriedly into the car. The rain became heavier. Martin slammed the door quickly, leaving two feet of lace hanging out of it. Oblivious, he scampered round to the driver’s side and threw himself into his seat. Thirty seconds later the car pulled away from the kerb dragging the bottom of Petra’s lace dress along the puddle strewn road.

Blind Date 3

‘My best two dresses ruined and you want me to try again? I may as well let him loose in my wardrobe with a pair of scissors and a barrel of hot tar.’ Petra held her face in her hands and looked at Stella pleadingly. ‘No, Stella, you can’t be serious. Tell me you’re just playing games.’

Stella put on her best sad face. ‘Pretty please?’

‘Petra shuddered. ‘No, and this time I mean it. He’s a very likable chap, he has no major personality faults, he’s good looking, he’s charming, he’s...I’m sure we’ve had this conversation before. He’s a Jonah, Stella. Bad luck follows him round like a faithful hound.’

‘It wasn’t really his fault your dress got stuck in the car door, Petra. You were both in a hurry to get out of the rain.’ Stella held out her hands, palms up. ‘It could have happened to anyone.’

Petra glowered, ‘It happened to me. You should have seen the state of my dress when we finally got to the theatre. Cinderella would have thrown it out.’

Stella busied herself making coffee. ‘He offered to buy you a new one. He was so looking forward to spending time with you. He was heartbroken at work on Thursday.’ As she poured hot water into the mugs she took a furtive look over her shoulder.

‘Was he really? The poor man. What did he say?’

Stella clenched her fist and whispered, ‘yes,’ then turned to face her friend. Using all her amateur dramatics skills she put on her tragic face and relayed the conversation she’d had with Martin in the office.

‘He said that he felt totally and utterly devastated. He said he wouldn’t hurt you for the world. He said he thought you were the most wonderful person he had ever met, and he doubted he would ever get a chance to be with anyone like you again. He said he had ruined his undeserved extra chance and he thinks he’ll become a monk.’

Petra’s eyes brimmed with tears. ‘Oh the poor man, tell him not to be so hard on himself, it was only a dress...Okay, two dresses. He’s a lovely person; it’s just that poltergeist that follows him everywhere.’

‘Stella patted Petra’s knee. ‘Tell him yourself, love. I said I’d try to get him an opportunity to apologise in the flesh. Shall I tell him Saturday night? You two were made for each other.’

Petra cursed and hit the steering wheel hard. 'Stupid bloody car.'

She took her mobile phone from her bag , pressed 9 on the speed dial and spoke to the RAC helpdesk. If it were anyone but me it would be funny. Who else has the RAC on their speed dial?

The girl on the desk promised that the van would be with her in twenty minutes. An hour later, the now familiar orange van pulled up in front of her. The mechanic opened her door and stuck his head inside. ‘Hi Petra, long time no see.’

‘Hello Colin. It’s been two whole days now, hasn’t it?’

Colin laughed, pulled the lever to open the bonnet and busied himself with the engine. After trying a couple of starts he gave her the bad news. ‘Your alternator’s had it.’

Petra groaned. ‘That must be the only original part of the car left. Is it going to be expensive?’

‘Define expensive. It could be worse I suppose. It could have been the gearbox.’

‘Been there, done that,’ Petra replied. ‘Can you get me going? I’ll get the local garage to pick it up again. They are talking about fitting a homing device.’

Martin was waiting at his gate as she pulled up. ‘Not the car again?’

Petra nodded sadly. ‘It’s always the bloody car. My life revolves around the RAC man and the mechanic, people are beginning to talk.’

‘Martin laughed quietly. ‘Why don’t you let me have a look at it for you? I’m still a dab hand with the spanners.’

Petra shook her head quickly. If he can ruin dresses like that, what could he do to a car?

‘It’s okay, Martin,' she said. 'The garage I use have had it so many times now, I get mate’s rates.'

Martin led her into the house. ‘I thought we might have a quiet dinner then watch a DVD. Nothing messy, just prawn salad then fish and veg. No gravy to spill all over you.’

Petra grinned. 'Jeans and jumper tonight, spill away.’

Martin led her outside onto his patio and handed her a glass of Merlot. Petra sipped the wine and wandered down the garden past rows of neat flower beds. At the bottom was a large shed. Parked outside, on a small lawn, was a gleaming motocross bike.

‘I didn’t know you were into motocross, Martin.’ Petra turned, wide eyed, as he strolled down towards her.

‘I’ve been into it since I could first ride a bike,’ he said. ‘I got my first one at sixteen.’

‘Both my brothers had trial bikes,’ she said happily. 'They used to let me ride them sometimes. I got quite good.’

Martin seemed delighted.

At last, something they had in common?

‘Would you like to have a go on this one?' he offered. 'There’s a track on the waste ground over the back. We could go after dinner.’

Petra grinned. ‘Fabulous,’ she enthused. ‘I’m so excited. It’s been years since I rode a bike.’

Over dinner Martin asked Petra to bring her car round to his garage. ‘Let my lads have a look at it,' he pleaded. 'We have a fully computerised testing system. I think it’s high time someone sorted that thing out for you once and for all. I’ll throw in mate’s rates too.’

Petra thought about it for a moment, then agreed. 'Thank you Martin. Between them, that bloody car and my wardrobe are bankrupting me.'

After dinner Martin and Petra walked the bike round to the wasteland behind his house. ‘What do you think?’ asked Martin. ‘Pretty cool, hey?’

Petra was amazed. Laid out before them was a vast expanse of grass and mud. Here and there were small hillocks, old piles of earth that had been left behind when the estate was built. A greasy muddy track ran through the whole area. She turned to Martin, opening her eyes wide. ‘They couldn’t have built a better track if they’d planned it.’

Martin grinned. ‘Me first. I’ll show you the best way round. Hang on, she takes a bit of kicking up.’

Petra stood aside while Martin tried to start the bike. It took four attempts before the engine burst into life. Martin lifted the front wheel, revved the engine and pulled away with a roar. Mud, grass, and worse, flew out from under the back wheel, covering Petra from head to foot in greasy, clinging slime.

Oblivious, Martin raced off. He was clearly in his element. After a hundred yards he planted his foot, skidded, and bought the bike round to face her. The rebel yell froze in his throat as he stared at her. She looked a picture of misery.

Martin closed his eyes and cursed. I must have broken a hundred mirrors to get luck like this.

Slowly he made his way back across the muddy ground. As he got closer he relaised that Petra wasn’t crying. The tremors that racked her body were not brought on by tears, but laughter. Martin dropped the bike and walked over to her.

Petra scraped a handful of mud from her jeans and threw it at him. ‘Okay, Martin,’ she laughed, hardly able to get her breath. ‘I give up. Let’s take on this poltergeist together.’

Bio:
TRACY'S HOT MAIL! Release date 20th January 2012. Published by Crooked Cat Publishing
http://www.crookedcatpublishing.com

Stanley Stickle Hates Homework. The new book from Trevor Forest
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Peggy Larkin’s War, Abigail Pink’s Angel, Magic Molly and Faylinn Frost and the Snow Fairies available in paperback and eBook at my book store.

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2012-02-15T00:35:00.002-08:00

An Illicit Romance

Julie-Ann Corrigan

Hazelnut Latte with a sprinkling of nut meg - a guilty pleasure

Margarita was standing in the kitchen brewing the morning coffee. She spent as much time scooping it back out of the filter as she did putting it in.

Graham said she always used too much coffee. Making the coffee had always been Graham’s job in the mornings, but since her early retirement, it had become her job.

Margarita flinched even now at the word retirement.

Graham appeared in the kitchen; tie neat, hair slicked forward too much over his bald patch, ‘What are you up to today?’ He was adding more water to the thick liquid Margarita had handed to him. It was still too strong.

‘Today’s the loft day. I’m finally going to sort my box,’ she said, eyeing up her husband’s tampered-with coffee. ‘I really wish you’d boarded the loft before now, it’s going to be awful clambering about up there – I’m not getting any younger, you know.’

‘I know.’ Graham looked too hard at Margarita’s sensible dressing gown. ‘You know how it is with work and everything, never enough time.’ Did he expect her to board the loft, seeing as she wasn’t working? ‘Don’t worry I’ll do it this weekend. Just don’t nag me.’ He poured the coffee down the sink and kissed his wife. ‘Leave your box today Marg. Don’t go ferreting around up there until I’ve boarded it for you, okay?’

‘Okay.’ Margarita replied.

* * *

Margarita had been in the cramped loft for what felt like hours.

Getting older was no fun, she thought, as she took a too large step to get to the next plank. She ignored the pull in her calf muscle, determined to get to the enormous box that was perched precariously at the far end of the loft.

The aches in her body dulled as she contemplated the fun she was going to have looking at all the old photos; reading letters from friends.

She’d thought after her retirement, she’d have all the time in the world. There were so many things she wanted to do; a whole world left to explore, maybe research her family history. And … rediscover her passionate love for her husband.

Graham was ten years younger than Margarita. It had never been a problem, ever. Until she retired. Until then their easy love and comradeship had seemed to offset any friction that might have occurred because of their respective busy jobs. Friends were continually telling them how lucky they were to rub along so easily together.

Some of these same friends hinted at their childlessness and how much easier it was for them - because they didn’t have children. Margarita and Graham were unbothered by these early cutting remarks. They married because they loved each other. Children were secondary to their needs. So when children never happened, neither of them was at all concerned.

Margarita paused in her loft quest and allowed herself to reminisce thinking of those early days; fending off the ‘when are you having children?’ remarks.

Margarita continued to pull the box along the loft. It snagged on a plank, looked unsteady for a moment, but was then sitting in front of her. There, she’d got it. Her excitement at finally conquering the box was overshadowed by thoughts of her husband. This box was filled with memories; of holidays and special occasions. They took few photos these days, probably because they did so little together. He was consumed by his job, never really wanting to take holidays, too tired to socialise.

Margarita was desperate to start seeing the world now she had the time, but she only felt strangely trapped by her freedom. Graham had another ten years left at work. How could she wait that long?

Margarita had been a physiotherapist all of her life. Her job had demanded organisation and efficiency. She was straightforward but knew one of her more unappealing traits was her need to be in control. Since she had more time on her hands, this trait had manifested itself into bossiness.

She knew this because Graham had told her so only the other day. In all fairness, he had qualified his comment by saying that is was her bossiness that had first attracted him to her.

Margarita had by now taken the battered box out of the loft. She sat on the landing, made herself as comfortable as possible and tentatively opened the lid.

In one encompassing glance, she viewed the whole of their marriage. She tucked arthritic knees under her chin and began.

The most recent correspondence and photos lay on the top. Margarita put her hand and forearm down into the depths of the box and pulled the last twenty years out. As it spilled onto the floor, she pushed it out of the way with her foot. She dug again into the box, retrieving their first ten years of life together. The part she, more than ever today, was compelled to examine.

There it was. What she’d been subconsciously waiting to find.

A faded black and white photograph of a much younger Margarita with a broad, blonde-haired young man. They were sitting on a grassy embankment. In the background was the old Victorian building in which Margarita had worked and then managed for over twenty-five years. Just by looking at the old photo, she saw the sheer love, the determination of youth as the pair gazed at each other.

She had all but forgotten about her illicit romance. Sitting on her immaculately clean landing, old feelings flourished. The pain in her knees disappeared as quickly as the adrenaline had begun to flow.

Margarita was now, quite furiously, pulling out other photographs. There was a batch taken in the old gymnasium of the Physiotherapy Department; lots of images of the statuesque blonde man. With her experienced physiotherapist’s eye, she saw the pain in the young man’s eyes as he struggled to walk with the aid of the bars. The photographs represented the recovery from the horrific injuries he’d sustained from his motorbike accident. Margarita vividly remembered his slow and painful journey. She was in many of the photos. She was his physiotherapist and as she fell in love with her blonde patient, she’d felt his pain as if it were her own. The surgeons, in their usual pessimistic way had told him he would never walk again. Margarita was determined to prove them wrong. She used all her skills to rehabilitate him to his full potential. It took a long time.

But in the end, neither of them minded how long it took. Because each day in the Rehabilitation Centre represented another day in which they could be together. Another day they could fall more in love.

Another day in which she could well be, severely disciplined.

She pulled out another photograph, this time of herself and a tall, elegant woman, well into her fifties. Her old boss. By only looking at the photo, she felt the dread. She remembered clearly the day she’d been called into Mrs Clealand’s office.

She’d been made to wait outside for a good twenty minutes before her formidable boss called her in. It was a ruse Margarita and her young collegues knew well. ‘Makes you more acquiescent, you know.’ Josie had once observed. ‘You’re so bloody terrified by the time she gets you in there you’ll do anything she bloody well asks.’

Margarita thought briefly of the now dead Josie and quickly felt guilty that she’d not thought of her for years. How could she have forgotten Josie?

But like many things, she had forgotten.

Margarita finally sat down in Mrs Cleland’s office; the smell of cinnamon biscuits putting her at dangerous ease.

‘So, Mrs Hepworth, you appear to be achieving marvellous results with our young motorcycle boy.’ Margarita didn’t know if it was a compliment or not. Did Mrs ‘See-Everything’ know about her and the patient?

‘Yes,’ was all she could muster as redness seeped up above her starched white uniform.

‘Margarita, you are very young and very married. You have a marvellous career ahead of you. What are you doing?’

Margarita had no idea what to say. She was ashamed; she felt like an idiot, but was beyond rational thought.

‘I love him, Mrs Clealand, and he loves me. I’m going to get a divorce.’ Margarita didn’t know who was more shocked at this statement, Mrs Clealand or herself. Only for a moment did she worry her blonde Adonis felt the same.

There was a barely audible tap on the door, Mrs Clealand snapped, ‘Come in!’

The blonde head poked around the door, news travelled fast around the Rehabilitation centre. His voice was strong and clear. Margarita loved him even more.

‘Mrs Clealand, is there something we need to discuss?’ He glanced at Margarita reassuringly.

‘Yes, there is.’ She pulled herself up to her full height, ‘You’ve made a substantial recovery under the care of one of my best and most promising junior member of staff.’ Her face softened. ‘As the Senior Physiotherapist here, I will be discharging you from her care, as of today.’ Mrs Clealand pretended to shuffle some papers and not looking at either of them carried on, ‘I know nothing, I only hope you both know what you are doing. Please leave now – and Margarita, make sure you finish your morning duties, you have a busy afternoon ahead of you.’

Margarita still remembered how despondent and yet at the same time, euphoric she’d felt. Mrs Clealand was not going to sack her, but she still had to confront her young husband and more terrifying, her own mother.

Divorce was still a dirty word in the early seventies … at least it was in Margarita’s middle-class family.

Margarita’s career had weathered the considerable storm. Not that many years after the illicit affair and a convivial divorce, she was chosen as Mrs Clealands natural successor. Mrs Clealand had called her a born leader and Margarita’s career blossomed. Margarita smiled at Josie’s response to her promotion, ‘You still don’t get to boss me around missy.’ No one bossed Josie around, only the blonde Adonis had got away with that. Again Margarita felt guilty about not remembering her old friend enough. She made a mental note to visit her grave with Graham later that week.

Thinking of her contemporary husband brought Margarita away from her nostalgia. She looked at the time, ‘Goodness, I really must go and start making dinner,’ she said to herself. She unfolded stiff knees, pushed everything into a corner picking up only a few photographs to peer at downstairs whilst cooking. She couldn’t help it.

* * *

She hadn’t left herself enough time to prepare the casserole and felt a little bit cross with herself. She’d spent too much time upstairs; tripping down memory lane. Graham wouldn’t say a thing – she knew – but nevertheless she felt guilty. In the old days before she had retired they would have laughed and sent out for a takeaway. But for some reason now she felt she should be keeping the home fires burning, her mother’s voice reverberating in her head.

She heard Graham’s Jaguar pull into the drive. Maybe they could have eggs on toast.

‘I’m home Marg!’ Graham shouted. As he entered the kitchen, he brought in a strong smell of autumnal evening air.

Margarita quickly pushed the old photographs underneath the newspaper. She had a feeling this wasn’t the best time to be showing them to Graham. He didn’t look quite his usual self.

‘Are you all right, darling? You look a little distracted.’ She forgot about her day and concentrated on her husband.

‘Had a bit of strange day, as it happens,’ Graham undid his tie and uncharacteristically, threw it onto the kitchen table. ‘It would seem Marg, that I’ll be joining you in retirement.’

