The Storm Came Knocking

the storm came knocking quietish, just

fingernails on windows, just

the creak of dry eyes rolling, just

exasperated outbreaths, and

feathers plucked from bird-breasts, and

seed heads snapped out empty from

the fists of ancient summers, as

cloud-drummers playing rimshots got to

testing out the timpani, but the

thunder bred a litany, and the

wind blew up a mutiny, while the

orchestra were tuning, up

scuppering the teacups, the

candle wicks extinguished, the

squeaking of the catflaps, birds

caught in reckless hedges, on

ledges pigeons hunkered, on

the roofs the ridge tiles riddled, and

the churchyard railings rattled, down

the street the refuse slithered, and

the rain came down like penny drops, hit

the tarmac like a cannon, flooded

gutters, bollocked drainpipes, swept

the rubbish from the bus-stops, sent the

people running homeward, to their

kettles and their blankets.

Those was written in response to the #FromOneLine prompt on various social media platforms (Twitter, Bluesky) 

The prompt gives a phrase which must be used as the first line of the piece.

Alec - A Novella

 Last year I wrote a novella called 'Alec'.

Set in Howden, East Yorkshire, it tells the story of an older man, Alec, living alone after the death of his wife, and of how he comes to terms - or not - with life on his own.

I have made some short readings of the book and these are available now on YouTube (and on TikTok - but they're harder to find there!)

If you'd like to watch/listen, here is a list of links to each episode. Depending on your settings each episode might lead into the next, but there may be one or two interruptions where I posted something else midway through the serialisation. Each episode is less than ten minutes long.

If you do listen I'd love to hear what you think.

Alec - Episode 1

Alec - Episode 2

Alec - Episode 3

Alec - Episode 4

Alec - Episode 5

Alec – Episode 6

Alec – Episode 7

Alec – Episode 8

Alec – Episode 9

Alec – Episode 10

Alec – Episode 11

Alec – Episode 12

Alec - Episode 13

Alec – Episode 14

Alec – Episode 15

Alec - Episode 16

Alec - Episode 17

Alec – Episode 18

Alec - Episode 19

Alec – Episode 20

Alec – Episode 21

Alec – Episode 22

Alec – Episode 23a

Alec – Episode 23b

Alec – Episode 24

Alec – Episode 25

Alec – Episode 26

Alec – Episode 27

Alec – Episode 28

Alec – Episode 29

Earlier Times

A friend posted some lines of Edgar Allan Poe on Twitter today, which triggered a little exploration. This in conjunction with the season - Hallowe'en and the descent into a darker Autumn - provoked in me a sense of romantic melancholy. Time for an exercise in pastiche.

The Victorian Gothic sensibility had an epic grandeur about it. There is a formality to the poetry of course - literally, in its structure, rhythms and rhymes - but also in the dance between passion and restraint. The form holds the passion captive, such that the poet must become even more expansive in her expression. The beating heart of the poet is held chained within the iron bars of the form, leading to a sweet desperation of tone.

Had we been born in earlier times,

When stars were mysteries, and poets' rhymes

A commonplace, nay, expected too,

I would have scribed this verse for you.

I would have sharpened nib and dipped,

That from my pen the ink which dripped

Might flow to you, express its fire

To tell you of my heart's desire

On parchment I'd reveal my soul

And pray my words would fire the coal

Of love, within your darling breast

To match the burning in my melancholy chest

And to your beating heart I'd press

My hand, that my fingers might caress

And coax the glimmering flame alive.

And hope, ignited in my soul, would live.

May our destiny be one.

May our sorrows all be gone.

May our hearts beat sound and true.

May our love be ever young.

1st November, 2023

Laundering Money - old school

Back in the days of paper money and a decent postal service, Ruth's mum would slip a crisp £5 note in with a birthday card.

It had to be crisp, preferably fresh from the post office counter. You simply could not put a crumpled up note in as a birthday present! That would never do.

On those occasions when a fresh, crisp one wasn't available, she would take an old one from her purse, run it under the tap, then hold it flat in the palm of her hand and gently rub the soap over it a few times, working it into the paper, watching the suds turn muddy grey between her fingers, before a final rinse. Then she'd press it flat against the side of the bath to dry overnight, retrieving the note in the morning freshly washed and ironed.

It may not have had quite the allure of a note in mint condition, but it was at least tidy and clean with a patina of care and attention.

And just a hint of Imperial Leather.

Nonsense Descends Into Madness

Aurora said the gun dog was able to obliterate the weak-minded lawlessly

Auspices said the gunfight was able to obscure the weakness laxly

Austerity said the gunfire was able to obsecrate the weal lazily

Austin said the gunge was able to observe the weald leadenly

Australes said the gunite was able to obsess the wealthy learnedly

Auteurs said the gunk was able to obsolesce the weaner lecherously

Authors said the gunlock was able to obstruct the weanling leeringly

Authorities said the gunman was able to obtain the weapon legally

A poem for Uvalde and all the victims of mass shootings in the United States

The View From The Window

Flora could climb the door frame.

    She had seen Joe do it, and now she could do it too.

    She learned to push her hands hard against the wooden jambs on either side, then lift her feet one by one to do the same. Holding her arms strong, she could climb right to the top - like the chimney sweep’s boy she had heard about who climbed the flues in Offord House. Flora could not imagine such a thing: climbing the dirty stonework in the dark chimneys, brushing the soot down as he climbed, soot falling in his face, in his eyes and mouth - and the sweep below shouting up at him, “Faster, boy, faster! There are seven others to sweep before y’are done.”

