The Last We Heard

They’re late, said Connie

Fashionably, said Mike

Typical, said Connie, flicking the switch on the kettle again. She slid the tea tray onto the counter and loaded it with cups, milk jug, sugar, a plate of fig rolls.

You wait, she said, she won’t apologise - it’ll be some hold up somewhere. Something about the one way system or something, you wait.

Mike went back through to the lounge and dropped onto the sofa. He picked up the paper, folded it back on itself then reached out a hand and picked a tortilla chip from the bowl on the coffee table.

Don’t touch them, snapped Connie from the kitchen.

What? said Mike

Those tortilla chips. They’re for later.

I didn’t.

Yes, you did. I can hear you.

I can have one - I only want one.

Leave them alone. And don’t lounge about, you’re messing the covers.

Oh, for f...

The train pulled into Bengaluru station and was immediately surrounded by peddlers, young boys selling watermelon slices and mangoes, girls hawking spicy dalls, lassi in old yogurt pots, puris and bananas. Older men had bags full of mobile phones. Women were selling sunglasses and scarves made from old sari material, packets of sweets, some of which she recognised from home, others with gaudy wrappers emblazoned with incomprehensible Hindu script. The noise and the heat and the smell of the city assaulted her. She felt her heart race. She grabbed her rucksack from the overhead rack and pulled her cotton neck scarf up over her mouth.

The aisle was already jammed with passengers trying to disembark. After a month in the country she had learned to assert herself and demand her space among the thronging travellers. Even as she did so though she felt a hand on her bottom as she pushed past an elderly gentleman. She reached behind and pushed his hand away, turned and looked scathingly into his eyes. He smiled lasciviously at her and licked his lips. She felt the urge to lash out but pushed on past and allowed the flow to carry her down the train to the door.

On the platform, she closed her ears to the clamour, avoided eye contact with anyone and resisted the hands holding out their wares as she made her way through the crowd.

At last, said Connie, as she heard the car door slam outside. Get the door, Mike, they’re here.

Mike was already in the hall.

Connie heard them greeting each other as he opened the door. She dried her hands on a tea towel, checked her hair in the reflection of the glass-fronted kitchen cupboard, brushed her hands over her hips and breathed.

Come through, Kat, she called, I’m in the kitchen.

She heard her sister noisily double-kissing her husband.

Mwah, mwah, Michael, sweetheart. Ooh, you’ve put on a few pounds I see. Well, why not, eh?

It’s just puppy fat, Katrina. Besides Connie likes my love-handles.

I’m sure she does, darling, I’m sure. Don’t mind me. I love a man with an appetite, don’t I, Derek.

Derek didnt respond, he was still at the car handing the suitcases out onto the pavement.

Connie felt the bustle of the woman approaching down the hall, heard Derek talking to Mike behind her.

You all right, old bean?

Fine, Derek, just fine. Just leave them by the stairs, we’ll take them up in a minute.

Put on a few, have you? Too friendly with the beer, Mike, eh? Need to get down the Virgin Active, Mike - a bit of cardio, weights, get them abs back. That bloody one way system's a bit shit, isn't it?

Connie, my darling!

Kat was in the kitchen, arms outstretched demanding her sister’s embrace.

Hello, sis. Mmm, you smell nice. What’s that?

Oh Conn, I’ve discovered this heavenly website selling vintage perfumes. It’s absolutely delicious. This is a 1956 Hermés - it’s divine. I’ve only got 5 mils and it cost a fortune but I just love it!

How can you buy perfume online? How do you know what it smells like?

Oh, you’d be amazed! Amazed! People who know write reviews and they’re so brilliant ...they can just describe it absolutely, like fine wine... and you just get to trust certain vendors, you know. So if they like something you just know you will too. It’s sooo addictive. Don’t tell D, but I’ve spent an absolute fortune. But better that than alcohol and drugs, that’s what I say. I’ll send you a link, darling, you’ll absolutely die!

Tea, Kat? said Connie.

Have you got any lapsang? I’ve just got really into it, we don’t drink anything else at home, at the moment.

No ‘fraid not. Builders or Earl Grey. We cater for both ends of the social spectrum here.

Oh, Connie, you’re so funny, I forget! Oh well, we’ll slum it and go for the Earl Grey I suppose. With a slice of lemon. I’ve discovered I’m lactose intolerant.

She scoured the map in the Rough Guide and, feeling less than confident, left the station by the main entrance and out into the street. The air was thick with car fumes and the smell of drains, burnt rubber, stale spices, frying onions. She swung her rucksack off her back as she took stock. A rickshaw driver shouted at her from the rank of waiting vehicles.

Missy, missy - you need hotel? I take you hotel? Good price, missy. Best price. I take you?

She had no time before the man jumped into her hesitation and came running over. He placed a hand on her rucksack strap.

I take you, wherever you want to go. Hotel? Guesthouse? I take you my cousin place - very clean, no fuckers. I take you. Safe place. You come.

She looked at him. His hand on her bag - but he wasn’t pulling. Not physically anyway. He waited. She felt...OK? It would be easier than trying to find somewhere herself. The Rough Guide was proving somewhat out of date. Well, it was nearly twenty years old. She’d only brought it because Dad had insisted - he’d found it useful.