Graham appeared older than when he had left for work earlier in the day.

‘I don’t understand – you don’t want to retire yet, do you?’

‘Well no - not really. The company’s been taken over and most of the over fifties, in middle management, well, have been given a very lucrative retirement package.’

‘Including you?’

‘Yes, definitely including me.’

Margarita thought for a terrible moment he was going to cry. She noticed the way he limped along the kitchen; his bad leg always got worse when something was bothering him; as though the burdens on his mind affected the damaged muscles in his body. Mind and body always truly connected.

Graham sat down heavily. He pulled the newspaper towards the end of the table pretending the conversation was over; Margarita’s day’s work slid out. The faded photos dropped onto Grahams lap.

An invitation to sort things out.

‘You’ve been busy.’ Graham said. ‘I told you I’d fix the loft … this weekend.’

Margarita felt a pang of guilt. She knew that doing the loft was a major exercise for Graham. Her gaze trailed down to his bad leg; she felt guiltier than ever. It bothered him more than he would ever let on. It was too much … she expected too much.

He still hadn’t looked at the photographs.

Margarita studied her husband, at the same time trying to find the right words to soothe his slightly bruised ego regarding his unexpected news.

‘Maybe it’s not a bad thing Graham – you know, being retired.’ She looked at him for reassurance and carried on, ‘We can spend more time together, go and see the world.’ His expression softened, she felt she could make a joke, like she used to, ‘Maybe you can start making the coffee again in the mornings.’

As Graham chuckled, he began to look at Margarita’s photos; staring intently at the black and white fading image of Margarita and the blonde Adonis. It was as if a shadow had crossed his face.

Margarita sat directly opposite her husband … and waited.

‘It must be over twenty-five years, Margarita.’ He glanced at his beloved wife. ‘You haven’t changed at all.’

‘No, I have my mother’s genes, I think.’ She got up and walked behind his chair, peering at the photo with him, ‘It’s your hair, Graham – you have so much less of it now.’

‘Mmm – and it’s considerably whiter.’ He encircled her waist with his arm and hugged her like he hadn’t done for a while. ‘It seems like only yesterday, yet at the same time, a lifetime ago.’

‘Can you remember that day in Mrs Clealand’s office? You came in like a knight in shining armour and “saved” me. I knew then that we’d grow old together.’

‘Margarita, you never needed saving, that’s why I fell in love with you.’

‘We were a bit naughty weren’t we? An illicit romance - who would think it – looking at us now?’ Margarita started to giggle uncontrollably. Graham got up, now not limping and kissed her.

‘Well, my darling we’d better start planning some holidays, don’t you think?’

Margarita knew they would be all right.

Together they always got through everything.

Bio:

Julie-Ann writes short stories and articles. She has had short stories published in collections and one of her recent articles was published in Beat Magazine (see her interview with Laura Wilkinson here:

She has recently completed her first novel and is now working on her second.

Unexpected Attentions

2012-02-14T09:25:00.002-08:00

Lucy Oliver

Mint Tea

Theflowers were unexpected.

Phil never sent me flowers when I was his girlfriend, Amy thought, looking at the pinkand white roses from her favourite florist. Smiling, she touched the blooms,brushing soft petals against her fingertips. Briefly, she was able to forgether tears of the last week; the hours spent on the sofa cuddling her mobilephone, willing it to ring.

Arrangingthe flowers in a vase, she picked up her mobile and typed a single word,THANKS. Her finger hovered over the send button, but the phone suddenly beepedand erased the message. Maybe it was too soon to call? She glanced atthe cupboard that still held his books, at his coat hanging by the door. Shehadn’t tried to return them. He would have to come back - then they could talk,sort out the argument that had started petty, but escalated into something farmore damaging. Amy touched her phone, aware that she had been working too late,coming home irritable and expecting him to have cooked dinner.

Closingher eyes, she dozed.

Therattle of the letterbox woke her and as she moved, Amy looked down to see herphone nestled against her heart and realised she must have picked it up in hersleep.

Anenvelope lay on the hall floor. It held a ticket for a romance film- the typeshe loved, and Phil hated.

Well that hasn’t changed, she thought, looking at the singlestub.

Amysat in the dark cinema, wondering if she would find him behind her - smiling,saying he was sorry. Her phone beeped a couple of times, annoyingly at theromantic bits, but never rang. She put it on the chair beside her and itstopped beeping, seeming happier. She assumed Phil would be waiting in thefoyer, but he wasn’t and she drove home feeling angry and a fool. Why had heleft her sitting alone?

Acard waited on the doormat when she got back - a special delivery envelope froman internet company. It had a picture of a blue teddy holding a mobile phone.

Inside,it was blank except for a single printed heart. Amy smiled, Phil had alwaysjoked she loved her phone more than she did him. Maybe he intended the cinematicket as a gift; a film he thought she might like to see.

Shetook a deep breath and called his number. Oddly, her mobile switched off,remaining silent in her hand.

Battery,she thought, picking up her landline and dialling.

‘Amy!’Phil said. ‘I wanted to call, but I was afraid of making things worse. I loveyou.’

‘Ilove you too,’ Amy said, looking at his coat hanging beside her, reaching outto touch it.

‘Doyou fancy celebrating Valentine’s Day with me tomorrow?’

‘Yes,I would.’

‘I’llpick you up at eight. Oh, and you might want to check with that florist you use,they’ve put a transaction on my credit card, but I haven’t ordered flowerssince Mother’s Day.’

Amyput the phone down and then jumped as she heard a loud bang behind her. Smokedrifted up from the sofa and she gasped, staring at the charred remains of hermobile phone. The cover had exploded outwards, forming two flaps in the shapeof a burned out heart.

Bio:

Lucy Oliver is published in Take a Break andStories for Children magazines, as well as various anthologies. She won Stylistmagazine's Micro Fiction competition and is currently working on a historicalnovel.

Love Letter

2012-02-13T13:09:00.000-08:00

Roger Noons

Cocktail Valentino - with paraquat

You sent me a notelet, it had a picture of red roses. It was in an envelope with a first class stamp. You addressed me as dear, in your best handwriting. Your perfume lingered on the paper. I was hesitant to read it, fearing the worst. But then you said you loved me and would do so forever. You added lots of kisses for your beloved Alan. But my name is Malcolm

My Darling

Cocktail Valentino

When you walked from the shower, your hair, soft, wet, dark brown ringlets; I fell in love with you all over again. When you smiled and let the white, fluffy towel fall to the floor, I melted. I could not speak. You looked so beautiful and you told me you loved me. It was unbelievable. I was afraid to touch you, in case you weren’t real. Then you spoke my name, MY NAME.

BIO - Roger Noons began writing in 2006, when he completed a screenplay, for a friend who is an amateur film maker. After the film was made, he wrote further scripts, then began short stories and poems. He occasionally produces non fiction, particularly memoirs from his long career in Environmental Health.

Did you like our story? Thne you might like to buy our collection, available in paperback and on Kindle. Remember, every copy sold helps the Creative Café Project.

2012-02-08T03:45:00.001-08:00

StillWater

Leanne Bridgewater

Alas.A bellowing. To the bragged, bridgend sends the river rushing blood flows
Comes to surface, ashard of glass, cribbed between the ribs. One more right in the heart.

Thecentre of attention. Only the echo of a hollow expression can take up theoffer. There's a rumbling sensation. Tries to shift from centerpiece but theornamental may be instituted, into broken pieces. In downward motion, acollision. The heart splatters bats like cave(wo)men out of caves. For thebreast shivers in sight, like a moth being attacked.
Move forth through rocky sands. These sands were all rocks once. Now, a mixtureof elements. What's beneath is a blur. A movie picture. Tones of low, selfesteem, motion, light beams into chemical pits. Strips of glass tease the body.Tear away in the skin. Mark a territory. Alas, a map. Yet no way home.

Sincere greed and needs to deal with. One may feel alone, and be washed ashore,naked and cold. Still, has a warm heart that is eager to have a whole world.Then, dangers it could all be put out. Some one or thing, whether wind or oral,of the sky or being may blow it out. Like a candle. Yet the wish may not betaken. The celebration is not equal. Does not come close. May not take up theoffer of a dance? Might not we move and sway like sea creatures, but a'floatdead bodied in a bracket trap - only to be caught in the sentence yet easilytaken out as, not being a necessity. Scattered brain collapse, into amore. Pickup not the bad pieces, but bad apples.

Juice of life: is a cause for concern. Move further away from the addiction. Toplace a placebo in the emotion, which is thrown around the bends. Bruises bethe water brigade. Any fire to put out?
When the wind blows, over drout. Thirst seizes, more yawns = a radicalunwakening. No sense gallops into evolution, without succesion of a sadbusiness occupator. Whether that be the accounts worker or the funeraldirection.

Direction of the river is non-understandable, somewhat interesting. Having onlylungs to breath in the rapid air. Gasping... for a brew. Sugar is the option.Is life sweet enough, or even the person in the shoes we can see if we lookdown. Or no shoes, may be the case. Came across two people in life that wearnothing on feet. They be a poet and a musician. Admirance goes out to them likea radio receiving signal. No fuzz on the TV.

Harvest's the bad thoughts. An acorn for every one upon the head. An abashment,laid the lumps upon the skull and skin. They will be the sugar.

When hyperventilating, the life lived so far flashes, with sweat that drips asif the memory's leaking out of you. By now, forth the saddest drown. It's as ifyour body's beat the guts out of a gymnasium. As we know, it is theunmechanical manual everyday that is the exercise.

Peers the ees lids and singe the lashes. Memories go in flashes. All areimagined as single boats. Which one to get upon. May one take self to a happyplace? If not, combined thoughts soon run like steam out of kettle. The soundof a rocket, forcing you to choose. If not a rocket, then as piece, item be atimer. Time is running out. The alert has struck. They have called battleship.

Time lapse. Laser quests don't impress the stark that strikes. Flood lights.

Bio:
Leanne Bridgewater is 22 and is currentlystudying for her MA in Creative Writing. Her work is very poetic,passionate about visuals and sounds.

Chubby Little Cheeks

2012-02-07T06:51:00.001-08:00

Sarah Bakewell

Espresso

Herehe is. He’s perfect. My little boy, my first child, my son. Here in my arms. Icould hold him forever. All the pain I experienced bringing him into this worldis now irrelevant, forgotten. I’m engulfed by love. I feel nothing other thanlove for my baby boy. My surroundings have faded into nothing; they do notmatter. Nothing matters other than him now. Just my son.

Hehas a mop of thick, black hair, like his father. His small eyes are shut, buthe has beautifully long eyelashes. I long to see his eyes, no doubt they willbe as perfect as the rest of him, but I dare not disturb him simply to seewhose eyes he has inherited; grey-green, like mine, or bright, sparkling blue,like his father? He has an adorable button nose with a tiny beauty spot just underneathhis left nostril. His ears are quite dainty. He has a small closed mouth andchubby little cheeks. His baby skin is so new and fresh, so smooth. He smellsdelicious. I hold him close to me.

Hehas five perfect fingers on each squishy hand, and five tiny toes on eachminiature foot. So delicate and fragile. His perfectly formed arms lay crossedon his rounded stomach underneath his blanket. He has inherited the long leggene of the other males on my side of the family.

Mybaby is beautiful. He is perfect. His eyes remain shut.

Mysurroundings slowly begin to drift back into place as muttered conversationdisturbs the peaceful world which only my son and I share. I want to look upand shout at whoever has interrupted such a precious moment but I cannot takemy eyes away from my son. How can I look away? My anger is washed away in aninstant; I continue to stare at him. His eyes do not flicker.

Isteal away from thoughts of my son growing up and try to re-piece my scenery,although I do not remove my eyes from my baby. I am still in my hospital bed ina delivery room. It is dark outside - I cannot remember if it was light when Idelivered my baby. I could have been sat here silently for hours, just holdingmy son. I recognise the hushed tones of my husband near the foot of my bed anda female voice I do not. Perhaps the midwife is still here? I can’t think whyshe would be.

Ithink of my son’s room waiting for him at home. My husband’s study is nowbarely identifiable; a shade of canary yellow occupies the previously creamwalls, with an additional colourful border of farmyard animals. The smallwooden cot situated against a wall adjacent to the window is filled with softtoys and blankets. A baby monitor is attached to one of the bars with itspartner on my bedside table. The shelving unit opposite the cot, once home tomy husband’s various work related files, folders and papers now stores nappies,dummies, clothes, bottles, bibs… Anything my baby could need. The room needs tohave a baby in it.

‘I’dlike to take him home now,’ I say quietly but firmly, still not taking my eyesoff him. A heavy silence fills the room. I hear the slow, steady footsteps ofmy husband as he walks up to the head of the bed where I sit in my hospitalgown, propped up by two pillows, holding his son. Our son. My son.

‘Darling…’he struggles to find anymore words, so instead, places a hand on my shoulderand gives it a squeeze. I painfully tear my gaze away from my son to look up atmy husband. His usually bright blue eyes have lost their sparkle. They glistenwith tears. They look sore, as if he’s been crying for some time. He looksdistraught, exhausted, and apologetic.

‘I’dlike to take my son home now, please,’ I say to him calmly, looking deep intohis magnificent blue eyes before turning my attention back to my baby. Hehasn’t moved.

‘I’mso sorry,’ whispers the midwife, ‘but you can’t take him home.’

Ilook up at her, suddenly furious, cradling my son tightly to my chest. Who isshe to deny this simple wish? I study the woman who believes she can prevent mefrom taking my baby home. She is a plump woman, rather short, with tight mouseybrown curls. She too looks as though she has been crying. A tell-tale tearescapes from one of her small puffy red eyes and glides silently down her rosycheek. I am his mother. And I want to take him home.

‘Heis my baby. My son. He’s coming home with me.’

‘Sweetheart…’begins my husband, but again words fail him. He eventually settles with, ‘I’mso sorry.’

Ilook from my husband to the midwife and back again, then I look at my baby boyagain. He lies in my arms perfectly still, in the same position as before. Hiseyes are shut.

Icannot let go of my son. How can anybody seriously suggest that I leave himhere? I’m his mother. He is not staying here. I need him. I love him. He ismine. My perfect little boy.

They’ve given up. I have not. I can’t lethim go. He is mine; he grew from nothing inside me. I felt him moving andwriggling and kicking. They don’t understand.

Sincehe was born, he has not opened his eyes, nor moved, nor cried. My newborn babyhas not cried. He never will. I will never hear his cry. He will never look athis mother. He will never open his eyes. My perfectly formed, beautiful babyboy does not have a heartbeat anymore. His first breath will never come. Icannot let him go, because I’m afraid I will never hold him again.

Icradle my baby tightly and cry.

Bio: Sarah Bakewell is a 21 year old English andCreative Writing student at the University of Salford. She has had a passionfor writing since childhood and enjoys reading and writing snappy, short piecesof fiction. 'Chubby Little Cheeks' is her first published short story.

William

2012-02-06T03:37:00.001-08:00

WILLIAM

Roger Noons

Old-fashioned Lemonade

William visits us twice each week, on a Tuesday and a Friday. He brings milk, cream and cheese, from a dairy at a farm on the other side of the village. My mother says ‘he’s not quite the thing’, but he is always polite and respectful: touches his cap when he bids us good day and farewell. He is profuse with his thanks when my mother hands him the two shillings, and adds, ‘there’s a threepenny bit for yourself William.’

I have no idea how old he is, but I have never seen him near the school. He is taller than me, but exhibits no sign as yet, that he has begun to scrape a razor over his chin. On the rare occasions I catch sight of him in the village, he is alone, and seems intent on his mission: head down and walking at a brisk pace.

I encountered him one Saturday morning. Having been set a project by my teacher, I visited the lake, two meadows beyond the Hall. Walking slowly and quietly along the pathway, I looked up and there through the reeds and mace, saw William seated on a basket, fishing rod in his hands. I waved, but he was not distracted.

I made my way around to him and as I approached, spoke his name in little over a whisper. He looked up, smiled and cast his eyes back down to the bulbous, scarlet float which bobbed on the surface of the water, some five yards from where he sat.

‘Any luck?’ I asked, again quietly.

His head shook furiously, but he did not turn towards me.

‘What bait are you using?’

He proffered a tin containing a wriggling of white and cream maggots, red and brown pupae, amid a modicum of sawdust.