    She could hang like a spider in the top of the door frame. From
there she could see out through the kitchen window, across the yard, over the valley to Offord House which sat upon the hilltop like a tiara crowning the town, dressed around with cedar trees and pines. Flora loved it when snow fell and blanketed the whole town, and it looked as if all the houses were wrapped in ermine with charcoal black smudges for windows. And Offord House was like the palace of a great snow queen. But then Flora’s arms would tire and she would drop like a cat to the floor, and go and curl up by the fire and hold Lucy, the rag doll Aunt Glad had given her, and whisper stories into her ear.

    Father grew worse with the snow. The fires were lit and black coal smoke hung heavy in the air. He coughed in the mornings when he sat up in bed. Flora could hear him as she broke the bread crusts into her warm milk. It was as if he could not stop. She was glad when mother told her to step out and feed the rabbits and hens. She could hear him still but the animals took her mind from him and let her smile again. She breathed misty clouds into the brisk air and traced her finger along the ice ferns that glazed the kitchen window.

    When she came inside again Mother had gone upstairs to him. She could hear the creak of the bed springs and the soft murmur of her mother’s voice as she talked to him in soft breaths. She could hear her father struggling to swallow down the vile infection, and then the wracking cough once more. Flora sat on the bottom step of the stairs and picked at the splinters of wood on the edge of the tread.

    Mother came down again when he was calm, but her face was ashen.

    “Will he die, Mother?”

    “Don’t ask such things, girl.”

    “But will he?”

    “‘Tis not for you to consider such things. Now get off to school.”

    As she walked down to the school house, Flora counted the icicles that hung from the porch of St Mark and St Matthew’s. Flora could add numbers in her head. She could read and she could draw. She would one day, she hoped, go to work in Aunt Glad’s shop - folding up the handkerchiefs, or lining the shelves with paper, straightening the gloves or re-rolling the ribbons when they were unravelled. She would prepare the orders for Arnold to deliver on his bicycle, package up the lacework and damasks, the bobbins of silken thread and parcels of pearl buttons. Working in the shop would give her ‘standing’. She knew that, she had heard Mother talking to Aunt Glad about it. To work in the shop would give her standing and Aunt Glad said she would consider it, but not until Flora was fifteen.

    “Fifteen?” Flora complained to her mother. “How can I wait so long?”

    “You’ll wait, if you’ve any sense, girl.” But Flora could hear the disappointment in her mother’s voice.

    In January, Father was worse still and could not work at all. And though Mother took in laundry for Aunt Glad and some of her customers, and cleaned the schoolhouse on Fridays, and although Joe sent money home from time to time - times were hard and money was scarce.

    On Saturday, Mother told Flora to put on her best dress - the dark grey one with the lace bib - and to clean her shoes.

    “Are we going to Church?” said Flora

    “Not today, girl. Not today. Now hurry. It won’t do to be late.”

    Mother gripped her hand tightly as they walked. Down past the church and the schoolhouse and into the market place. The snow had turned to brown slush and Mother kept on at Flora to mind her shoes. They climbed Angel Lane and passed the Museum then out along Cranbrook Road and on towards Offord House. Flora felt her heart racing - she had rarely been this far before, except in her mind. In her thoughts she had walked the length of the great stone wall and stood before the great iron gates. And the great iron gates had opened to her and she had walked between lines of footmen who bowed before her as she passed, and the maids who curtsied low, and up the steps to the magnificent front door through which came a fine lady dressed in jewelled crinolines with snow white hair piled high upon her head.

    Flora’s mother pulled at her hand.

    “Come along, girl!”

    Today they did not stop at the great iron gates. They walked straight past and on to where the wall turned a corner and opened through into a stable yard at the back of the great house. As they walked into the yard the stable boys paid them no mind at all. Mother stopped a moment, then led Flora to a small black door with a brass bell pull. Mother pulled on the bell and Flora could hear a distant jangling. Mother turned to her and pulled her collar straight and tucked her hair behind her ears.

    “Speak only when spoken to,” she said, “but then mind you do.”

    “But...”

    “Hush now.”

    The door was opened by a young man in a white chemise, powdered wig and breeches. He led them down a stone-flagged corridor to a room with a glass-paned door upon which was a brass plaque bearing the word “Housekeeper”. The young man knocked. Flora could see a grey-haired woman sitting at a desk, writing.

    “Enter,” said the woman without raising her eyes.

    Mrs Gateley stood Flora in front of her. She held her shoulders between her thumbs and fingers.

    “Stand up straight, girl.”

    Flora felt her mother straighten her own back, behind her.

    “Show me your teeth,” said Mrs Gateley.

    Flora clamped her teeth together and stretched her lips back.

    “Hmm,” said Mrs Gateley.

    As Mrs Gateley continued her examination of Flora, Mother spoke quietly to her of Flora’s accomplishments. Mrs Gateley sniffed.

    “Well she'll need no reading here,” she said. “Be here at six o’clock on Monday morning. Bring underclothes but nothing more. You will work for Mrs Dunbar in the kitchens until we discover any aptitude. You will be known as Sarah, for the sculleries are always Sarah.”

    “But what about school, Mother?” said Flora as they walked back down into the town. “And what about Aunt Glad’s?”

    “Needs must, when the Devil drives,” said her mother.