Where is this place?

Salliban Street. Very good place. Clean. No bugs. No fuckers.

What did he mean ‘no fuckers’? No fakirs? She should walk away, shouldn’t she? No fuckers, what did that mean?

My cousin, he good lady, he good cook. Keep clean place. Good place, no..

No fuckers, yes, I get the picture.

So the cousin was a woman, was she? Right. Did that make a difference? Yes she had to admit it did. If he was telling the truth, of course.

Salliban Street?

No, no Salliban Street.

She couldn’t tell the difference between her pronunciation and his. But then...

Oh, Sullivan Street.

Yes, yes, Salliban street.

She checked the map again, but couldn’t find it.

How far is it?

Five minutes. Five miles. Five kilo.

How much?

Ten rupees.

Ten?

Eight. Eight rupees.

Ok.

Five. Five rupees. Come I take you.

She looked into his eyes to find her trust. He looked back. Was it there?

How’s work, Connie? asked Derek.

Oh you know - same old, same old... understaffed, underpaid and overworked.

It must be dreadful having to go to that awful place everyday, said Kat.

Well it’s... it’s not awful. The kids are great.

So depressing, said Kat. They can’t pay you enough as far as I’m concerned. So glad I’m past all that. Derek’s had a big promotion, did I tell you? Fortunately! Don’t know how I’d cope otherwise.

It’s more of a sideways move actually, said Derek, but it’s a bit more dosh. Every little helps, as they say, eh Mike.

Yes, indeed, said Mike.

Yep, every little helps.

How’s Cybil, sis? asked Connie.

Oh, don’t ask, said Derek.

Cybs? Oh she’s still off on her travels somewhere. She went to Oz and was working on some organic farm or something. What did they call it, Derek?

Woofing.

Woofing - yes, that was it.

Working on an organic farm, explained Derek.

Right, said Connie.

God knows why anyone would want to do that when you’ve got the whole of Australia to explore, said Kat. Then she spent a week in Thailand and a week in Vietnam of all places. Then the last we heard she was going to stop off in India and find herself for a bit or something. That was a couple of months ago though... She was going to Jaipur, then Bangalore... but we’ve not heard much from her since she got there. But that’s so like her!

Maybe found more than she bargained for, eh Mike, said Derek. She’ll probably turn up with an Indian husband... or a girlfriend, Heaven forbid.

Don’t you worry about her, Kat? said Connie.

Me? Worry? Oh she’s a big girl. She can look after herself. We always brought her up to trust her instincts and shout loud, didn’t we, D.

Oh yes, yes, definitely, female intuition and all that malarkey.

an unknown hand

After the speeches we all drifted out into the hotel grounds.

The sun was shining and the early daffodils and crocuses made for a beautiful display along the borders by the gravelled car park.

The photographer walked to his Subaru and started to unpack his larger tripod. He looked at the sky.

As the wave of guests grew behind them, the first pioneers started to wander onto the grass. There were one or two quiet shrieks of alarm as stilettos sank into the lawn, still soft after last night’s rain. Little groups congregated in their respective tribes – bride or groom. Elaborate hats caught a little of the breeze. Men gravitated towards one another, cigarettes were lit, connections with the appropriate party were outlined and coincidences smiled at.

In an attempt to fracture the wedding apartheid, I found myself talking with an older gentleman dressed in a immaculately tailored light grey suit with a highly decorated silken waistcoat, a flounced cravat at his neck and silver hair sleeked back across his head. He explained that he was the uncle of the bride, had flown in from Geneva the previous afternoon, was intending to spend a month in the country visiting old acquaintances, galleries, the opera, Oxford Street.

After some moments, I felt a light snag of my trousers just below the knee. Without looking, I reached my hand down to adjust the offending wrinkle, but found instead the hand of a small child taking my own. I assumed it was Charlie, my son, who had been released by his mother to wander between the legs of the guests. But after a moment I realised I was holding the hand of an even smaller unkown girl, encumbered by a large nappy, who was attempting to persuade me through little guttural ejaculations to pick her up. I simultaneously became aware of a sudden hue and cry close by, and the alarmed voice of a woman reached my ears.

"Cassie! Cassie! Cassiopeia! Where are you?"

prompt: an unknown hand

Fly

In dreams I can fly

it is simple enough
a tightening of muscle
a shortening of sinew
a concentration of blood

there is
no frantic flapping of limbs
no wild leap into the air

No

I simply close eyes

tighten the core
breathe
flute my exhalation
through whistling lips
until I float
up, up into air
suspended

from the bubble

in my skull

in dreams I am free
from the poison of gravity

I tried it again today
in gusty hope
tried it as I walked home
in the belly of the wind

how certain I was
remembering the ease of dreams
feeling the fillip
beneath my arm pits
as my father
standing behind me
would grip his fingers
under these skinny pockets
and gift me moments
of fumbling flight
feet flailing free

laughing to dizziness

but today I was wakeful
and it is too hard
to tense each muscle

around the liver
summon blood

from distant corners

of a corpse

my will is oh so soft
while I am awake
and my father

is long dead

but one day
when my bones
are hollow as birds
and left sky-bleached
under gracious clouds
the ludicrous air will
whisper through them
of how I once could fly