‘Well I hope it improves,’ I said and carefully slipped away to rejoin the path and continue my circumnavigation of the pool.

My task was to visit a ‘stretch’ of water - an apt description, as this morning the surface had an apparent elasticity - and write either a poem, or a composition, about what I saw, heard, smelled or touched. Taste had been steadfastly ignored, as no doubt Miss Robbins was nervous, lest one of her pupils ingest some poisonous plant material.

When I reached a point almost opposite William’s position, I sat on an old stump, took out my notebook and pencil, and screwed up my eyes, the better to contemplate the view. The sun was concentrating its rays on burning through a thin layer of cloud, creating a pale, but warming spotlight, on a clump of reeds to my left. As I wrote, I was distracted by a clumsy heron, who flew unconvincingly up to his ramshackle residence atop a swaying sycamore. In profile, I spied a fish without his beak, as he delivered the sustenance to his partner.

Above the surface of the water, insects were dancing, St. Vitas style, to the hum of wasps and a distant tractor. I heard a ‘plop’ as no doubt a small mammal chose a watery pathway, to avoid a two footed creature who was trespassing on it’s beat. I closed my eyes, the best to use my nose, but little arrived, except the sweetness associated with warming grasses and accompanying vegetation. I changed to my ears, and on concentrating, located a myriad of birdsong. Alas, though I had been trained by Collins, it was my eyes only that afforded recognition.

I stood, meaning to continue my journey and observed William. He was now standing, his rod uplifted and the line taut, seemingly attempting to drag him from the bank. I ran back to where he was and grasped him, around the waist, as he teetered on the edge. The line broke and we fell, me on top, and we rolled into a bed of nettles. I scrambled to my feet.

‘Are you alright William?’

He looked dazed, his face bright red, his right hand still gripping the fishing rod. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘thank you Gloria.’

A Year of Rain

2012-02-02T04:39:00.000-08:00

Lucy Oliver

Espresso

Alice stared at the porch, newly built and smelling of fresh wood shavings. Above it workmen had nailed bright red slates that gleamed in vivid crimson under the sunlight.

The people who had bought the burnt out shell never saw the yellow-red flames that haunted Alice’s dreams.

She heard a thud and turned, seeing her husband kick a beam lying in the grass, his hand touching the pocket where he had once kept cigarettes.

They had never returned, until today.

“It’s time,” she had told him and Phil nodded, understanding her.

Resting a hand on her stomach, Alice wandered around the garden gazing intently at the flowerbeds she had tended. It seemed strange to her that the plants remained unchanged. Leaning down, she touched the grass, tracing her fingers through the wet spikes, touching where her hands last clutched. She drew a sharp breath hoping that the scent of talc and raspberry shampoo had somehow lingered through the year of rain.

She remembered watching Ella riding her bike across the grass. It was past dinnertime and crossly opening the white framed window, she had shouted, “You’re late!”

Ella threw her cycle to the ground.

“Pick it up,” Alice said.

“After dinner!” Ella said, jumping up the porch steps.

They had shared a big dish of pasta, the family of three, before Alice tucked Ella into her bed.

“Sleep well my darling,” she said.

She and Phil dozed in the lounge.

On the back porch, the cigarette must have started smouldering.

The fire fighters pulled them out.

“Just in time,” the man said, putting a plastic mask across her face.

She formed the word, ‘Ella,’ with scorched lips, but her throat had swollen and no sound emerged.

They found the child twenty minutes later, peaceful and asleep. Never to wake.

Ella, always late.

Snowdrops now nestled in the grass, opening tiny white heads over the familiar earth. Minute springs of soft, pale new grass emerged. Alice felt a kick - hard and alive - against her belly, then a tightening under her abdomen. Pressing her lips together, she rubbed her stomach, winching as the sharp cramps clenched deep into her body, accepting them as both a penance and a gift.

Turning, she saw Phil looking at her and recognised the expression in his eyes; the look she knew filled her own. He was her emotional mirror image - the only one who hurt as she did, who could possibly understand how she felt.

He came over and placed his warm hand against her midriff. Her womb contracted at his touch and she moaned. Rocking on her heels, she inhaled the sweet scent of flowers from the garden until the pain began to ease.

“It’s time,” Phil said. “We have to go.”

Alice wiped her cheeks and leant down to touch the ground once more.“Good bye, my darling,” she said. “We miss you.”

Bio:

Lucy Oliver is published in Take a Break and Stories for Children magazines, as well as various anthologies. She won Stylist magazine's Micro Fiction competition and is currently working on a historical novel.

Writer’s Block

2012-01-31T07:50:00.000-08:00

Writer’s Block

Marie Fullerton

Strong black coffee (and plenty of it!)

Writer’s block, procrastination, what’s the difference?

Well I suppose one is deliberate or otherwise … yeah…. delaying tactics and the other is…. well, writer’s block!

****

‘Here she goes again. I just get excited and, well I mean, how often do you get written? Let me tell you, it’s a once in a lifetime thing. And after all, it isn’t as if there’s a shortage of storylines, is there? I do my best to shove things under her nose then something just drifts into her head and I’m history… again! Totally unreasonable I say, and before you start harping on about writer’s block spare a thought for me for a change. I mean, I’m the story, have you any idea what it’s like not to make it to thought level?

****

Now this is a new challenge for me, bit of an oxymoronic situation here – me? Write about writer’s block when I am the queen of it. Thank you to those that made the suggestion.

OK, I’m gonna get serious. Take an image …say… a bath…. ask questions. Is it full, empty, new, old, plastic, ceramic, chipped? Who is running it? Why? Is she going to pamper herself soaking in hot bubbles with candles around the bath? Or is he planning to drown the kittens? What if the floor gives way and the bath is upstairs? What if…. he wants to be romantic and share the bath… but she slams his head against the tiles and knocks him unconscious before letting him slip, or pushing him, under the water – ‘ He slipped when we were, you know ….. I couldn’t hold him, sob, by the time the water had drained (and I had put my robe on and smoked a cigarette.) he wasn’t breathing, I tried to hold him above water but I …. I feel so awful, I killed him didn’t I? I couldn’t help him!

****

‘Hooray! She’s got one, now I am real! In existence! I can relax while she gets on with it.’

****

Hmmm, trouble is that’s been done before …. There is one thing that has always fascinated me though. Where do all the shoes on the motorway come from? They always seem to be men’s, you know, trainers. There must be a story there. He he, that reminds me of a time when I was scrounging a lift from a neighbour, her small son decided he didn’t want to go to school that day and so proceeded to extricate himself from his clothes and attempt to sling them out of the window. Until his mother closed the window that is. By the time he had arrived at this posh public school, he was down to his underpants. Don’t know how I didn’t laugh. We managed to retrieve the majority of them, well minus his cap and I left them to go and explain why they were late to the ….

****

‘What! What the hell is this? I turn my back thinking I am going to be a delightful murder mystery and she starts rambling on about some delinquent kid next door… Sheesh!’

****

This is hopeless. My head is buzzing trying to conjure up this story, I can’t decide.

‘Mum!’ a voice escalates from downstairs.

‘What’s for breakfast?’

At seventeen, Tabitha is old enough to sort herself out. I take a deep breath and let out a long sigh before I answer.

‘I am getting ready for work, you’ll have to get your own.’

‘I’m gonna be late, I have to be at Hannah’s or I’ll have to walk.’

The cupboard door slams and a cup falls off the rack smashing into tiny fragments on the tiled floor.

‘Now look what you made me do!’

I resist yelling, refusing to be dragged into her mood.

‘Just sweep it into the corner and I’ll sort it out later – you look in the fridge and decide for yourself what you want for breakfast.’

I finish my make-up and join my daughter downstairs, not daring to look at the state of the kitchen. It will still be there when I get home, I am sure.

‘Did you find something?’ I ask.

I really cannot believe this child - rice pudding on toast! Ah well, at least she’s eaten something and seems happy. By seven am we have left the house and she’s on her way to college and I am waiting to catch the ferry across the harbour.

People are bustling and rushing around, I wonder if they have even noticed the sunrise behind the tower? Two or three gulls silhouette against the bright pink streaks that melt across the last of the night sky. The ferry is rocky this morning and the sea is rising and falling with some force but every so often it stills. The wind whips the waves and the surface looks as if a million cats are lapping at the surface. Oh look, there in the middle of it all, a solitary leaf. What on earth is a sycamore leaf doing floating in the ocean?

****

Well, that’s it! She’s lost it now – let me get this straight. I start out as a bath, right? Then a murder in the bath, then somehow I end up as an abandoned trainer on a motorway followed by a brat child that de-robes in a car on the way to school. Then, she’s off on one of her daydreams to escape from the breakfast carry on and I end up as a soggy end of some rice pudding on toast in a sea of lapping cats round part of a bloody tree in the ocean! Great! Writer’s block! Where does that leave me? I mean, I just want to be a story.

Bio:

Marie Fullerton is a retired lecturer, she has eight grown up children and she has wanted to be a writer forever. She also started painting 21 years ago and is completely self-taught. At 50 she was proud of her 2.1 BA degree for English language, literary history and creative writing at UCC and has since had several poems published in anthologies and short stories in E-zines. She is currently working on two novels. Although she has sold many paintings she has only recently tried her hand at illustrating. You can see her artwork on her Facebook page using the following link here

Blog pages: http://wordangell.wordpress.com/

http://mariesimaginings.blogspot.com/

2012-01-26T04:01:00.001-08:00

Leaving

Lindsay Bamfield

Espresso

She is leaving me and I am powerless. Nothing I can say or do will change it. Like leaves from autumn trees, my words fall away into nothing and scatter to the winds. I am left bereft of comfort. Everywhere I look there are bags and boxes of her things, ready for departure.

‘Charity shop,’ she says shortly, pointing at a large box.

‘What’s in it?’ I ask.

‘Books,’ she replies.

‘But you hate getting rid of books,’ I protest.

‘I’m not going to read them again. Let someone else enjoy them.’

‘And what about this?’ I ask looking at her beautiful winter coat that she bought only last year.

‘I’ll not need it.’

She has no time for sentimentality. Just practicalities. Does she think about her future? Does she think about my future? I’m too afraid to ask. But I think about it and I can’t find any comfort because I can’t envisage her future and see only emptiness in mine. A refrain runs through my thoughts: Why? Why now? Why ever? Why are you going? Why are you leaving?

My mind turns over and over all the times we shared: wonderful times; good times; bad times - yes, of course we had our share of those - and sad times, but nothing like the past few months. Nothing that went before was ever as bad as these past few months that are now ripping us apart.

On the outside everything looked as normal and happy as usual but the insidious power of destruction worked secretly in silence and now it has burst the banks of its containment. First she knew, then I knew and now everybody knows. My own fears, long suppressed have been given voice and I must face up to my lonely life without her. I want longer to adjust but it’s happening with a speed that I cannot comprehend.

‘Please stay.’ Sometimes I think it, sometimes I whisper it, sometimes I say it out loud and sometimes I scream it. ‘Stay, for God’s sake, stay with me. Don’t leave me.’ She looks at me with an expression I cannot read, and I know my words are useless.

When she leaves, she does so with the minimum of fuss. I say ‘I love you, I’ll always love you.’ The words I’ve used many times before. Once they made her agree to marry me, but now they cannot prevent her from leaving me. She looks at me and whispers ‘I know…’ and then she is gone.

And now time has passed and I look around me. The place is empty of her and her belongings, except the few mementos she left behind. All I have is memories. Photos and precious memories of her. I am trying to make sense of how cancer can change life to death. I hurt so much but only because I loved in equal measure.

Lindsay Bamfield is a founder member of Greenacre Writers. www.lindsaybamfield.blogspot.com

2012-01-17T08:06:00.001-08:00

LOSING MYSELF

Allison Symes

Bitter Lemon

8^th August 1999

Graxia, I owe you this. For heaven’s sake reconsider your career while you can. The Queen’s armed brigade will only give you grief. Your lineage shouldn’t mean you automatically endanger yourself because Her Nibs says so. You’ve more right than most to question her right to do so.

I escaped recruitment by our “beloved” monarch, who hasn’t realized if she ruled half way decently, she wouldn’t have her current problems. How dare she bring her human paramours to our world! And she wonders why there are riots!

I’ve had to keep moving but that’s due to the one person, who knew what I did at Red Hill, pursuing me. I’ve had to lose myself. It wasn’t a ploy to cause you problems, honestly, but I know how it looks.

By the time you get this, the long-suffering Council should have tackled your troublesome relative. Word has reached me a dragon will be involved so I’ll be safe. The one person who’s threatened me…ah… I hear the bell. I’m not expecting anyone. Damn. It is her. It’s time to fly…

29^th March 2003

Graxia, I know this is one hell of a gap since I last wrote but I’ve spent more time in muddy ditches than I care to relate. I finally bought a cottage when a hurricane came from nowhere and whisked it away as I was about to go in for tea. I should’ve stayed inside and gone to Oz! I couldn’t believe my rotten luck. I did wonder if I’d been cursed but I found no traces.

This really is the first opportunity I’ve had to write. Think back. What are your earliest memories of me? The eccentric fairy out in all weathers obsessed with flora and fauna? I knew the best way to get out of trouble was to lose myself in a new persona. The old biddy that can identify any bird anywhere and who lectures everyone on the environment… you soon get known as a bore. People avoid bores, which suited me just fine.

Had folk known I defeated Mestrinna, the legendary Chief Witch (and she is the best witch leader they’ve ever had), at Red Hill, I’d never have been left alone. And I’ve no time for the celebrity fairy circuit. Nor would I have welcomed attention from those witches miffed at the fight result! Foolishly I raced downhill to stop her destroying the village. I guess instinct took over but I wasn’t going to let her kill those villagers.

Mestrinna wanted to recruit me, see. I kept saying no so she arranged Red Hill to force me into showing my skills. I should’ve fled but couldn’t leave those poor villagers to their fate, so exposed my magic, didn’t I? I hid my face but Mestrinna laughed and said “Got you!” and threatened to use the detonation spell, meaning the end of us all for a radius of three miles, if I didn’t join her at once. I had to fight Mestrinna then. I had to win. So I did.

I knew I wasn’t out of trouble. Your aunt would’ve ensured I fought for her if she realised who, what was that in her speech, oh yes, “that heroic fairy” was. I saw what she did to other “useful” fairy godmothers. Send them out to fight foul beasts at all times and in all conditions and was she sympathetic when they came back injured, if they returned? What do you think? Don’t say she worried about the state of the realm. She should’ve worried about the state of her staff!

So I ran… I knew I dared not be myself again.

I see a shadow and it’s not mine. Bloody hell, how can she know I’m here?

5^th October 2005

Graxia, I’m doing better with my narrative now. To say my life would be ruined if my pursuer catches me is an understatement. I’m 350 years old now. I’ve spent 300 years on the run. It’s felt at least as twice as long. I thought when your aunt was eaten head first by that dragon, as I predicted (remember?), my problems might be over. Your aunt knew how to pick quarrels. Still that overgrown lizard had the last word in the end, didn’t he? And don’t act all horrified on me. I know you found your aunt difficult. We all did. Sadly this realm is better off without her.

With your aunt gone, it was felt Mestrinna would calm down (no more provocation), I thought. I must say you’ve restrained Mestrinna well since I’ve been “gone”. I’ve watched your career. And now you’re Queen… chosen by the Council … remember they selected the dragon for your aunt. Heaven help you if you rebel. To say the magical realm isn’t forgiving is an understatement. Try to understand my motives. They weren’t entirely selfish (though I will admit some were, but when has the survival instinct ever been unselfish? How can it be?).

I was your age now when I lost myself. I knew to throw folk off the scent I’d have to do it directly after Red Hill. Now it’s second nature but it wasn’t at the start. Suppressing magic is harder than you think. When your aunt was alive avoiding situations where you had to use magic was easier said than done. But I did it. Gained a reputation for cowardice. I ran at any hint of trouble to “save the wildlife”. Did I care? To begin with, yes. I was no coward at Red Hill. But then I realised the taunting helped me. Mestrinna knew she faced no coward. This coward turning up everywhere couldn’t possibly be her nemesis. With your aunt gone, I only had Mestrinna to fool. I thought that would be easy. Ha! Never presume anything. There’s an unwritten law somewhere stating you’ll be wrong. I know how true that is.