From the window on the landing of the servants’ stairs, Flora could look out across the town - down past the Museum and over the market place. There was St Mark and St Matthew’s - there the schoolhouse - and there, as the road climbed up out of the valley, she could see the rows and rows of cottages. And there in that one, that fourth one along, she knew her mother would be sitting on her father’s bed and stroking his hair until his coughing ceased.

Prompt: the view from the window

The Viewers

The afternoon had slipped from the house without saying ‘Goodbye’ - Clement could see it through the frosted glass of the front door, just hanging around, loitering in the street. He sat on the stairs watching the blurred shapes of people passing. Periodically, people would come up the path to the door.

‘We have more visitors,’ Uncle Pieter would say, at the jangling of the bell. Aunt Cecile would appear again from the back parlour, stand at the hall mirror and raise her hand to adjust her hair as necessary.

Uncle Pieter would open the door and greet the visitors, taking hats and coats and laying them across his arm.

‘Thank you for coming,’ he would say. ‘Thank you indeed.’

‘We wanted to pay our respects. Such a lady, such a lady.’

‘Thank you, thank you. Cecile will take you in.’

Aunt Cecile would greet them then, and guide them along the hallway into the gloom of the back parlour. Clement could hear the door opening, the creak of subtle hinges and a silence descend upon the party. The door would close and then after a moment, low, indistinct voices would rumble around the room - a reassuring rumble, like the rumble of the weights in the sash window in Clement's bedroom. After a few minutes the rumble would cease and the hinges of the door would creak again as the party re-emerged. Breath would be released and the visitors would move slightly more quickly towards the front door.

‘So peaceful,’ one would say, as Uncle Pieter returned his coat.

‘As if she had just fallen asleep.’

‘Such a lady. Such a lady.’

And the visitors would wish Uncle Pieter ‘goodbye’ and tell him how sorry they were that Mutti was gone.

‘Oma,’ muttered Clement to himself. ‘She is my Oma.’

Sometimes someone would see him sat there upon the stair, running his fingers around the turns of wood of the bannister. They would see him and grant him a soft, sad smile. Maybe they would turn to Uncle Pieter and ask ‘And how is...?’ but they would never say his name, but simply angle their heads and slip their eyes sideways that Pieter might fathom their enquiry.

‘He... he is calm. He is young.’ Their eyes would drift up towards Clement. ‘Cecile will take him.’

‘Good. Good. Well, if there’s anything...’

‘Thank you, thank you.’

And then the hallway would be empty again, and through the frosted glass Clement would watch the blurred shapes of the visitors move swiftly down the path to the road and away.

The clock in the front parlour counted out eight soft chimes.

Uncle Pieter came through from the back parlour where he had been sitting with Oma and Cecile. There was a practical energy in his movements that Clement knew from when they had gone fishing together, or from last Christmas when he had watched Uncle in Oma’s back yard splitting wood on Christmas morning.

‘There can be no more tonight, surely,’ he said as he swept the heavy woollen curtain across the front door. He turned and winked up at Clement. ‘Are you still there, young man. Time for bed, is it not?’

Clement stood and climbed the stairs. He lay on his bed feeling the ceiling solid against the evening sky. Usually his mind would float through it to distant shores. But not tonight. Oma was gone and tonight the ceiling was fixed and heavy and would not release him. There were cracks across the plaster, and a grey cobweb wrapped around the chain that held the light. Tonight the brown mark that spread from above the window and across the ceiling was just an old water stain, not the cloud palace that Clement always dreamed it to be.

Oma had shown him places in the photograph albums in her study. Places she had seen - desert places, high mountains and dark ravines. Places with exotic names - Samarkand, the Hindu Kush. Cities in the sand. Black and white photographs of Mahouts upon stately elephants, of Bedouin nomads and their caravans of camels, people wrapped in strange clothing with dark brooding faces. Photographs of children with gaps in their teeth and earrings in their ears.

‘You, too, will see these things,’ Oma told him, ‘for you are an explorer of worlds. And this world will open to you just as it has to me.’

He felt her eyes settle upon him and her hand upon his head - the aged hand, the ringed fingers and the gnarled knuckles - gently stroking his hair across his forehead.

‘But you will go further than I,’ she said, ‘for you are stronger and braver and cleverer than I.’

But now Oma was gone. And the young woman who had taken the photographs, who had ridden the camel, had smiled at the children with gaps in their teeth and earrings in their ears, was now lying in a wooden box on the table in the back parlour. And Clement was no longer sure, and did not think he was brave and strong and clever. And now, nothing that Oma had said, would she ever say again.

Chinese Lantern

 It seemed appropriate.

You were going.

You had always loved them so we made one in the afternoon, from tissue paper and fine wire.

At seven, we carried it to the top of Melham Hill.

You said it was like saying a prayer. It would be good luck.

We set the burner alight - just a couple of candle stubs stuck to a jam jar lid. It took a few minutes to heat the pillow of air but then, at last, it slowly began to rise.

“Wish on it,” you said, “Wish on it, quick, before it gets too high.”

“What? Wish? Don’t be daft,” I said.

“Do it! Close your eyes and make a wish.”

You closed your eyes tight. I watched you, your face pale in the gathering dusk. Your eyes flickered beneath your eyelids. You lips were closed still, but I could see them moving, as if you were saying a prayer in your mind.

You were beautiful.

I didn’t need to think. I knew what I wished for and I knew it would not come true. Could not.

Up it went into the still, evening sky.

We watched it climb higher and higher, getting smaller and smaller. A tiny living thing in the darkness.

“How high do you think it’ll go,” I said.