6^th October 2005

Wow! These are my first consecutive diary entries. Mestrinna is pursuing me. Could you call her off now you’re the big boss? I’ve seen her towering black hat. She always wears it. I saw it often enough when I fought her. If I hadn’t displayed magic then, she’d have killed me. Fear does that. At one point I didn’t know who I feared most – Mestrinna or your flaming aunt (though thanks to the dragon she’s no longer that). I’ve always wanted to be my own fairy. Nothing is to stop me, including you. Damn… I heard something on the roof...

10^th October 2005

Graxia, the disruption on the blasted roof was the cat from next door. It was a cat. I know the signs of a witch, fairy or wizard being another species for the evening. Let’s say that animal won’t bother me again and there’ll be fewer kittens. I know. I care about wildlife. How could I do that to a cat? Easily, since you ask. There are too many strays. Having suppressed magic and developed expert knowledge on flora and fauna, I thought that’d be it. My magic belonged to someone I’d never display again, a me that was best lost for good. Any hint of my talents might trigger inconvenient memories.

The wretched Fairy News Network shows me you’ve taken to the magical life, with its danger, and the Crown, with its pomp. I’ve developed love for the natural world, any natural world, and all I’ve suffered has been the odd bout of hayfever. Do I regret my actions? No. I’m telling you this because you accelerated through the ranks faster than you would otherwise have done thanks to my “not being available”. You owe me. Call off Mestrinna. Only you can restrain her. Your aunt put expertise above royal blood so you wouldn’t automatically have got promotion. It was no coincidence all the reward posters seeking the Red Hill heroine were never answered. Whenever I could destroy those blasted adverts, I did. I got loads of them…

11^th October 2005

It looks like I might stay here after all. This is the longest quiet period I’ve known. I’ve been here since spring and have planted daffodils and bluebells for next year. It’s a thatched place with a big garden and many feeders to attract the birds. Are you thinking I haven’t successfully got lost given I’ve had someone pursuing me? You’re wrong. Bar Mestrinna the Kingdom hasn’t had a clue. Who do FNN call when they want a wildlife expert? Me, of course, so I have fooled folk. Daft old biddy, out in all weathers, can’t possibly be hiding something, could she?

My moving around shows my dedication to exploring the Kingdom and the variety of life here. Sounds good, doesn’t it, but it’s true. I’ve learned far more about the creatures, mythical and otherwise, who live in our realm than I might otherwise have done.

I thought I’d never have to worry about Mestrinna again. Always ensure you know nothing from your past can haunt you. Mestrinna had skulked in her castle for years. What the Kingdom hasn’t realised is she’s sneaked out to see if this wildlife nut was the fairy who nearly killed her. You’ve had less hassle as monarch than your aunt thanks to Mestrinna keeping quiet. This diary will reach you once I’m dead. A few charms that can’t be overturned have taken care of that. If Mestrinna felt she could use you to get to me, she would. See! Thoughtful to the end, that’s me.

12^th October 2005

A thought occurs. A thought I should’ve considered before but didn’t. I have thought of one very good reason why you may resent me. If I had fulfilled my fairy godmother role, as I should have done, the pressure would’ve been off you all these years, yes? Mestrinna has scared you, has she not? But it’s made you. You faced up to her. I faced Mestrinna once. I never want to see her again. Your courage is greater than mine. Oh damn…. Someone’s walked through the wall.

Postscript to diary written by Mestrinna, Chief Witch

Dearest, darling, Graxia (ha ha!), or should I say Your Majesty,

I only just missed you last week! Gave you and the Council a fright, didn’t I? I found this book on the sofa in this tatty cottage I invaded. The fairy known as Rose has gone. I didn’t kill her. She vanished as I walked through her wall. Damn her. She always was good at that spell.

I’ve known for ages that biddy waffling on about feeding the birds nearly killed me at Red Hill. There are things no magic will totally disguise – mannerisms, body language and so on. Now she’s vanished on me again.

I wasn’t going to kill her. Someone who could nearly defeat me and hold me at bay for so long is someone to recruit. Your aunt would have recruited her. She had an eye for talent and potential threats. You know what they say about it being better to have your enemy on the inside urinating out as opposed to being outside urinating in… And I tidied that up due to your regal sensibilities, Graxia.

I’ll give you your due though. Your aunt was as sensitive as a concrete block. You’re not upsetting the realm. You’ll do as monarch. You'll get no higher praise than that.

But I’m getting Rose. Rose is brilliant at getting lost. I will find her, no matter how long it takes. Rose will contact you again later. She won’t be able to help herself. Her diary shows an almost desperate need to confess!

I will check you. If you issue warnings and an old apple woman turns up I’ll be after her. Nobody keeps losing me. Correction. Rose has. But she’s not getting away with it. I swear she won’t.

For your sake, Graxia, don’t get in my way, will you?

After all I know where your Council got that dragon from…

Who do you think told them where to get one in the first place and persuaded that dragon to co-operate with them?

THE END

Bio:

Alison Symes was published in Bridge House’s Alternative Renditions anthology and long-listed in their Debut Novel competition. Writers’ News awarded second prize to Life is What You Make It. The Lady in White is on www.shortbreadstories.com. She was a Brit Writers' Awards Finalist and commended at Winchester Writers’ Conference in 2011.

2012-01-12T03:23:00.001-08:00

A 2 Z of a Rodent Feast
Patsy Collins
Drink thrown out because it was past the sell by date.

A big cat drops everything feline. Great, he's intelligently,
justifiably keeping low. Mice now overrun puss. Quietly, reaching
sideways, Tom unleashes venial war. Extermination (and consumption).
Yawns. Zzzzzz

patsy-collins.blogspot.com

THE ROSIE BROWN INTERVIEW

2011-12-21T02:48:00.000-08:00

A glass of brown ale for Santa

Roger Noons

“So John, how many times were you Santa?”

“Both libraries, for six years, that would be a dozen times.”

“You must have had a few unusual incidents?”

“Yes Rosie, though it was mainly what you’d expect: a wet trouser leg: being sick over my Wellington boots. The kids were dead keen, until their mothers pushed them forward. Then shyness crept in, once the child was on my knee, it would often become dumbstruck, remain silent, need prompting, or immediately want to return to mum. I did get the odd smack on the nose.”

“There must have been one event that stood out?”

“Yes, but it didn’t concern a child: it was one of the mothers.”

“Oh?”

“The librarian always placed a chair for me in the centre of the room, and the parents, occasionally there was a dad, would stand around in a semi circle with the children in front of them. At my side, on the floor, I would put my sack. There was always a small gift for each child.”

Rosie smiled and nodded.

“The outfit was borrowed from the local fire station, and it was one size, so it was large: particularly the hood. If I turned my head, the hood stayed where it was, so I could only see what was in front of me. I said goodbye to a small boy and reached down into the sack and felt for a present, but what I located was a woman’s foot. I turned my head and whispered. ‘You’re standing in the sack.’ Either she didn’t hear, or chose to ignore me, as she didn’t move.”

“Oh my God!”

“So each time I put my hand in the sack, I ran my fingers up and down her leg, even above her stocking top, but she never budged. After the last child had received it‘s present, I stood up, but parents and children were milling around. I scanned the women’s faces, but saw nothing to indicate which lady‘s leg I had been caressing.”

“So one of the mums got a gift as well?”

I smiled.

“Well, thank you John, I can get a good piece out of that.” We shook hands. “You have very soft skin,” she said. “I wish I’d worn a skirt, you could have given me a demonstration.”

The European Gap Year Traveller

2011-12-20T03:01:00.000-08:00

Charlie Britten

Espresso

From: George

To: ‘Auntie Angela’

I'm fine. Honestly, I'm fine. I wish you'd stop worrying about me. Yes, I got your text. And was it necessary to ring me at 10am? I mean, you woke up everyone in the place where I was staying, which, btw, is not a Youth Hostel.

Also, would you please stop asking me about what you call ‘my financial situation’? Everything is about money with you. I think I'm managing fine. Okay, my credit card’s maxed out, but so is everybody else’s. It’s not my fault the bank insisted on giving me credit, is it? Another thing. I didn't like that bit in your last email about people here retiring at fifty-four. Where did you get that from? The Daily Mail? You don't appreciate that it’s different out here.

Having awesome time. Country really beautiful. Last night we sat at the bar, watching the red streaks of the sun sink over the horizon. Then we saw it come up again several hours later as a white ball of light, while we were still sitting there. Some things are more important than money.

George

PS Just got your last text, about Uncle Silvio. He’s well embarrassing. Tbh, you should be more worried about how he spends his money.

.................................................................................................................

From: George

To: ‘Auntie Angela’

P-uh-l-ease, could you not start on about Christmas yet? I don't know when I'm going to arrive. I suppose it’s going to be the usual crowd. Can you deal with the present thing and I'll pay you back. Don't worry about Uncle David saying he won't come this year. It’s what he always says, but he’s never missed yet, has he? And he always pays his whack in the end, more than some of the other relatives. Don't put pressure on him. He doesn't have to come. I mean, he’s not part of the immediate family, and he can be very annoying, so right-wing.

Generally, can you lighten up on this family thing? You keep saying we should all see more of each other and do more things together, but I don't know.

I'm fine, Auntie Angela. Honestly, I'm fine.

George

............................................................................................................................

From: George

To: ‘Auntie Angela’

I'm not fine. Send me several billion, Auntie Angela, please. As soon as possible, I beg you. By Western Union, because the banks are all messed up out here. And don’t get me on the subject of bankers, p-uh-l-ease.

Look, I know the whole family’s in the shit money-wise, except for you, my favourite Auntie Angela. But remember that I asked you first, because, from what I hear, you’ll get more requests for money soon. Hope you kept receipt for Uncle David’s pressie, seeing as he’s now off the Christmas card list.

Can't wait to see you. Have you made the stollen yet? Haven’t eaten proper meal in ages.

George

*************************************************************************************

Bio

Charlie Britten lives in southern England with her husband and cat. She writes because she enjoys it and has had her work published in ‘FictionAtWork’, ‘Mslexia’, ‘Long Short Story’, ‘Linnet’s Wings’ and Radgepacket. Charlie's blog is Lives to Write. Chalrie would love to write to live. In real life, she is a lecturer in IT at a college of further education.

It's Christmas ... again

2011-12-16T02:36:00.001-08:00

Julie-Ann Corrigan

Gin –Mother’s Ruin

It’s early November and already, like a seasonal mythological monster, Christmas begins to loom ominously inside my mind. I try to blank it out but it’s impossible to escape.

First, the toy adverts begin. Day and night. Unremitting.

Then the magazines start with: ‘How to lose weight in three seconds and look like either Madonna or Scarlett Johansson’ depending on which magazine you pick up in your pre-Christmas dental appointment. And this is only the beginning. During your weekly supermarket shop you can’t help but wander down the aisles of the Christmas section, buying everything you don’t need; an over-priced Christmas cake, dates, and Brazil nuts. Items no one in your family will ever eat. Not to mention the chocolate Santa that your daughter has shoved secretly, beneath the grapes. It’s only November the second.

The kids, if you’re lucky, are still basking in the fast fading glory of who had the best Halloween outfit; who had the most fireworks. But this honeymoon period doesn’t last long. By mid-November you can’t hide your kids from the hype any longer, ‘But Mum, it’s only nine weeks away … that’s only nine Saturdays,’ and you think, my ten year old is right, how am I possibly going to do everything in just nine Saturdays?

And how are you?

Well, one thing for sure, you won’t be doing it with your partner, will you? Because no matter how fantastic he is on holiday, at the weekend, and at family funerals, there is something about the Christmas celebrations that alienates the male.

I remember once before marriage and a child, my now husband decided to invite his mum for Christmas lunch. I was terrified. I couldn’t cook. Noticing – too late – the look of sheer terror on my face at the thought of having to produce a turkey with all the trimmings, he proclaimed grandly that he would cook lunch. I was over the moon. After opening our presents he set about preparing. I set about drinking.

Lunch appeared on the table just after six. I was too drunk to eat it! After that first Christmas together he never sets foot in the kitchen between the twenty-third of December and New Year’s Eve.

And so; the clock is ticking, the bathroom scales are pulled from their resting place and your child suddenly learns to spell words which were impossible for them in their SATS exams only months before. Yet, in her enthusiasm to write to Santa, to get what she wants, she suddenly develops the semantic and grammar skills of A.A. Gill.

Buying the presents is the first hurdle to pass, and so you decide to be organised and go for one big shop at Toys r Us. You fall into the same trap as you did last year, buying the ‘must have’ present in good time for the big day; believing the hype that the shop will sell out. Of course, by the end of November, all people under ten have changed their mind. They don’t want that ‘must have’ toy – they want another one. The ‘must have’ one which you’ve already bought has definitely not sold out – there are hundreds of them sitting on the shelf – on offer now. You’ve mislaid your receipt, so only get back seventy-five per cent of the toy’s original value.

Things are already not looking good. The husband begins to spend longer at work and your strictness at only allowing ice cream on special occasions is deteriorating rapidly, as you begin – insidiously – to lose your parental nerve. Anything for an easier life becomes your mantra.

‘How am I going to get to December twenty-fifth?’ you are beginning to ask yourself. This is before the dreaded phone call around mid-December, when your sister-in-law informs you, for the fourth year in a row, that they are ‘abroad for Christmas’ and ‘can you have Mum?’ Qualifying the request with, ‘You know how she adores being with the kids…’

No actually, I don’t know; she hasn’t seen them since last Christmas. But by December fifteenth you’re losing the will to live anyway and your mother-in-law coming to stay is the least of your problems, because your main problem now – mid-December – is THE TREE.

Do we have an artificial, real, fat or thin one; one with dropping or non-dropping needles? Tree shopping has become like shoe shopping. Too much choice. Finally, we pick one and bring it home. Invariably, everyone including my daughter (who helped me choose it) moans about my choice. By now I’m anaesthetised to opinion; until my daughter begins to decorate it. Years of collecting ‘arty’ baubles are wasted as cheerfully, she puts her school-made dough decorations on the tree.

Opinion begins to manifest itself. I have to stop myself from yelling, No! ‘It looks lovely,’ is what I say.

An earth mother I am not.

Thinking of mothers’, I don’t remember my own mum being this stressed out – she made it look so easy. I wonder if my own daughter will be thinking the same thing in twenty-odd years’ time?

Bio:

She has recently completed her first novel and is now working on her second.

SNOWMAN COMPETITION

2011-12-15T03:01:00.001-08:00

Roger Noons

Snow ball

‘Can you smell carrots?’ Stanley asked.

‘No,’ replied Sidney. ‘She’s not used one for my nose, it’s somewhat lower down and it’s developed an icicle.’

‘Sound’s interesting,’ interrupted Rupert, in his soprano-like tone.

Having overheard this conversation between the snowmen last winter, I was determined that this year’s competition would be more respectable. Things had definitely got out of hand, particularly when the temperature rose on the Sunday afternoon. Scarves and hats were cast aside and all manner of unpleasantness ensued.

So well in advance of the snow forecast, I posted the following on the notice board outside the Village Hall.

Rules for the Building of Snowpersons

The maximum height for a snowperson will be 1m (children) and 1.75m (adults).
The body shape must be traditional, ie. slightly rotund and definitely not obese.
The face must not be fashioned in order to represent any known person or celebrity.
In addition to snow, the only other materials allowed will be twigs, small pieces of partially burned solid fuel and shells.
The only clothing additions allowed are 1 scarf and 1 hat, per snowperson.
In sculpting the snowperson, care should be taken to not give any indication of age, sex, race or sexual orientation.
Any entry failing to comply with these rules will be disqualified and destroyed.
The decision of the Judge (Me) will be final. No discussion will be entered into regarding the decision.

Signed

Emily Snobtrott, Organiser.

It is the closing date tomorrow and not a single entry has yet been constructed. I am beside myself and cannot imagine what on earth has gone wrong.

2011-12-14T02:59:00.001-08:00

Lonely this Christmas

Alan Cadman

Tea for One

Marjorie ran her fingers across the handful of Christmas cards displayed on the mantelpiece. She picked up her favourite one and read out loud the spidery inscription, ‘To my dearest wife Marge, Merry Christmas, from your loving husband, Albert.’ The edges of the card had curled a little, but it still looked in good condition; considering it was ten years old.

‘He was a good man, my Albert,’ Marjorie said, ‘I miss him terribly. Heart attack . . . so sudden.’ She dabbed her eyes. ‘He was strong as well . . . who could have known?’ She flung open the lounge curtains and looked outside. ‘Rupert,’ she called, ‘I’m afraid there isn’t any snow for us this year.’ Rupert swished his tail by the fireplace, blinked open his feline eyes, and led her to his empty bowl in the kitchen.

She wagged a finger at him. ‘You’re such a greedy cat. I’ve only just fed you . . . at least I think I have.’ She opened a tin of Felix. ‘I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt this time.’ She stroked the cat, who purred and rubbed against her hand.

Marjorie shuffled back to the lounge. Her thoughts drifted to her only surviving relative; her daughter Susan. ‘Well, Australia is a long way from here,’ she shouted over her shoulder, ‘and things do get lost in the post. Susan always phones me every Christmas morning though. All right, I’ll be honest with you, Rupert, it’s me who rings her, but she is a very busy woman and there’s the time difference to consider as well.’

Rupert joined her by the fireside. Marjorie held up a colourful parcel and tore it open. ‘Anyway, it’s time for our presents. You first.’ She pushed a tin of red salmon in front of the cat who yawned and curled up into a ball.

‘You do test my patience, Ruby . . . I mean, Rupert.’ She shook her head. ‘Did I just call you Ruby? Of course I didn’t. I might be old, but I’ve still got all of my faculties. In fact in ten years time,’ Marjorie went on proudly, ‘I’ll receive a birthday card from the Queen.’ She glanced at the mantelpiece. ‘It would be even nicer if she sent me a Christmas card.’

Marjorie rubbed her hands, ‘I’ll open my gift now.’ She feigned surprise and clutched the shiny black tin to her chest. ‘Earl Grey, my favourite.’

Her eyes widened at the sound of a vehicle approaching her bungalow. ‘Oh, Rupert, It seems like we’ve got visitors!’ She twitched the net curtains. Her shoulders slumped. ‘It’s for next door. They have their groceries delivered in a van. Wait a moment, surely there aren’t any deliveries on Christmas day?’

She drummed her fingers on the window sill. ‘Of course, silly old me, today is Christmas Eve . . . well I think it is. I’ll have to wrap those presents up again, just like I did yesterday.’

Rupert padded along the hallway. The rattle of the cat flap echoed around the room. Marjorie held a new sheet of paper and a roll of Sellotape in her hands. ‘Don’t worry, let’s be positive. We’ve still got it all to look forward to again tomorrow morning.’

Bio: Alan has been writing short stories for three years. His published work has mainly been rewarded with complimentary issues from magazines. His first and only cheque, so far, arrived on Christmas Eve 2009. Before that, he was editor of a civic society newsletter for seven years.

Desperate Measures

2011-12-13T02:49:00.000-08:00

Trevor Belshaw

Frothy coffee and with roasted chesnuts

Michael Keagan stared despondently at the bleak winter sky. The light snow that had started to fall half an hour ago had become heavier and begun to settle.
‘Fabulous,’ he whispered, ‘the first Christmas snow we get in decades and I’m stood around in it, freezing to death.’
Cursing under his breath, he pulled his hood forward, checked his watch for the 20th time and wondered, once again, why he had chosen to wear trainers instead of the warm winter boots that were sitting under the stairs at home.

Christmas Eve wasn’t the best time to do a spot of breaking and entering, he decided.

Keagan looked around, the garden was quiet. His hiding place could not be overlooked by the neighbours, he had chosen well. The laurels were excellent cover and he could see into the drawing room clearly. The occupants, a man in his 40s and a slightly younger woman, were sat together in front of an open fire, drinking and sharing some joke or happy memory.

Keagan willed them to go to bed, it was 11.45. It couldn’t be much longer now surely? There was a child in the house, kids always got up early on Christmas day. Parents usually got up with them.
Five minutes later his patience was rewarded. The couple left their fireside seats and headed for the door leading to the stairs. The man remained for a while, turned off the Christmas tree lights and placed a metal guard in front of the coal fire. He checked his watch as he left the room; closing the door behind him.
Keagan watched as the stair light was turned off. It was replaced by a bedroom light and the duller light of the en suite close by. Not long now. He reached for a cigarette then decided it was too risky. He would have to wait.

Ten minutes later the lights were extinguished. He hoped the pair weren’t feeling amorous.

Keagan waited in the shrubbery for another thirty minutes before he decided it was safe enough to proceed. He took a final glance at the upstairs window and hurried across the lawn, crouching as he ran. The snow was coming down heavier than ever and would quickly cover any footprints he left behind.
Still crouching, he crossed the patio and headed for a set of French doors. A pair of small garden statues guarded them, one either side of the frame. Keagan lifted the right hand statue carefully and groped underneath until he found a key. He grinned and nodded to himself. He knew it would be there; people were so lax about security matters.

With a trembling hand, he turned the key in the lock. The door opened with a low groan, the warm air that greeted his entry, welcome after the freezing two hour reconnaissance. Keagan dipped into his pocket and pulled out a small pencil torch. Sliding a tiny button forward he shone the thin beam around the room. The door he wanted was on the left and with a few quick strides he crossed the timber floor and let himself into the drawing room.

The fire had begun to die down but gave out enough light to enable him to turn off the torch. Keagan wandered over to the Christmas tree, a dozen parcels lay underneath. Picking a couple at random he shook them, guessed the contents then returned them to the pile.

‘Now for the tricky bit,’ he thought.

He walked to the stair door and slowly eased the handle down. He grimaced as it creaked open, didn’t anyone lubricate hinges anymore? Keagan waited for a full minute in case the sound had been heard, but no-one stirred in the rooms above. He decided to leave the door ajar, for his heart as much as anything else. The noise had un-nerved him.
On tip toe and grateful now for his decision to wear the trainers, Keagan crept up the stairs a step at a time, listening intently for any sound of movement.
At the top he halted and waited for a few seconds; all was quiet. He turned to the right, eased open the white painted door in front of him and entered the bedroom. A small night light glowed on the bedside table, he smiled to himself; she never had liked the dark.

Keagan looked toward the small figure curled up under the covers and caught his breath. The girl was asleep, breathing softly, deep in dreams; her golden hair spread over the pillow. He moved slowly to the side of the bed, reached into his pocket and brought out a small package containing a bracelet and a short letter. Holding his breath, he gently lifted her hand and laid the package on the coverlet, then set her hand on top. Instinctively, he leaned over and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.
He wanted to stay longer, but he daren’t. He wanted to wake her, to tell her he loved her, to tell her he hadn’t forgotten, but that could end in disaster. Laura’s mother had steadfastly refused him access, despite the court order he had won. She had even refused to pass on gifts and messages. Were she to discover him in this burglar role, her revenge would know no limits

Keagan leaned over her again, whispered, ’Soon, my darling,’ then, wiping away a tear, he turned and left the room as quietly as he had entered it.
Back outside, Keagan replaced the key under the statue and took a last look at the house he knew so well, the house he used to share with Laura before life had become so difficult. His lawyers had insisted that access would be granted in the New Year. It all should have been sorted out much sooner. Had it been left to Laura’s mother and him, it would have been.

Once on the street he lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. The snow fell steadily. It was in for the night, there would indeed be a white Christmas; Laura would love that.
Back in the car Keagan lit another cigarette, fired up the engine, turned on the radio and adjusted the dial for the heater. He had a two hour drive ahead of him, but the journey would be shortened by the feeling of a job well done.

As he was about to pull away he heard a beep from his pocket. Keagan checked the phone; a text message was waiting in his inbox.

'Thanks Dad, I love the bracelet. Happy Christmas! Laura.

Through misty eyes, Keagan checked his mirrors, pulled away from the kerb and turned up the radio. As he drove along the deserted High Street he heard the familiar voice of Bing Crosby wishing everyone a merry Christmas.
‘Someday soon we all will be together, if the fates allow. Until then we’ll have to muddle through somehow...’
Keagan nodded in agreement and headed toward the motorway.

Bio: Trevor Belshaw , aka Trevor Forest, is a writer of both adult and
children's fiction. Trevor is the creator of Tracy’s Hot Mail and has
just released a book of short stories entitled, Designer Shorts.
Writing asTrevor Forest, he has released four children’s books in
paperback and e-book formats. Trevor’s short stories have been published
in many anthologies including 100 Stories for Haiti, 50 Stories for
Pakistan, 100 Stories for Queensland and Shambelurkling and other
Stories. Many of his short stories have been published by Ether Books.
Trevor is a regular contributor to The Pages e-zine. His latest
children's book, Stanley Stickle HAtes Homework, will be released late 2011.
Twitter@tbelshaw
Facebook Trevor Belshaw and Trevor Forest
Website: http://www.trevorbelshaw.com
Blog: http://www.trevorbelshaw.com/blog
Trevor Forest: http://www.trevorforest.com

A SWEET TOOTH AT CHRISTMAS – a Slice of Paradise

2011-12-08T06:59:00.001-08:00

Julie- Ann Corrigan

sweet sherry

As Halloween, Bonfire Night, and finally November fades into recent history, there is nothing that reminds me more of the passage of time than the onset of Christmas preparations.

More than looking in the mirror, passing birthdays and children growing outrageously tall; the beginnings of Christmas rudely reminds me of the changes all our lives are subtly undergoing.

I remember a time when the Festive Season meant dressing up, going out to parties and opening unexpected, luxury presents on Christmas morning.

I got away with any festive preparations until I was well into my thirties. Even after having a child of my own we would still pack up the car on Christmas Eve and zoom up to my old home.

Dropping bags and gear on my mum’s kitchen floor I marvelled at her baking skills. The house smelled of freshly baked mince pies and her famous Paradise Slice. Of vanilla essence from the homemade custard she only made at Christmas.

One thing you have to understand about my mum was her obsessive interest in all things sweet. The turkey and trimming came a poor second to the massive selection of cakes displayed yearly, on the sideboard in the dining room. My husband said once that he could feel his cholesterol rising by smelling the air. I told him not to be paranoid. My mum looked all right on it didn’t she? Although sometimes I did wonder how she kept her size eight figure.

Time passes though.

The year finally came when it became difficult to spend Christmas in my childhood home. Mum and Dad couldn’t quite manage the whole Christmas thing. Our daughter was getting older and it was becoming increasingly difficult to persuade her that Santa knew where we were located on Christmas morning.

So there I was – inviting my whole sweet-toothed family to ours for Christmas.

I had finally grown up.

I was doing the festive season.

My brother called to make sure I would be carrying on in the family tradition and be making ’Mums Paradise Slice.’ ‘I didn’t know you liked it,’ I said. ‘I know, but its part of Christmas isn’t it? he replied. A bead of sweat trickled down my forehead anticipating what else might be ‘part of Christmas.’ To be as good as my mum was a lot to ask. It felt like a gargantuan undertaking.

How could I possibly live up to everyone’s expectations – including my own?

I decided to be organised. I would start early. I adored my mum and I wanted her to have all the best cake and trifle she could possibly eat. I wanted to take over the Olympic flame of Christmas efficiently. I wanted her and Dad to be proud. Maybe I would try something different, perhaps Delia’s famous chocolate bread pudding? A banana and chocolate trifle? My imagination ran away with itself.

My husband re-named me the Tesco Terminator as I trawled the supermarket aisles like the fictional cyborg character. I scanned the products and prices as efficiently as Arnie had scanned for human warmth and movement. He told to calm down. Chill out, I think was his phrase as I passed by the chilled aisle like an automaton.

My mum called constantly, telling me not to go to too much trouble. My brother heard on the family grapevine I was worried about ‘doing’ Christmas. Did I want to cancel? ‘No’ I shouted into the phone, ‘I can manage.’

December unfolded. Invitations dropped through the door with the same consistency as the bills would do in January. I was a party girl by nature and having a house, child, husband and a Christmas to prepare for was not about to stop me enjoying myself. I wanted to be super-woman and do everything.

My freezer was full. I made the trifle and pud in advance. But by Christmas Eve the fridge bulged like a supermarket shelf. I had to ask my neighbours (who always spent Christmas in a local bistro), if I could use their fridge to store the last of my efforts, including the most impressive chocolate and banana trifle. While I was round there, I put the turkey in their fridge too.

As we wrapped the last of Santa’s presents, I couldn’t ignore the dreaded feeling in my throat any longer. I told myself off for finishing the last of the mulled wine; my head was thumping.

Christmas had begun and I was steadily beginning to feel worse as my sore throat threatened to turn into something more sinister, but I didn’t care. I was supremely organised – everyone kept telling me so.

Santa’s visit was prolific. Toys and people engulfed our house. I knew I had flu, but kept it to myself. I only needed to get through the day. After the usual early Christmas breakfast (four-thirty apparently is okay on Christmas morning), I went to get my neighbours key to retrieve various cakes, trifles and the turkey.

It wasn’t where I thought I’d had left it. It was nowhere to be found. My daughter was left to her own devices as the whole family searched for the key.

It had vanished as spectacularly as Santa had done.

All day it was missing.

The trauma of having a turkey-free Christmas though, seemed to cure my sore throat.

So we had no turkey, no trifle, and no pudding. My daughter thought it was a hoot eating chips on Jesus’s birthday. My mum discovered a love of jaffa cakes, my husband admitted he’d never liked trifle anyway and my dad, well my dad only chuckled at his daughter who he proclaimed loudly, would never truly grow up.

It was I believe, the best Christmas ever.

I think I will though, if you don’t mind, put off growing up for a little while yet. Next year we’re back at Mum and Dads for Christmas. Mum can clearly cope better than me – hopefully for some years to come. Together with our daughter, we have already e-mailed Santa well in advance with our plans and location for next Christmas.

By the way, the key was nestling snugly in my dressing gown pocket and the neighbours loved the trifle.

Bio:

She has recently completed her first novel and is now working on her second.

WE ALL BELIEVE IN FATHER CHRISTMAS

2011-12-07T07:27:00.001-08:00

Roger Noons

A glass of milk and a warm mince pie

‘What’s this for granddad?’ Oliver asked, pointing to the plane lying on the bench in the shed that Derek Stokes used as his workshop.

‘It’s called a plane. It’s a woodworking tool that I use for taking the rough bark off a piece of wood.’

‘Can I have a go?’

‘No lad, not until you’re a bit older and a lot bigger. But I’ll show you how it works so that when you’re twelve or something like that, you’ll know what to do.’

Irene smiled as she watched and listened to her two favourite men. Although there was sixty years difference in their ages, they got on like a proverbial house on fire. She often laughed as she listened to their conversation, sometimes it was like two twelve year olds, particularly when they argued. She was still shaking her head when she heard Gillian open the front door.

‘It’s only me,’ her daughter called. ‘I’m sorry, I had to stay for a meeting which went on and on.’

‘That’s OK, will you have supper with us? There’s plenty to go around’

‘Oh thanks Mum, that would be great. I don’t think I could face cooking when we get home.’

‘Will we be going to Grandma’s at Christmas?’

‘I don’t know, I haven’t thought about it. They may not want us,’ Gillian replied, hoping that she could dissuade Oliver from discussing the subject.

‘I bet they will, in fact I heard granddad say it would be good if we could all be together.’

‘He just wants to play with your games. I heard a whisper that Father Christmas might be bringing you the Gran Turismo series; that’s five separate games.’ She glanced down at him but he merely shrugged. ‘I thought you liked those motor racing games?’

‘They’re OK but I’d rather we could all be together.’

‘Oliver, that is most ungrateful. Those games will cost over three hundred pounds. That’s a lot of money out of a captain’s pay.’ Her retort was sharply delivered and they drove the rest of the way home in silence.

‘I’m sorry I shouted, in the car,’ Gillian said to her son, when she went into his room to say goodnight.

‘It’s alright,’ he paused. ‘I do quite like those games.’

‘Well, you better write to Santa and tell him, just to make sure he knows.’

‘I don’t believe in him. He only exists in big shops and on Christmas cards. The boys at school said...’

‘Don’t believe in Santa? Not going to write to him? I think you’d be making a big mistake. Anyway it’s time to turn out the light. Good night Ollie.’

‘Night mum,’ he said, after she had gently kissed his cheek.

‘Granddad, does Santa Claus really exist?’

After not too much thought, Derek replied. ‘I guess he does Ollie. Someone must organize all those presents for children at Christmas time.’ Then he added. ’Come and give me a hand with this job please.’