You turned and looked at me, a slight frown on your face.

“All the way, of course,” you said, your voice tinged with mild indignation.

“Yeah, right,” I said, and you hit me on the chest.

“Don’t spoil it,” you said.

“I’m not spoiling it - it’s lovely.”

“Yes, you are,” you said. “It’s a dream, it’s a wish - it goes up and up and up until it comes true.”

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to spoil it for you. You were going. We didn’t know when you would be back.

“Come on,” I said when we couldn’t see it any more. “Let’s go home.”

You turned in to me and pulled my coat around you.

“I don’t want to go,” you said.

“No,” I said. I could not say anything else.

You pulled on my coat collar and our lips met. Then I kissed your eyes and face. There were tears on your cheek.

The taxi came at six in the morning.

It was misty waiting for the London train. The rails disappeared into the grey. We heard the quiet grinding growing steadily louder and then the train loomed out of the mist. Suddenly you were busy. You kissed me quickly and gathered all your bags together, pulled up the handle on your suitcase.

“I’ll get that,” I said.

We guessed where the door might be when the train stopped. We were nearly right.

There weren’t many other passengers but a few doors opened for people to get off.

I picked up the case and carried it onto the train, but my being on board made you edgy.

“Get off quick,” you said, “or you’ll be coming too.”

It was hard to say anything, so I just hugged you and went back to the door. You chased me back down the carriage and grabbed me again. Kissed me. But the guard was slamming the doors. I had to get off. I ran back along the platform to where you were sitting, but the windows were so dirty we could barely see each other. And there was someone sitting in the window seat.

I ran a little way beside you as the train slowly moved off, trying to keep up with you. But it was soon too fast for me. I stood and let the train slip away, watching the end door as it grew fainter in the mist, getting smaller and smaller.

I walked home.

It was still early and the dew was still wet on the grass. Down the lane the cow parsley was in full bloom. It leaned out into the road, glistening in the sun.

I had not even told you I loved you.

I felt sick.

I stopped at a gateway and looked into a field. The mist had lifted. Cows were grazing. One lifted its head and looked at me but soon lost interest. I watched its tongue wrap around the long grass and tug it up into its mouth. I remembered the tip of your tongue touching my teeth as you kissed me goodbye. The taste of your lip balm.

I came to the path we had taken to climb the hill the night before. I wanted to climb the stile and go up again, to find you there again, for it to be you and me, there, together again. For ever.

I could not. I hit the stile post.

You were gone.

I walked on past the honeysuckle in the hedge that you had stopped to smell. A spider had caught a wasp in its web. The wasp was buzzing still, but the spider had already wound it in silk and held it wrapped in its legs. It could not get away.

I held you in my coat last night. You escaped.

Then as I walked on, there it was, lying in the road - a tangle of wire and sodden shreds of tissue paper. I picked it up in my fingers, felt the coldness of it, the tattiness of it, felt how it was wrong.

“It goes up and up and up until it comes true,” you said.

It had not. It was not magical, it was not a wish - it was a dead thing, a piece of trash. I flung it into the grass beneath the hedge. Then I went and picked it up again. Held it again. I crushed it in my hands. Crushed the wire frame into a small ball in my hands.

And I put it in my pocket.

Until it comes true.

prompt: Ten Chinese Lanterns (I lost nine somewhere along the way)

Of paint and passion

 At the party of a friend one night, Geraldine was wooed and seduced by a painter.

She was drawn to his muscular physique, his dark brown beard and sensitive eyes. She imagined the delicate brushes in his hands, the soft caress of squirrel hair on canvas, the thick urge of paint teased slowly across the creamy sea, swirling voluptuously under his control. 

In the darkness of the cab, her heart beat fast as he unbuttoned her blouse. His hands sculpted the soft clay of her breasts. 

She felt the caresses, the strong fingers, as his thumbs found her nipples. The blood rose in her veins. She became liquid.

On the bed in her apartment, she opened herself to him, contained him, devoured him, swallowed him. The brush of his hair, the salty savour of his skin, the stippled goose flesh, the long, washing strokes of his tongue.

In the morning, they walked to the bistro. He ordered a velvet Cappuccino for her, a double espresso for himself. She watched the crema cling to his upper lip as she lapped white foam from a teaspoon. She remembered him last night, hot and firm between her legs. As they sat, facing each other, she slipped her foot from her shoe, lifted it into his lap, and nudged him with her toes until he rested a secretive hand upon them. Held her there as he grew against her.

Afterwards, they walked into the square, found a bench beneath the plane trees. She felt the warm sunlight playing across the golden curve of her bosom. He had kissed her there.

She gripped his hand, and twisted herself into him.

'Would you like to paint me?' she said, 

'Paint you?' he said.

'Yes,' she said, 'naked?'

'I don't think I could,' he said.

'Why not?'

'I'm no good,' he said. 'I've no talent.'

'I'm sure that's not true!' she said. 'I'd love to see your work.'

'You would?' said he. 

'Of course.'

'Well then,' he said. 'Look over there. That house in the middle. I painted that. I've done lots round here, I'll point them out if you like, as we walk.'