Oliver thought about Santa and his annual letter, for the next two days. In the end, he decided to give it one last go, but rather than post it at the shopping mall or give it to his mother, he sent it to his father at the BFPO number that was on the top of the letters which came from Iraq. About a week after his grandma had posted it for him, he had forgotten all about it. After all there were lots of things to concentrate on, coming seasonal events and the box he and his granddad were making for his mother to keep all her shoes in.

It was the twentieth of December when Oliver sang a solo in the school’s Christmas concert. Gillian and her parents were in the audience and they had never heard him sing so well. Together with other parents, they were in tears when the First Noel ended, as was a man at the back of the hall. He had managed to slip in through the door just as Oliver arose on stage. He stood to attention, in full dress uniform, his cap gripped by his elbow and tears streamed down his face and cascaded on to his medals. The audience was still moved when the choir sang the final chorus of I Believe in Father Christmas, when Oliver’s voice could be heard above all the other boy sopranos.

2011-12-06T03:04:00.001-08:00

Frozen in Time

Maureen Vincent-Northam

De Kuyper Crème de Café

He came to the city to make his name and I was simply a contact in London, someone he’d been asked to look up. The doorbell rang at around six one late spring evening and there he stood. It had been years, and at first I didn’t recognise him. Here was a stranger – tall and good looking with the evening sun back-lighting his fair hair.

‘Lizzie?’ he asked. Then he smiled. ‘Of course it is; I’d recognise you anywhere.’

‘I’m not sure–’ I began.

‘Ross,’ he said. ‘Don’t you remember? From when you lived in Cheltenham?’

Cheltenham! I hadn’t been back there for more than fifteen years; time enough to bring about a vast change in him, though by all accounts, less of a change in me.

‘Of course,’ I said at last. ‘Do come in!’

I led him to the kitchen, where I’d been preparing my evening meal, and offered him a cold drink. It was odd to see this young man – the little boy I was beginning to remember – with a beer in his hand.

‘It’s been years since I last saw you,’ I said. ‘You must have been around nine or ten. You’ve changed so much! Well, of course you have.’

I was rambling.

He smiled. ‘Yes, I suppose I have. You haven’t though. I knew you straight away.’

Any awkwardness soon disappeared and of course I asked after his mother. Mary had been a friend of mine since schooldays. When she’d first married Pete I was often invited to their small flat and Mary and I would spend hours catching up on gossip and generally putting the world to rights.

When a baby came along, Mary and Pete moved to a larger place a little further out of town. This coincided with a job I was offered, which meant travelling regularly up to London and then relocating here, so I saw less of them. But though my visits were infrequent, I recalled Ross as a beautiful child, sociable and inquisitive, funny – a great mimic.

‘I remember sitting in the garden with your parents watching a performance you staged in which you played all the characters,’ I said.

‘I know,’ he said, ‘a precocious brat or what?’

‘Not at all. You were very good!’

I looked at him. He still radiated that same zeal for life – and he was still beautiful.

‘So, you live in London now?’ I asked.

‘I’ve been attending a drama school here,’ he laughed, ‘I’ve had the odd small role and I’m now awaiting the big break – along with a million others!’

He shared my supper and we talked for an hour or two. He hadn’t lost any of his inquisitiveness; he asked about my work, my sculptures, and was interested to hear about my current project.

Later, as I had some letters to post, we walked together to the end of my street. When we reached the busy road, Ross grabbed my hand and we darted across to the post-box, laughing like children as we dodged the traffic.

He pointed to one of the old buildings visible through the trees of the small local park.

‘I live just over there. A bedsit. So I could visit you again sometime – if you don’t mind, that is?’

‘Of course I don’t mind. It would be nice to see you again.’

We said goodnight and I made my way home. It was ridiculous, but for the rest of the evening I couldn’t stop thinking about the young man who’d come to call.

***

I wasn’t expecting him to get in touch – at least not so soon. But two days later, there he was.

‘I have a free afternoon; let’s go out some place, Lizzie’. He looked down at my clay-encrusted work shirt. ‘Bet you could do with a break from whatever it is you’re doing.’

He was right, my current assignment wasn’t taking shape the way I wanted it to and I knew from experience that I should leave it a while.

‘You’re on!’ I said. ‘Give me ten minutes to put some damp cloths over the dratted piece and clean myself up.’

He followed me through to the backroom I used as a studio.

‘Hey,’ he said, ‘this is pretty impressive.’ He walked around the half-finished bust on my worktop. ‘And it’s commissioned?’

‘Yes, most of my stuff is these days. It pays the bills.’

We spent the rest of the day window shopping and had coffee and cake on a bench in Hyde Park. Ross told me about his work, the small company he belonged to, the roles he’d understudied and the part he was playing in their latest production. His enthusiasm was infectious and I promised to be there on his opening night.

Over the next few weeks we walked my favourite haunts, sat in pubs listening to bands he enjoyed and talked endlessly of the past.

‘Do you still do that paper folding stuff?’ he asked one evening. ‘I kept that little boat you made me for ages, you know. Then one night I tried sailing it in the bath and it disintegrated!’

‘And you told me how you’d rubbed soap onto an old wooden plank to make a slide.’

‘It didn’t work. Turned out the soap had been a really expensive one Mum had been given, too. She wondered for ages where it had gone. I was so grateful that you never told her!’

Reflecting on all these silly things was fun, and slowly, without noticing it, we became closer.

‘I want to do a sculpture of you, Ross. Would you mind?’

‘I’d be flattered. It isn’t every day that you get the chance to be frozen in time.’

Then he stood and, taking both my hands in his, pulled me to my feet. The kiss was inevitable.

‘I’ve wanted to do that, Lizzie, ever since you opened the door to me that first evening,’ he said.

I knew I’d been falling for him too. Was it wrong? Would I think it sordid if it was another couple?

‘Ross, I’m too old for you.’

He held me to him. ‘Rubbish! You’re beautiful, I love you, and I refuse to discuss your Zimmer frame.’

As he had rehearsals the following day we arranged the first sitting for later in the week. I’d need to do some sketches and take a few pictures of his profile. ‘I love you too,’ I whispered to his back as he walked into the night.

The next month was hectic what with Ross’s rehearsals, his first night and all its accompanying frenzy, and sitting for me. But despite this our relationship deepened and it seemed the most natural thing in the world that he should occasionally stay overnight.

Then it happened.

‘Lizzie, fantastic news! I’ve been offered a small part in a new mini-series. Zoe has connections and pulled a few strings. Means moving up north for a while, but hey...’

‘Zoe?’

‘You remember her – very talented – we were in Dangerous Butterflies together. She’s to play the daughter in the series and she put in a good word for me.’

I tried to sound pleased for him, after all wasn’t this his dream? He talked about it as though it was a temporary thing, like a weekend away, but I had doubts.

He phoned regularly for the first few weeks to tell me all the news and to say how much he was missing me, but the calls became less frequent and eventually stopped altogether. A couple of months on, I ran into one of his friends and discovered Ross had moved back to London. Was I surprised that he hadn’t been in touch? Not really.

***

It was early December when I bumped into him loaded down with shopping bags. He seemed pleased to see me and, shifting the carrier bags under one arm, hugged me with the other. I noticed the shop names on his packages.

‘Been Christmas shopping for Zoe?’ I asked.

‘Yes, nightmare!’ he laughed. ‘How are you, Lizzie? Sorry we lost touch – did you ever finish that sculpture of me?’

‘I’m fine, I lied. ‘And yes, the bust is finished. You must come and see it – and Zoe too of course.’

He said he’d love to come, but I knew he wouldn’t and it was probably for the best. How could I bear it if he did?

It was bitterly cold and had just started to snow as I reached home. I let myself in, made a mug of hot chocolate and took it in before the fire. I switched on the blue lights of my small white Christmas tree – the only concession I’d made to the season – and moved to the table that held his image.

‘I love you,’ I whispered.

Bio

Maureen Vincent-Northam has been published in newspapers, international magazines and on the Web, contributing regularly to markets aimed at writers.

She is the author of Trace your Roots and co-authored The Writer’s ABC Checklist. She won The Writers’ Advice Centre for Children’s Books 2008 competition and her short stories and poetry have appeared in a number of anthologies.

Maureen has judged online writing contests, tutored writing workshops and consumed much chocolate.

www.maureen-vincent-northam.co.uk

The Writer's ABC Checklist
By Lorraine Mace & Maureen Vincent-Northam

Writer’s Blog: http://writerschecklist.blogspot.com/

Writing Workshops: http://writersabcworkshops.lorrainemace.com/

Small Ones Are More Juicy

2011-12-02T02:48:00.001-08:00

Patsy Collins

Advertise your beverage here

“You’ve been Tangoed,” I say playfully slapping young Clementine’s
bottom. You'd have thought Miss Jaffer would have heard that one
before, but she just smiles.
I’m really something in the world of advertising, so you’ll understand
why I’m so delighted with Clementine. Got plenty of va va voom, but
she’s really naïve. She actually believes low fat chocolate cake will
help make her slim.
“Murray, it’s 95% fat free, so I can go ahead,” she tells me.
She has a slice each morning with her richer roasted, fuller flavoured
coffee whilst I explain our latest campaign.
‘Our’ such a useful word, it makes dear Clementine think we’re a team.
Mr Bannister offered her another position with a higher salary. That
was close, thought I’d lose her there. Luckily I didn’t lose my head,
explained that with Bannister she’d be nothing but a pretty little
typist.
“It’s the business that impressed him, that’s why he bought it. He
doesn’t care about the staff. Go compare the two of us.”
Working for, no with, me was different. I was teaching her all my
skills, with me she’d progress to great things.
“It’s the real thing, sweetheart. The team works, and you’ve got to be
in to win it, you know that.”
Didn’t tell her I’d have to hire two girls to get through all the work
she somehow manages. Organisation she says, that’s what she’s good at.
Learnt it from the Sunday glossies apparently. Reads all them articles
on de-cluttering your life and developing inner potential. They write
that she can improve herself. She reads and believes every word.
That’s not all she reads. She believes those shoes advertised in the
supplements really will be the most comfortable she’s ever worn. Or if
by some unlikely chance she found better, her money would be refunded
in full, no questions asked. She believes that those uncreasable
skirts sold in three different lengths actually are stylish. Not
passion, not fashion if you ask me.
Clemmie turns eagerly to the horoscopes, surely no one but a fool
could swallow the idea that one twelfth the population were about to
be unlucky with money but forget these problems when they fell in love
by midweek.
There she is over by the vending machine. I’ll have a chat with her,
tell her about my new car. She’ll be impressed, a man likes to be
appreciated when he’s doing well. Clementine will understand what a
sound investment it is too, how necessary to my professional image.
Not like that nag of a wife at home. A boost to my ego she said. Even
asked if I wasn’t just slightly too young for a mid life crisis and it
would be difficult to get the baby buggy in. Must be that time of the
month I suppose.
“Nice skirt Clementine love, is it new?”
“Yes Murray, I bought it from a magazine. Do you like it?”
“I'm loving it.” And this is true.
The skirt gives me just the reason I need to take a long lingering
look at Clementine. Maybe she’s not quite the best a man can get, but
she’ll do me. I’d like to let my fingers do some walking there, I can
tell you. I’d thought her a bit of a frump before, had the right
attitude, couldn’t do enough for me of course, but not really worth
much of my attention. Now I see things have changed.
“Go on give us a twirl.”
She spins round, very agile she seems, I like that.
“Nifty on your feet aren’t you?”
“It’s these lovely new shoes, they’re so comfortable. I’ve bought a
pair in every colour, so I’ll hardly ever need to wear ordinary shoes
again.”
“Getting a drink were you?”
“I was, but I’ve just lost my last pound in the machine.”
“Please allow me.”
I put in my own money. An investment of a different kind, every little
helps.
“What would you like?”
“Diet iron-bru please, someone told me I was looking a bit pale today.”
What a girl, so suggestible that a chance remark convinces her she’s
anaemic and an old ad. campaign still has the power to persuade her a
combination of colouring and flavourings can do her good. Something
she’s eating or drinking must be powerful stuff though. That dumpy
assistant I started with has blossomed into a very attractive young
woman. I put a pound in for the 60p drink and pocket the difference.
Simples!
Time I explained the benefits of being nice to me I think. She might
not be the brightest, but give the girl her due she is trying hard.
She’s there at every meeting taking it all in. If anything needs to be
checked, she’s there.
“I’ll just ask Jeeves,” before she’s right back with the answer.
She must have bought every product the firm has ever handled. She says
she likes a touch of luxury everday, well that’s fair enough.
She drives the make of car we promote.
“I’m a thinking person and I thought as I’m on my own, I only need a
small car, not a driving machine.”
She wears the clothes, the make-up to good effect, she is every bit
gorgeous. She eats the food that makes life taste better. We all use
some of the brands of course, because of the discounts though. I mean,
why pay more? The rest of us aren’t brainwashed like dear Clementine.
She sounds like an advert too, every phrase she uses is either
currently promoting our clients products or soon will be. She is
sympathetic too, listens when I tell her how little my wife
understands me. I’m sure Clementine could understand me very well.
It’s good to talk and I talk her kind of language don’t I?
Old Bannister’s been chatting to her again. I’d better nip in the bud
any thoughts of moving her loyalty to him. He’s the managing director,
and I don’t want her getting ideas.
“You stick with me Clementine, love. Together we’ll go further.”
“Are you sure you’re not just using me because I love the jobs you hate?”
“Calm down dear, it's just commercials.”
“I don’t want to just be an assistant, can’t you give me more
responsibility?”
“At some point in time I will.”
“Why not just do it?”
“Remember, you can’t hurry a Murray.”
I’m just explaining that it's Mr Bannister wants to take advantage of
her not me, when I knock over her silly stuffed toys, a kitten and a
bird.
"Cat's know the difference," Clemmie mutters. “Murray, please pick up
that penguin.”
I retrieve the fluffy green object. "Well, that's different, but it's
not a hen."
"Things are going to be different, all right."
I’m still trying to work out what she means when Old Bannister calls
me into his office.
“Murray sit down. I’ve been hearing all about your marriage problems.
I think it would be best if you took a few weeks off to sort things
out. Treat her well, remember mums are heroes.”
“There’s no need, and my work...”
“Don’t worry about that, Clementine will take over your department,
I’m promoting her because she’s worth it. Walking advertisement that
girl. She’ll go far, the future’s Orange.”

Bio - Patsy Collins lives on the south coast of England, opposite the
Isle of Wight. She writes about and photographs the things which
interest her. To learn more about her and her writing, and for loads
of links to free to enter writing competitions, please visit
patsy-collins.blopgspot.com

Quainlty Traditional

2011-12-01T04:26:00.001-08:00

Roger Noons

French Merlot

George chose an old fashioned, traditional restaurant, in which to take his lunch. There were several of them in Ironbridge. Sitting at a square, corner table, he slowly ran his fingertips over the starched, white, linen cloth: the corners pointing at 45 degrees towards the floor, folds sharper than the creases in a sea captain’s trousers.

He surveyed the room, smiled cheerfully as he realised that there was sufficient copper, brass and china on display, to stock three modestly-sized antique shops. His fellow diners, all couples, together generated a significant background hum, but such was the spacing of the tables, that he could not discern a single word from any quarter.

The black and white attired waitress appeared at his side: placed his main course before him, and gave a brief curtsy before departing; only to return moments later with a small jug, which she placed at his right hand. A slight bob provided the coda to her second visit.

George noted that the pattern on the jug matched that of the plate, a fact that was clear, because he could view so much of the plate. Crown Derby, if he was not mistaken. As he raised his knife and fork, he was tempted to recall the waitress, in order to inquire as to whether war might have been declared.

His portion of calves liver, no more than four ounces he surmised, was accompanied by a single rasher of crispy bacon: a dessert spoon full of fried onions, and a single scoop of mashed potato. The jug, though no more than three inches in height, was only half filled with gravy.

From the first mouthful however, he was aware that each item had been exquisitely cooked. The liver, tender as a bruise, melted in his mouth: the onions were perfection and the bacon, divided into bite-size pieces at the mere touch of a tine of the fork. The mashed potato had that ideal balance between flour and butter, and it was enhanced by the gravy, in which he believed he could taste a spot or two of a French merlot. He ate slowly, putting down his cutlery while he was chewing, in order to prolong the enjoyment.

Normally annoyed, when his pudding appeared within seconds of the removal of the main course platter, George was on this occasion pleased to receive his Apple Charlotte, and beamed in response to the waitress’s repeat bob. Surveying it, in the centre of a dish, how he despised the current fashion of serving pudding on a plate, he deemed it perfect in appearance, displaying evidence of the basin in which it had been moulded. When he tested with his fork, he found the outside to be crisp and as he spooned an opening, the steam which escaped revealed the pulped apple inside.

He was aware that it would have been prepared in advance and microwaved just before it was brought to the table, but from the first taste, it was delicious. In his enthusiasm, he burned the tip of his tongue on the apple, and again he ate slowly in order to relish the experience. An air of sadness washed over him, as he finally put down his fork and spoon.

‘Would you like tea or coffee sir?’

‘Thank you, no, I think I will take a turn around the town and return to enjoy a pot of tea, before I depart for home.’

This time, she merely nodded.

The sadness passed and he felt pleased with himself for selecting this establishment. Although modest in quantity, it was the tastiest lunch he had eaten in years. As he caressed his substantial solar plexus, beneath his waistcoat, the bill was slid on to the table on his left hand side.

As he unfolded the stiff, cream sheet, the first words he read were ‘Service is not included.’ He raised his eyes to the figures above, and his lips straightened. It seemed that quaintness and tradition were ignored, when it came to financial matters. As he reached for his wallet, he suffered what he feared might be an early symptom of dyspepsia.

***

Once in a Lifetime

2011-11-29T13:23:00.001-08:00

Patsy Collins

Extra rich hot chocolate - with whipped cream,
marshmallows, candy stirrer, flake, sprinkles, and chocolate cookies
on the side

At least once in every lifetime there will be a day more full of joy
than any other. When a smile is never absent. A day when the sun seems
to shine a little more brightly just for you; when the wind drops to a
welcome breeze. When the lights are always green and the milk doesn’t
spill. It might be your wedding day, or last day at school. You may
discover God or a friend you had lost. Perhaps you’ll win the lottery,
or the Champion's League. Maybe it will be the first time you hold
your child, or hear her call you Mummy. For a few there will be many
such days, fortune will favour them. Their joy will smile from their
mouth and sparkle in their eyes.
Some will have little luck, enduring a lifetime of hardship and
suffering. But joy may reach even them. Someone might care enough to
help. Perhaps there will be a day when there’s enough food to eat and
the promise of more in the future. With help they could have many such
days. There can be pleasure too in saving a life, feeding the hungry,
doing the right thing. Joy can be a gift we bring when we share our
money, or time or talent or love. Happiness is contagious, make sure
yours is passed on. Offer a smile and watch it spread.
Others will have a chance to create their own joy. Their once in a
lifetime moment will be reaching the mountain summit or learning to
stand without crutches. These peaks and supports may be real for all
to see. They may be personal, metaphoric challenges. Learning to face
our fears can release us from their powerful hold. Risking failure and
disappointment allows us to aim for success. Try for the job you want,
send your novel to the publisher, tell your lover how you feel. Sow
the seed, maybe it will flower. Your smile will continue on another’s
face after you have walked by.
But it’s not for me this one surge of happiness. There won’t be that
once only day of joy. Every moment of every day is here but once. I
want each and every one to be happy. I’ll try not to hear the traffic
and arguing neighbours. Instead I’ll listen for birdsong and
children’s laughter. I’ll look into scruffy gardens for a flower
freshly opened. If it rains I’ll look for the rainbow. If I don’t see
it I’ll watch the grubby streets as they are washed clean. When the
sun shines I’ll know the warmth is there for me. When night falls the
sparkling stars will dance for me. I’ll sow lots of seeds, some will
surely flower. My smiles will be reflected in every face I see.
Life is a once only event. Some things will happen once only it that
lifetime. But the moments that can be happy, the times that we smile -
there’s no limit for them.

patsy-collins.blogspot.com

Jazz Cafe

2011-11-18T02:38:00.001-08:00

Kathleen Jones

Mango Smoothie

The pianist is off the beat. It annoys me that he can't keep tempo, but I can't get anyone else to play for the money — a straight thirty each and a few free drinks.
    And no-one listens anyway. The smart set come to meet each other and observe the weird and exotic who drift in off the Soho street. It's really a high class pick-up joint, full of postmodern girls in deliberately tatty designer clothes, chatting up men with wind-blown hairstyles in over-large jackets. You can smell the Porsche's and BMW's illegally parked on the pavement outside.
    One of the girls has draped herself over the corner of Henry's piano, dogging him up with her eyes. No joy there. Henry's one of what Simon always sarcastically refers to as the V.H.M.s — the Very Happily Marrieds. Musicians with wives and mortgages and small offspring who divide their spare time between IKEA and the garden centre.

    Nine o'clock on a summer evening in the Café Lafayette. Just coming to the end of the first set. I turn to take a sip of mineral water to soothe my smoke-roughened throat and catch sight of myself in the mirrored surface of the wall opposite. A slim girl on a high stool with a long bony face and long reddish-brownish hair I only just recognise as me; above her, the golden holograms of the brass ceiling fans rotating at full speed; behind her, the circles and squares of an art-deco window frame. A yellow raincoat is walking past with a black and white umbrella.
    After a while the yellow coat edges into my view of the bar. It's Maggi, shaking the damp from her bobbed black hair. The sight of her paralyses my throat just for a moment. But I control the spasm in order to finish the song and sign off at the microphone. `We're going to take a break now, but we'll be back with you later. Ladies and gentlemen, Henry Field at the piano.' A scatter of applause barely audible above the conversation. `And I'm Kate Hennessy.' More applause this time, but still only polite, perfunctory. People have more interesting things to do with their hands — glasses, cigarettes, other people's bodies.
    Which brings me back to Maggi, who's taken off her raincoat and crumpled it over a stool. She's wearing a black body suit, an eight inch long white crotch-cover (definitely not a skirt) and black and white striped tights. Ridiculously thin. And she has a thin mouth that opens to show pointed little teeth like a predatory fish.
    ‘Not working tonight?' I ask.
Maggi shakes her head. ‘I've been in the studio all day mixing the CD.'
    My throat goes into spasm again, but I manage to control my face by catching the barman's eye and ordering another mineral water. It simply isn't fair that Maggi should be making a CD already. She's only been on the scene a year. Of course it helps being an American — there's an implicit belief that the only real jazz musicians are Americans, particularly singers. All the songs seem to have been written in American idiom.
    I feel suddenly very old. Twenty seven, rising twenty eight and still without a recording contract. Plenty of work though, plenty of people to tell me I can sing — a gutsy, bluesy voice that doesn't seem to belong to my slim frame. Quite a contrast to Maggi's high-pitched intonation and complete disregard for melody. But that kind of stringy, rhythmic scat-singing seems to be fashionable now.
    I hate you. I think the words deliberately as a kind of relief, looking at Maggi drinking a half of lager out of a triangular flower vase. My own mineral water is being offered in a similar glass with circular ice and a segment of lime pressed onto the rim. The place is unbearably pretentious.

    Henry is talking to a girl further up the bar, possibly his wife. She's pregnant, leaning back slightly on her heels for balance, resting her arms across the top of the bulge.
    I have to force myself to look away. I can't bear to see it. My body aches for a child. It's so strong, it's like a fierce dog eating my insides out. Something inexplicable, biological. We can't afford to have a child just yet. I don't even want a child yet — not until I've got somewhere with my singing, and not until Simon is earning enough for both of us. But every morning when I get the press-out strip of pills out of the drawer I have a battle with myself. My body says ‘No. Put them back in the drawer.' And my head says ‘Don't be stupid. Take the damn thing as quick as you can.' And my hands shake so much I can hardly push the little blue circles out of their sockets.
    ‘Simon coming down later?' Maggi asks.
    I nod. He's doing a show on Charing Cross Road. Orchestra pit work. Well beneath his abilities really, but it's all that's around at the moment. A dreary musical, created around the life of some long-dead music-hall star, which will run for the tourist season and be pulled off before Christmas. Simon should be getting something better.
    ‘I want to ask him something,' Maggi goes on. She smiles, revealing all the little pointed teeth. ‘I thought we might all go down to Ronnie's after. A friend of mine from the States is playing and he said he'd get us in.'
    ‘I'm not sure I've got the energy. It's been a tough week..' Anything to avoid an evening with Maggi.
    ‘OK.' She shrugs in an easy-going, friendly kind of way.
    I find it incredible that Maggi seems unaware of my hostility. I can feel it leaking from me like battery acid. ‘What did you want Simon for anyway?'
    ‘I wondered whether he'd like to do a gig for me next Thursday afternoon. It's a tea dance at the Grosvenor. Guy shut his hand in a car door and can't play for a week or two.'
Bad luck for Guy. Extra money for Simon. That's how it goes.

    He walks in towards the end of the second set, dumping the holdall with his saxophone and music-stand behind the piano. He looks very thin and serious in the black and white evening outfit he got second hand in Oxfam. He raises a hand and wriggles his long, elegant fingers at me. Simon's hands are incredible. Very pale and bony, with exceptionally long, spatulate fingers. Women's hands. Sometimes I think that Simon would make a very pretty woman with his heart-shaped face and curly blonde hair and the very thick black eyelashes that screen his jade blue eyes.
    We've been married for three years, and lived together two before that, ever since we met at the Guildhall School of Music. Simon was a pupil of Kathy Stobart, while I was studying with Cleo Laine. Five years. Five years of bedsits and awful furnished flats. But now we have our own — a ground floor, two bedroom Victorian apartment in Hackney. Not the best area, but the first rung on the property ladder and large enough — I have to stop myself. I'd been going to think ‘enough space for a child’, but that's dangerous stuff.

The clapping after the last number is rather more enthusiastic — there are even half-hearted calls for an encore. Normally I'd oblige, but tonight I'm not in the mood. I catch Henry's eye and shake my head.
    At the bar Simon says, ‘No point in going to Ronnies on a Saturday night — it'll be packed out. I thought we'd go down to the 100 Club instead.' He and Maggi seem to have it all arranged.
    ‘And you think you could manage Prague in September?' Maggi says.
    ‘Don't see why not. It sounds a really interesting tour. And I can always put in a Dep. for the show.'
    ‘Great!'
    ‘I don't want to go to the 100 Club,' I hear myself say. I'd meant it to sound reasonable, but it sounds petulant — a child refusing a treat out of temper.
    Both Maggi and Simon turn to look at me.
    ‘She's tired, you know,' Maggi says, speaking across me.
    ‘Are you?' Simon looks peeved. ‘I was just feeling like breaking out a little. That show's so deadly I need to unwind afterwards. And we don't have to be up tomorrow.' He's coaxing me. ‘You'll enjoy it when you get there. Bill Oakley and John Crichman are playing.'
    Simon says do this; Simon says do that. It's a familiar game. They’re all looking at me.   I can either go home in a taxi and confirm to everyone that easy going, well-balanced Kate is having a pre-menstrual tantrum, or grit my teeth and endure a tense evening at my least favourite venue. Simon knows what I'll do. So does Maggi. Making waves is not my style. I can see clearly that this is my weakest point — my hatred of causing a fuss makes me easy to manipulate, and Maggi, with her predatory instincts, picked up on it right from the start.

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    Simon brought Maggi home with him a year ago. She looked small and cold and defeated inside her yellow plastic coat. Her mascara was trickling down her pale face like an exaggerated Pierrot mask.
    ‘This is Maggi,' Simon said, bending down to put another bar on the electric fire. ‘There was a mix-up over her flat, so I said she could stay with us for a bit.'
    Just like that.
    I made myself smile and say ‘Fine. No problem.' Which is what people always say when there is. And I went to make up the bed in the spare room. It isn't a very good bed, acquired from some friends who were throwing it out onto a skip. There's no carpet on the floor either, and only a big old chest of drawers my mother wanted to get rid of when she got divorced. The curtains, left by the previous owners, are thin cotton hung on stretchy wires that almost cover the big Victorian window, but not quite.
    It would have to do. Maggi said it was fine, wonderful, much better than a bin-liner on a street corner. She'd be perfectly comfortable.
    Having her to stay made practising difficult. Simon, of course, could always take his saxophone and practise in the living room or the bedroom, but the piano with its solid metal frame couldn't be moved. Which meant that I had to practise when Maggi wasn't in. It was very inconvenient. And there were minor irritations like her habit of singing to herself all the time and talking on the phone in the middle of the night to her mother in America, and the rather aggressive perfumes she wore with loud names like Poison and Opium, so that even when she wasn't there you could smell her all over the house. Even the chairs and the sofa in the living room smelt of stale civet.
    But what bothered me most was the thinness of the wall between the two bedrooms. When we made love I was always aware of Maggi listening on the other side of the plasterboard. We make love less often now that Maggi’s there.
    As time went on there were other aggravations too. Maggi had no sense of private property. She would help herself to my face creams and precious Neil's Yard bath oils, borrow CDs and films without asking, and make coffee in my special mug — the one Simon bought me in a street market in Delhi on our honeymoon. If I psyched myself up to tackle her, she'd open her big, Pierrot eyes very wide and innocent and say ‘Oh. Is it? Sorry. I didn't think you'd mind.’ Which made me feel completely mean.
    But the final trespass for me was the time I rang Simon from Oxford St and heard Maggi's voice on our answering machine. ‘Sorry I'm not around, but if you want to leave a message for Maggi, or Simon or Kate . . .'
    The beeps beeped in sequence — little electronic alarm bells, but I was too angry to speak.
    ‘You have to be patient,' Simon said. ‘She's a foreigner, she doesn't know how things work around here. Give her time.'
    It was true really. And she tried so hard to please. She bought bottles of wine on impulse and turned ordinary meals into celebrations, and sometimes when we got up late after a gig there would be hot corn muffins on the table and real blueberry jam.
    ‘She's such a generous person,' Simon said. ‘It's just that she expects everyone else to be like herself.'
    I said nothing, but my gut feeling said ‘Bugger that. She's using us.’ Why were men so easily taken in?

    One day, after she'd been there about three months, she suggested that wouldn't it be better if Simon and I had the room with the piano in, to solve the practising problem? Which was true. But I still didn't want to do it. Why should I have to leave my bedroom on account of Maggi? And why should I be made to feel the one who's being unreasonable if I don't?
    ‘It's the logical thing to do', Simon said. ‘Maggi's right.'
    So the furniture was shifted, and it's the same furniture, even though it looks different in another setting. But there's no carpet and the curtains from the other room wouldn't fit and so we have to make do with the thin damask that allows the street light to leech through it and stops me sleeping properly. Every time I’ve saved up enough money for curtains and carpeting something else had come up — the car exhaust or the central heating boiler.
    And Maggi's been there ever since. Whenever I get Simon round to talking about her leaving he says that having a lodger helps to pay the mortgage, and anyway, he's got used to her around. And then Maggi says things like — ‘It's so wonderful of you to put up with me. Sharing a flat with you guys is such fun.' So what can I do?

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    The routine's the same after every weekend gig. Either a curry house or an Italian. Usually there's some consensus, but tonight, because it's Maggi, there's an argument. Maggi wants to go to the Italian so that she can show off her vocabulary to the waiters and order obscure wines no one has ever heard of, which, infuriatingly, are always wonderful. And she always asks them for something which isn't on the menu, which is always made available and smells delicious and enviable when it comes.
    I decide, insist, am absolutely adamant, that I'm going to have a curry. If I have to go to the 100 Club then I'm having my own way over the meal. A childhood spent in India watching the cook blending the brightly coloured powders, red and orange and yellow; chili and cumin and turmeric; the shiny green of peppers and the textures of cinnamon bark and clove, have left me addicted to the sensuality of its food.