Let Me Die In The Morning-time

Let me die in the morning-time
before the day has complicated things
and let it be now, in early spring
while the soil is warming
and the sun has hinted
at the colour in its cheeks

then plant me shallow
among sudden snowdrops
and crocuses

with the grass still wet
from the morning's crisp rain
with dark earth clinging to the spade

let roots creep between my ribs
and green shoots sprout

from my finger tips

there is a suggestion of warm bees
and sparrows can sing eulogies
perhaps blackbirds will chortle calls
among the first green flush of leaves

and then next day
when you have washed your hands and face
make a flask of tea
wrap sugared doughnuts in a bag
or lardy cake
and climb the high top of Melbury Hill

look back across the valley
to the places we spilled our childhood
Badger's Wood and Seymour's Bottom
the tadpole pond down Frenchmill Lane
with pointing fingers
trace maps across the landscape
to find Cann Mill amongst the thickening trees
spot the Higher Blandford Road
and the Lower
and search out the roof of the house where we once lived

mine has been a cluttered life
confused and spattered across times and place
and you may imagine patterns that never were

but this –
this was the chase beneath the skin
the quickening
the valley floor
the early store of buttery days
that has fed me always
that has kept me fat while I was thin

Home and Away

“We’re thinking, Dad... We’re thinking of moving.”

Christine watched her father’s hands as he washed the cups. Suds clung to his fingers as he lifted the dripping cup from the bowl and rinsed it under the tap. His wedding ring glinted through the bubbles.

“Oh are you?” he said, taking another cup and running the dish-mop around the inside. “Well I hope you’re not going too far.”

She felt a cold grip around her heart.

“You need to be in striking distance,” he said, “so I can keep an eye on you, eh.”

“Perth, Dad.”

“Perth? What do you want to go there for? Can’t say I know it really. Your mother and I stayed a night there on the way up to Orkney that year, but I can’t say I... we didn’t see much of it really, you know, just went to the b’n’b and straight off in the morning...”

“No, Dad...”

“We went for a stroll by the river - that was lovely actually, but more than that... Why? Has John got work up there or something?”

“No, Dad, it’s not...”

“I mean it’s not close but, well, I suppose it’s on the train line up through, eh... I mean Scotrail was pretty good, I seem to remember, but...”

“It’s not Scotland, Dad.”

“What..? Course it is, it’s what... fifty miles north of Edinburgh, isn’t it... something like that. We were driving then of course. I wouldn’t drive it now mind, not with my back...”

“It’s Perth, Australia, Dad. Western Australia. John’s family are...”

“It’s what? No, no, no, it’s definitely in...”

She saw the realisation cloud his eyes as he looked at her. He looked back at the bowl of bubbles and the cup slipped from his hand and splashed back into the bowl. Soapy water splashed onto the front of his shirt.

“Damn! Damn fool thing!” he said.

Christine reached for a tea towel from the radiator and tried to wipe at the wet shirt.

“Here, give it here,” he said, “I can do it.” He snatched the tea towel from her. “Damn fool thing!”

Christine grabbed the roll of kitchen paper and tore off a length. She squatted to mop at the pool of water on the floor.

“What are you... Leave it, will you, just leave it!”

“Sorry, Dad, I was just...”

“Leave it. I’ll get the mop in a minute. I’ll do it... Just ... Just... why don’t you go through. I’ll bring the tea in a minute. I won’t... I won’t be a minute. You go in’t room, I’ll bring it through. Do you want a biscuit?”

“No thanks, Dad.”

“I went to the VeeGee, John’ll want a biscuit... I bought a pack of... You go through and make sure he’s not mucking up the settings on the TV. I’ll be through in a minute.”

Christine popped the pedal bin open and dropped the kitchen towel into it. She turned and slipped out into the hall. She felt the tightness in her throat. Her cheeks burned red beneath her eyes. She couldn’t face John straight away. He was happy enough flicking through the channels on the television.

As she reached the sitting room door she stopped.

“I’m just popping upstairs a moment, love. I won’t be a min... there’s something I’ve been wanting to find.”

John was sitting on the sofa. He didn’t respond. She watched him for a moment looking from the TV to the remote and back again. He pressed a button and suddenly the volume boomed for a second before he found how to mute it again.

“John? Did you hear me?”

“Yeah... sure... whatever.”

She started to move towards the stairs but he hissed to stop her.

“Hey, Chrissie,” he whispered, “did you tell him?”

“Yes.”

“Is he, you know... how did he take it? Is he ok?”

“I don’t think...”

“He’ll ... give him time, he’ll get used to it. Did you mention ... you know...?”

“One thing at a time, John. One thing at a time.”

She climbed the stairs and was instantly engulfed in her childhood. While Mum and Dad had made many changes to the house downstairs - the kitchen extension, the French doors from the dining room - since Mum died nothing had changed. Upstairs they hadn’t even redecorated. The brown stair carpet, the textured wallpaper on the landing - the very air of the house felt unchanged, still, thick with the memory of dust and central heating. The towels hanging on the landing banister to dry - that slight odour of moisture from the bathroom, not damp but... used. The afternoon sun threw a certain glade of orange light from the frosted bathroom window out through the door and onto her bedroom door. Here was the ceramic plaque bearing her name that Dad had put up on her sixth birthday when she and Cicely finally stopped sharing and she got her own room. “Christine” in black cursive writing on a pink background with little primroses and bluebells framing the word. She fingered the dent in the door that Dad and Uncle Kev had made moving her new bed into the room. How mad Mum had been.

Christine stepped into her bedroom and cast her eyes around the familiar shelves: her childhood books; her collection of ceramic animals; the peacock feather in the heavy-based glass specimen vase. She glanced at the shade on the lamp, decorated with teddy bears dancing and hugging each other; the string of fairy lights strung across the wall above the bed; the array of stickers gleaned from her youthful magazines and stuck randomly across the headboard. She sat on the bed for a moment, felt the strange silence of memories crowding through her heart.

A noise from outside broke in upon her consciousness. She stood and walked to the window and drew back the curtains. Her father was stood in the garden, his hand resting on the bike shed. She couldn’t see his face but, silently, his shoulders were shaking.

Me reading 'Home and Away'

prompt: baby thoughts

In dreams I can 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

I simply close eyes

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

from the bubble

of my skull

for in dreams I am free
of 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 slip his fingers
under these skinny pockets
these boney sockets

and gift me moments
of fumbling flight
feet flailing free

spinning round and round

carving circles in the trees with my heels

me laughing to dizziness

as the world

was smudged

into fast nonsense

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

around the liver
summon blood

from distant corpse corners

my will is soft
while I am awake
and my father

long dead

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

Verdant Mist

It was four days after the funeral that the paint arrived. Verdant Mist.

Cherie had ordered it from Bardle's, the specialist supplier online. Many sample pots had been painted onto the chimney breast in the sitting room. A giant abstract mural of blues, greens and greys.

"I quite like it like that," said Derek.

"Don’t be daft," said Cherie, and so Derek had lost interest. He was happy to let her play with the colours but couldn't himself tell the difference between Cool Teal and Spearmint China. He certainly didn't prefer one over the other. After a while, Cherie had stopped asking his opinion.

"Just choose one," Derek had said. "If I don't like it I'll tell you. And if you don't like it, well... we can paint over it."

Lost Valley, Sphagnum Moss, Slaked Parsley.

"Too much brown," she would say or "Hmm, not so grassy!" or "Maybe green's wrong. I liked it yesterday, but the sun was out...maybe we should change the rug."

After three weeks, Cherie had finally settled on Verdant Mist – a pale green, not too vibrant, friendly with a hint of cucumber. She filled in the form online.

"We'll just have to wait and see," she said.

But the following day, on the way to Lidl, she stepped off the kerb. A Menzies delivery van was going too fast along Lady Balfour Way.

Derek collapsed in on himself like a house of cards on a rickety table.

Cherie's sister, Jeanette, came and dealt with the funeral arrangements. Cremation. They played Neil Sedaka's "Laughter in the Rain" as Cherie disappeared behind the curtains. The minister had a coughing fit.

Two days later Jeanette went and collected Cherie in a small plastic urn. A brown paper label named and dated the contents, "Mrs Cherie Downing - 16^th September, 2018."

For the time being, Cherie was placed on the mantlepiece in front of the patchwork chimney breast. Derek put her rings in the little Wedgwood dish next to her. He propped the Order of Service against the wall. She smiled out from the cover – a holiday picture he'd snapped in Caernarvon in 2014.

"You'll have to think where to scatter her, Derek," said Jeanette. "Let me know, won't you. I want to be there."

For three days, Derek was in fog. He sat on the sofa, looking at Cherie. Tears seeped from his eyes and dried on his cheeks.

He could hear her in the kitchen, he was sure. Or upstairs. She called his name. No. No.

Where could he scatter her? Where should he scatter her? Where would you want to be, Cherie?

On Thursday a DPD van pulled up outside. A young man brought a square box to the door. He had a thick moustache. Derek thought he was probably Turkish.

Derek opened the box and placed the tin of paint on the hearth.

For two more days, Derek sat on the sofa and looked at Cherie and down at the tin of paint below her. Verdant Mist. The tears had stopped but the emptiness in his chest remained.

The next morning he sat on the sofa drinking instant coffee from Cherie's cat mug. He looked at the chimney breast.

"Are you going to get off your arse and paint it for me, or what?" said Cherie.

"I’m drinking my coffee."

When he had finished, he went and fetched brushes from the cellar, took a screwdriver, flipped the lid of the paint open and contemplated Verdant Mist, friendly with a hint of cucumber. He spread newspaper on the hearth and pulled back the rug. He stretched masking tape along the edge of the skirting board and up around the joint between the wall and the tiles of the fireplace.

"You'll want a good straight line."

"Of course!"

He lifted Cherie down from her spot.

"Just the chimney breast,"said Cherie, "and don't forget to stir."

"It doesn't need stirring," said Derek, "it's emulsion."

He read the instructions on the tin.

Stir well before use.

"Told you," said Cherie.

"Well, you didn't used to have to," said Derek.

He went back to the cellar and found an old bamboo cane. Stirred the paint. Watched swirls of separated pigment appear and disappear in the creamy liquid. He dipped his brush into Verdant Mist. He dipped his brush into Cherie.

"Wait! What are you doing!?" said Cherie.

He loaded the wall – one thick stroke across the chimney breast – then up and down and Cherie clung, vinyl silk, to the lining paper.

Forty minutes later and Cherie was completely lost in Verdant Mist.

Friendly, with a hint of Cherie.

In Place Of Sorrow

In place of sorrow he grew a crust of incivility, a shell of resentment that most whom he encountered found difficult to navigate and ultimately, almost inevitably, walked away from. This proved to him without a doubt that he was unlovable and that they, whoever they might be, were inconsequential and irritating.

There was lodged within him a grizzled heart made from gritted teeth, clenched jaw, and snarling lip. He could picture it - the scar across the nose, the dragged lines around the forehead. This was his heart, woven from leathery sinew, not pumping blood but rather spitting venom into his veins. He knew this creature - it bought him solitude, preyed on the charity of others, stole their generosity, seized it and belittled it in the same moment. This monstrous heart hated love and kindness and beauty because these feelings showed him how he was wrong with him. His heart judged and closed down the world, spat at it, sneered at it, until it became redundant - worse than redundant - worthless, despicable.