    And it makes me feel secure. My Ayah used to smell of cardamom which she chewed to sweeten her breath, and always, always in the house there was the smell of fenugreek, sharp and aromatic, blowing across the veranda in the breeze from the muslin'd windows.
    Not that this restaurant is anything like India. It's decorated like a brothel. An almost life-size naked lady in white plaster, surrounded by Grecian columns and Christmas lights, drips water onto plastic flowers at the entrance. The walls are hung with pink brocade and have gilded lamp brackets with extravagantly fringed shades. The ceiling has stalactites of plaster and gilt and crystal and, above the bar, swags of pink brocade billow and recede like an outrageous bed canopy.
    But it smells of fresh coriander and all those other scents that recreate my comfort zone.
The first thing Simon does as soon as we sit down is ask to have the music turned off. Jazz musicians always do this. Muzak tortures the ear. But somehow I've never been able to bring myself to do it. Other people there are enjoying the music — finding it an essential part of the atmosphere. There's a little, hostile exchange with the manager which I try not to listen to, hiding behind the menu,. Then, it seems, there's to be a compromise. The jangle of voice and sitar becomes a faint, background wail.
    Henry's wife is telling a joke she'd heard on a music quiz programme. ‘What's the difference between a musician and an insurance policy?'
    ‘I don't know.' Simon says warily. ‘What is the difference?'
She smiles and waits a second or two, as though she knows he isn't going to like it and is determined to enjoy his discomfort. ‘Insurance policies mature and make money.'
    Henry and I laugh outright. Simon smiles a rather tight smile and says ‘That's cruel.' And it is.
    But it's also true. Someone told me before I married Simon ‘It's impossible to have a relationship with a musician — all they know is the music. Nothing else matters.' I sometimes wonder if that's where I've gone wrong. Perhaps I haven't been single-minded enough. Perhaps that's why Maggi's spent all day making a CD while I've just sung to a deaf audience in a shitty cafe for fifty pounds.
    Maggi says, ‘I intend to make loads of money.'
And I expect she will. Maggi knows how to get things.

    The toilets are pink porcelain shells with gold fittings. Washing her hands in the imitation marble bowl, Henry's wife says ‘I don't know how you put up with it.'
    ‘What else can I do?'
    ‘I'd give them both their marching orders if it was me.'
She bumps the door behind her as she goes out, leaving me standing with my hands under the drier and an uncomfortable thought. What did she mean by ‘both'?

© Kathleen Jones

www.kathleenjones.co.uk
www.kathleenjonesauthor.blogspot.com

Hail the New

2011-11-09T05:11:00.000-08:00

Trevor Belshaw

Hail the New

Sweet Tea

"The gates are locked."

Richard Davis, checked the authenticity of the message before passing it back to the approaching workforce.

"We're locked out. Summat's up," he said.

The worrying news spread by way of a thousand whispers.

The adult employees shuffled their feet on the slush covered ground as the younger children started a game of tag to keep warm. Stumpy stood by the gates with his best friend Davy and his older brother, John. Davy suffered from a lung infection and a persistent cough, aggravated by working in the dust beneath the machines.

“What’s that big iron beast in the corner of the yard?” he wheezed. “I wasn’t there yesterday.”

Stumpy’s reply was cut short as a window opened in the gatekeeper's office and the long face of the foreman, Granville Lurcher, appeared. “There’s to be an announcement,” he shouted.

The boys looked at each other with grim faces. Announcements usually brought bad news.

The door to the gatehouse opened and a cold silence descended on the workforce. Mill owner, Cornelius Grubhunter, walked into the courtyard, smoothed his moustache and addressed the crowd.

“Right, you lot,” he began. “There are going to be some big changes at the mill. The improvements will result in higher productivity and a better product for our customers. Some of you will be trained on the new machines. That will cost time and money, so certain economies will have to be made.”

“New machines?”

“Economies?”

The words buzzed like a swarm of bees.

Cornelius puffed out his chest and pointed to the new engine that Davy had spotted.

“Hail the new, lads and lasses,” he proclaimed. “This is PROGRESS!”

“Will progress mean layoffs?” asked Davy’s mother.

Cornelius brushed his moustache again and held up his hand for silence. When he spoke his voice was honey laced with chilli-pepper.

“The only layoffs will come from the ranks of the child labourers. But... there will be a reduction in wages for the rest of you. The new machinery has to be paid for somehow.”

“Pay cut?”

“How many children?”

Cornelius shrugged. “We'll keep four boys to work in the boiler house.”

Panic shot through the crowd.

“Only four?”

“We can't afford to eat without our Samuel's wages.”

“Lucy's wage helps pay the rent.”

Cornelius called for silence again but the crowd ignored him. Granville Lurcher stepped forward and glared at the workforce. “Silence!” he snarled.

The noise stopped abruptly. No one ever argued with Granville.

Cornelius pointed again to the black monster in the corner of the yard. “We have a team of engineers arriving this afternoon to fit this, and other new machinery. One of those machines will enable you to work without your brats getting their limbs ripped off as they crawl under the looms. For that you should be grateful.”

“But we need them to work.”

“And work they will,” said Cornelius with a saintly smile. “I have spoken to other businessmen in the area and between us we have found work for most of them.”

Davy burst into a coughing fit. Cornelius glared at him and continued.

“Some will go down the pit. There are also six sweeps willing to give work to boys small enough to climb into chimneys and there is work for all of the girls at the match factory.”

He paused to take a sheet of paper from Granville. “Bring your brats back here at 11 o'clock to face the selection panel.”

Granville strode up to the gates and held up a list of names. “The mill is now closed,” he said. “It will re-open on January 1st. A skeleton workforce of thirty men will assist the engineers. Their names are on this list along with the brats we have retained. The rest of you can bugger off ‘ome.”

The crowd erupted. Insults were hurled at Cornelius.

At a signal from his employer, Granville blew a whistle. The factory doors opened and out poured a score of men, each carrying a thick stick or an iron bar. The leader slapped his stick into the palm of his hand.

“Now then. Who wants to argue?”

***

At eleven, the mill children marched back and forth across the courtyard while a small group of men studied their build and agility. The sweeps chose the smallest of the boys, while the manager of the coal mine wanted the stockier children. After an hour, only two remained.

Cornelius looked around at the employer’s representatives. “Will no one take these two boys? They’re tougher than they look.”

“That wheezy one’s no good to us with a chest like that,” said the mine manager. And the other only has one hand. What use is he to anyone?”

Cornelius pointed to Davy. “His cough is only a winter ailment; he’ll be fine in a day or two. The lad has the perfect build for chimney work. Who’ll have him on a wage free trial?”

“I'll take him on those terms,” said a mean looking sweep. “But it will be three months, wage free.”

Stumpy stood forlornly by as parents signed over their children to the new employers. Despite a plea to Cornelius from his mother, Stumpy was told to leave the premises and never return.

***

Sunday was the one day the mill workers had to themselves. The children met up at the frozen pump at the old town square. The mood was subdued.

“Where's Davy?” asked Stumpy.

“He got stuck in a chimney on his first day and suffocated,” said John. “The sweep just left him there. Ma had to go and get him out.”

Stumpy snarled. “He should never have been sent to the sweep.”

The children mumbled agreement.

“Davy should be avenged,” whispered Stumpy.

John nodded. “But how?”

“I have an idea,” said Stumpy. He looked around the earnest faces. “I'll need volunteers.”

***

Cornelius Grubhunter stood in front of the hall mirror and smoothed down his moustache.

‘Seven-thirty five. Where the hell was Granville?’ The mill owner’s Christmas banquet was not an event he liked to be late for. He called the groom to the back door and ordered him to prepare the bay. ‘I’ll ride to Hardfast Hall by way of the mill,’ he thought. ‘Granville’s excuse had better be a good one.’

Cornelius threw on his cloak and rode the short distance to the mill. He entered the boiler house to find a group of boys gathered around a dark shape on the floor.

“What are you brats standing around for?” he snarled. “Get that boiler fed.” Cornelius pushed them aside to find a pair of legs protruding from beneath the conveyor.

“Granville,” he shouted. “Get up man, are you drunk?” He aimed a kick at the legs. When there was no reaction he bent over to get a closer look.

Cornelius gasped when he saw what was left of his foreman. The entire top half of the body was missing. Smoke drifted up from the charred remains. He retched as the sickly smell of burning flesh assailed his nostrils.

“What the hell has...?”

A heavy coal shovel hit him across the back of the head, cutting him off, mid-sentence.

Cornelius came to, lying on the coal conveyor, wrapped mummy-like in a sheet of Grubhunter's finest cotton with an oily rag stuffed in his mouth.

“Mmmmf.”

“Let's hear what he has to say.”

A small hand removed the rag.

“You’ll all hang,” spluttered Cornelius.

“If we do, you won’t be here to see it,” said a familiar voice.

“Stumpy? Damn you. I'll have your other hand for this.”

“No you won’t,” said Stumpy quietly. “You’re done hurting people.” He nodded and John turned the hand crank. The conveyor moved forward a couple of feet.

Stumpy turned to Edwin and Sam, the coal boys. “Get their horses and lead them to the Grimdon Marshes. Everyone must think they were taken by footpads.”

“Footpads?” spat Cornelius. “No one will believe it; they’ll come here looking for me.”

“And they’ll find nothing,” said Stumpy, calmly. He turned to the remaining coal boys. “Get what’s left of Granville back on the conveyor, lads.”

Cornelius’s boots began to smoulder. He craned his neck to look ahead. His eyes bulged as he looked into the mouth of the boiler. Flames performed a hellish ballet around its gaping jaws.

The conveyor moved again and Cornelius began to sweat. His feet felt like they were on fire.

“Please, don't do this. I'll give you anything you want. Anything, just say.”

“You can't give us Davy back.”

“Davy? Who's Davy?” A high-pitched scream ripped from his lips as the conveyor lurched forward again. The flames lapped around his knees, his feet were gone.

“Davy,” said Stumpy, “was the boy with the annoying cough. The one you sent to work up the chimneys. He suffocated on his first day.”

The mill owner screamed again and again as the flames wrapped themselves around his groin. “I'll make it up to you. Please...”

Stumpy smiled as John turned the crank handle again and Cornelius went in up to his chest. His screams died away, replaced by small, whimpering sounds as the flames consumed him.

“Hail the new,” said Stumpy.

Trevor Belshaw is the author of Tracy’s Hot Mail and Designer Shorts. He also writes for children under the name Trevor Forest. His books include Magic Molly, Peggy Larkin’s War, Abigail Pink’s Angel and Faylinn Frost and the Snow Fairies.

Trevor’s short stories have appeared in various anthologies including 100 Stories for Haiti, 50 Stories for Pakistan, 100 Stories for Queensland, Deck the Halls, Another Haircut and Stories for Advent. He is also published by Ether Books on their iPhone app and is a regular contributor to The Pages Magazine. Trevor’s articles have appeared in The Best of British, Ireland’s Own and First Edition.

Website http://www.trevorbelshaw.com

Website http://www.trevorforest.com

Twitter @tbelshaw

Vincent – A Fairytale

2011-10-26T03:46:00.000-07:00

Rai Jayne

Caffe Mocha made with off milk.

Once upon a time, not too long ago on the top floor of a decaying tower block of flats in the murkiest corner of Manchester lived a shy and awkward girl named Vincent. Vincent would often stand at her window wishing she was outside somewhere far away. She didn’t like Manchester and Manchester didn’t like her. When she looked out of the window, as she often did, all she saw were gray buildings, rain clouds and pollution. Vincent didn’t like going outside but she didn’t much like staying in her damp little flat either and quite soon Vincent began to feel alone. She surrounded herself with plants but they always died after a couple of days no matter how well she took care of them. She began to think she was cursed.

One particularly murky and frosty morning in November, Vincent discovered a green-gray fuzz on her cheese and bread and the milk smelled sour. Vincent sat cross-legged on the floor staring into the fridge; its low hum soothed her. She knew she would have to venture outside and buy groceries and this thought filled her with despair. Eventually the light inside the fridge went out and she slammed the door closed in disgust. After wrapping a thick scarf around her neck, and half of her face, she began the decent down the urine-soaked concrete stairwell.

The supermarket was hell. Tall people rushed past her, most of them bumping into her in the process, they all had somewhere to be, someone to see. Vincent didn’t. She walked as slowly as she could up and down each aisle and taking her time to view each product in depth.

Danish Blue Cheese. A full flavoured blue cheese suitable for any occasion. 341 calories per 100g. Suitable for vegetarians. Use within 7 days of opening.

What occasion wouldn’t a cheese be suitable for? Regardless, Vincent dropped it into the basket feeling pleased with herself, she figured blue cheese was best as she probably wouldn’t notice when it had gone off. She collected the rest of her groceries, including a basil plant (easier to look after than other house plants), and headed out of the store.

Back in the tower block Vincent rid the fridge of its diseased contents and placed the new items inside. She smiled. The fridge was empty except for a block of blue cheese, a crusty loaf and a pint of milk. The basil plant! Vincent had forgotten about him, she spun around but he was already dead. She hadn’t the heart to put him in the bin so she gave Basil some water and he sat on the sill looking miserable. She hadn’t the heart...that seemed to be story of Vincent’s life, no hearts. She sat cross-legged on the floor of the living room (it was almost bare except for an old mattress and blanket), an empty glass bottle clutched in her hand, she knew she was going to need it. All at once the tears overflowed from her eyelids, cascading down her cheeks and into the bottle. The world seemed to be crying with her, outside the sky threw its tears against the windows, inside water trickled down the walls.

Vincent pushed a cork into the tear-filled bottle and placed it on the shelf; she stuck a label on the side, ‘VODKA.’ No hearts, the story of her life. Vincent had never received a heart from anyone, no parents or lovers or even friends; she did have a cat once but it jumped out of the window...and died. Vincent knows it committed suicide just to escape her. There was a beautiful little girl who lived down the road in a beautiful little cottage and men, women and every living creature would lay their hearts down for her. Countless men were often seen around Manchester with gaping holes in their chests, or deep red scars from tearing out their hearts. The beautiful girl, whose name was Rose, accepted the hearts of course, but she didn’t care for them. They were usually tossed aside and never thought of again. What people didn’t realised was that Rose, behind her peachy exterior, had a drink problem and spent her days guzzling vodka. This vodka she got from Vincent who would trade a bottle for a heart. Rose was only too eager to give away her hearts in exchange for the burn of Vincent’s tears.

Vincent had built up a small collection of hearts by now and she truly adored each one. She took care to polish them and hold them to her chest to feel the warmth they emanated. She would hold them to her ears and hear the beat and the whispered statements of love. As much as she loved her hearts she longed for one of her own. She needed someone to tear his heart out and give it to her and then she would be happy, she was sure.

Vincent leaned out of her window, sucking in the bitterly cold air. She loved winter, it helped to stay frozen inside and not feel anything. Her tatty dreadlocks fell down either side of her face liked thick strands of rope. She closed her eyes.
   ‘Vincent!’ She was shocked from her daydream. ‘Vincent!’ A handsome young man was standing below her window, she recognised him from the supermarket.
   ‘What do you want?’ Vincent called back. Her voice was raspy and hoarse and she realised this was the first time she had spoken out loud for a very long time.
   ‘I love you,’ came the reply. ‘I see you every time you go shopping, you buy bread and cheese.’
   ‘But that doesn’t mean you love me. Everyone buys bread and cheese.’
   ‘But you’re special,’ he insisted. ‘Look.’ He tore open his shirt to reveal a bloody, gaping wound in his chest and then he held his heart high above his head. ‘Here is my heart. Take it. Let me climb the ropes to your tower.’
   ‘Just...up...stairs,’ Vincent was struggling to form words. A tear twinkled onto her cheek and froze instantly.

The Boy burst into the room leaving blood-stained footprints behind him. He joined Vincent at the window, breathless he held out his heart.
   ‘For you,’ he said. Vincent looked at the heart, not wanting to touch it.
   ‘It’s not beating,’ she stated.
   ‘That’s because it only beats for you,’ his voice was gentle and sincere. ‘Take it.’ Vincent stared at the heart, it looked ugly. It was bloody and messy and...and...
   ‘No!’ The scream hurt her throat but she didn’t care. ‘No, I don’t want it.’ The Boy’s face crumpled and before he could speak again Vincent pushed him with all of her might and he tumbled from the window, landing in the thorn bush below.

Vincent headed into the kitchen and tore open the crusty loaf, smothered it with blue cheese and took a bite. The sourness of the cheese calmed her. She looked over at Basil. He was standing proud, a vibrant green.

Bio - Rai Jayne is a freelance writer, blogger and zinester. She is in her final year of an English and Creative Writing degree at Salford University. She has co-written, self-published and starred in Hospitality. She plays bass for all-girl punk band Pink Hearse. She hopes to one day change the world with a biro, a pritstick, and a typewriter.

Picture by: © Stuart Taylor | Dreamstime.com