The letter sat unopened on the mantelpiece for three days. A handwritten envelope. This implies that a human had generated it. He could tolerate correspondence from machines because it justified his world view - machines, computers, corporations simply wanted to take from him. This he understood. The taking was clear, unambiguous, unsullied by emotion. He used electricity, they took his money. It was logical.

But this - a cursive script outlining his name, his location... someone’s hand had done this. Someone who knew his identity, where he lived, who had some information to impart or some request that they wished to make - someone who needed something.

It could only cost him.

To open and read the letter would cost him - he would have to allow his mind some form of engagement in the task, to summon some sort of energy. Enthusiasm - no, never that. He would have to be prepared to receive information - to open himself, and receive. What if this information affected him? How could it not? It already had.  Whatever this information was that this person wished to relay to him, would demand a reaction, a response. His world would be altered in some way, threatened, challenged. Tectonic movements may take place. It would be safer to leave the letter there upon the shelf, unopened - safer still in the bin.

He took the letter from its resting place leaning against his father’s clock. He picked it up gingerly between finger and thumb, his other fingers spread to avoid contact. He carried it into the kitchen, placed his foot upon the pedal of the bin. Pressed. Waited until the mouth of the bin was fully open, dropped the letter in.

An hour later, he rose from the armchair beside the bookcase in the sitting room and went back into the kitchen. He had not been able to concentrate on the BBC Four documentary on the fire bombing of Dresden. The letter had leached its poisonous, demanding presence into his thoughts. He looked at the bin. He depressed the pedal again and peered into the black plastic maw. It had slipped from view.  He reached in, moved a plastic bag aside and spotted the letter slipped beneath it. He gripped the protruding corner and drew the tea-stained envelope towards him. The paper had absorbed liquid, tea, and the ink had run, softening the edges of the characters, blurring them together. It brought an irritation.

“Dah, stupid...!” he said.

He picked up a tea towel, dabbed at the envelope but simply made it worse. The wet paper began to crumble and roll under the contact of the cloth. His fingers detected a disturbance on the underside also - he turned the envelope and discovered drops of tomato sauce and a single baked bean, remnants of his meal from the previous evening. He found the mess intolerable.

“No, no, no...”

He wiped at his fingers and then at this reverse side.  As the cloth moved across the surface it lifted the corner of the sealed flap, a small blistered opening, an invitation to a fingernail to enlarge it.

“Damn you,” he said and slapped the letter down upon the counter. He knew now the letter would be opened.

“Not yet, you bastard.”

He took the kettle from the hob and filled it at the tap. As the water ran he looked through the kitchen window across the overgrown patch of grass that some would have called a garden. Through the fence at the bottom he could see into the neighbouring property. Two boys were running around, chasing a ball probably, although he could not see their faces - just bobs of hair over the fence top and flashes of a yellow t-shirt and a red one, glimpses as they passed gaps between the panels. There were shouts and laughter, too.

As long as the ball didn’t come over the fence he could tolerate these boys. He had been aware of them since they first moved in, without ever truly seeing them. He had known they were there and were growing up, but as children they were less of a trouble to him. It was only as people got older that they became heart-poisoningly annoying and intrusive. Men, women - all of them just out to take from him, to steal his peace with their knocking on the door and offering to shop for him. “Fuck off!” He would never say it, but he breathed it in as he waited for them to leave him alone.

Suddenly the whistling kettle penetrated his consciousness. He turned, and flicked the gas off.

“All right, all right,” he muttered.

And there on the counter - the letter.

“All right, all right!”

He crashed the cutlery drawer open and took out the butter knife he had sharpened to an edge. He slid the round point under the lifted flap and slit the letter open across the top.

With fingertip and thumb he withdrew the folded page within. He lay it on the counter - he would not be rushed. But the paper immediately found drops of water that had fallen unnoticed from the kettle filling.  Blots appeared at the corner and rapidly spread across the field of white. Fearing the ink would once again suffer, he lifted the paper and shook it.

“Damn! Damn you!”

He opened the folded page.

Again the cursive script - younger, female perhaps.

Sender’s address at the top right hand corner - Well, that’s not something you see much nowadays.

Underneath the address, the date - 22nd May 2017. Taken nearly three weeks to get here, he thought. He picked up the envelope again and studied the postmark - 19th May. Oh? Someone had forgotten to post it maybe - or didn’t know whether they should.

Who was this? At the bottom of the page, a signature and printed in capitals beneath it KELLY HARRISON.

Harrison... Harrison?

Just read the damn thing, he thought.

Dear Mr Sanderson,

You don’t know me, so I hope you will forgive my writing to you, but my mother, Mrs Evie Wright (née Harrison) gave me your address. She feels it is time for me to introduce myself, and so do I. She told me about you and how she now feels bad about how she treated you when she left with her baby - your baby - me, in 1981.

She hopes you might find it in your heart to forgive her after all these years. And so do I.

A Messy Job

He could hear her through the wall.

Singing.

She was some species of Christian he decided, because it was nearly always hymns. Good old fashioned hymns... Now Thank We All Our God... Onward, Christian Soldiers!

He remembered them from his schooldays, although he probably hadn’t set foot in a church since then. But on a Sunday morning, more often than not, he’d hear her through the wall. Singing.

It became part of his Sunday morning too, along with the bells from St Anselm’s. 10.15 they’d start, just when The Archers started, and he turned the radio off. Bells calling people to the service at 10.30. ‘10.30 Holy Eucharist’ - he’d seen it on the noticeboard - followed by ‘11.30 Coffee and Chat’. He couldn’t imagine anything worse than that, Coffee and Chat, with a bunch of do-gooder Christians. Oh no. Trying to get him to come along, hold hands or something, making up wishes to some nonsense in the sky. No thank you. No Coffee and Chat for him, thank you very much.

But he liked to hear her singing through the wall on a Sunday morning - that didn’t feel like nonsense. That felt like something real. Somebody feeling something real inside - like a sunny memory. And it touched something real in him - like Nana singing when he was a boy. It didn’t really matter what the words were, he could hear that something in her voice. All things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small... And did those feet in ancient times...

He could hear her when he was in the kitchen too. Well, he could hear her moving about, turning on taps, opening cupboards and drawers. He wondered what she was cooking. Water in the pipes. Kettle on. Water rushing down the drain. The washing machine spindrying. Sometimes he could hear her kitchen radio - Two Counties Gold she listened to - he recognised the jingle. She’d sing along to that, too. All the oldies - Gerry and The Pacemakers, Glen Campbell, Nat King Cole. Actually, he preferred sensible talk, not the nonsense they gabbled between songs. He could hear the presenters joking with each other. That wasn’t proper radio. It’s like the listeners weren’t even there - just these two smart alecs having a joke with each other and chatting about rubbish.

And the music. It took up too much space in his head. He couldn’t think with all that noise going on. No. If it wasn’t sensible talk then he’d rather have silence.

But he didn’t mind hearing her sing along to the radio. That was different. Like Nana used to. Kind of comfortable. Reassuring. Even when she couldn’t remember the words and just made things up that sounded like they might be right. No. He didn’t mind hearing her singing along through the kitchen wall. He found himself tapping his foot when he was washing up. Sometimes he’d turn off the PM programme while he was sorting his tea out, so he could hear her better. His knife chopping the carrots would slip into the rhythm of the song. He’d stir the soup in time to the chorus.

She’d been living next door a good few weeks before he actually saw her. Then he did see her one morning setting off for work. About eight thirty. Younger than he thought she’d be. In her forties, maybe? Hard to tell. She was greying, but not grey. Silvering. Nice smile, though, he thought. Good teeth from what he could see. They looked real. Although they could be dentures. That might put a different spin on things. Mother had had all her teeth out when she was forty. Save on the dentist bills. Just easier, she said. Did people still do that? No, he didn’t think people still did that. Did they?

Good nose. Not too small. Little bit crooked but that didn’t matter. His was, after all. Everybody’s nose was a little bit crooked if you looked closely. Unless they’d had a nose job done. Then they looked odd. Straight. Or like a pixie. No better a bigger, crooked nose than one that had been messed about with.

She was a handsome woman. Not pretty, no. Not a conventional beauty by any means, no, but handsome.There was a grace about her. Grace? Well, a straightforwardness. She moved with spirit as she walked down the road. A generous spirit, that lit up her face. Attractive. Definitely attractive.

Maybe he should pop round one afternoon. Take her a house warming gift. A plant or something. He’d think about it.

He ought to get a haircut. And a shave. Yes.

He thought about a house warming gift. But couldn’t think what the best thing would be. And then it seemed like too long after she’d arrived anyway. And it’s not as if she had come and knocked on his door had she. Although maybe she had and he hadn’t heard. Or he’d been out. Oh dear, he didn’t want to seem unfriendly. He hoped she wouldn’t think he was stand offish. He could be a friendly neighbour. As long as there weren’t too many demands. He’d feed her cat if she needed him to. Did she have a cat? He wasn’t sure. But if she did.

He found himself standing more often in the bay window at the front of the house, at different times of the day. He found it was a very convenient place to stand with his coffee in the morning. At about eight thirty. Every morning. During the week. He’d often see her leave the house at that time. Coat on over some kind of uniform by the looks of it. Nurse, maybe, or a carer. Definitely a carer rather than an authority figure like a police woman. Not that. She looked like a carer. Someone who cared for other people. Yes.

She looked very smart. He hoped she didn’t think he was stand offish. Perhaps he should still pop round and say hello. Perhaps it wasn’t too late. It’s never really too late to be neighbourly, is it. Perhaps he should bake a cake and take it round. No perhaps not. That would be a little too forward.

He would often stand in the window, too, at around a quarter to six. He’d take a yellow duster from the kitchen cupboard and dust along the windowsill. Pick off the dead flies and pop them in the waste bin. He wanted the place to look nice. If she happened to glance in. Tidy. Clean. He liked things tidy and clean. He could look after himself after all. He wasn’t needy. He didn’t need help.

Or he would stand there and drink a cup of tea. He decided it was a good place to stand and drink a hot beverage and watch a little of the world. And often he would see her coming back along the road just then with a carrier bag or two. Lidl. If he was honest, he preferred Sainsburys. But wasn’t that a lot of shopping for just one person? He could see she struggled with the gate and all that shopping. Perhaps he should pop out and help her. She’d done some shopping yesterday. And now here’s more. All for just her? She didn’t seem overweight. Perhaps some of it was cat food. Although he hadn’t seen a cat. And he’d never seen anyone else in the house, or come to the house, or leave the house. He never saw anyone, a man or anyone, come to the house to collect her to take her anywhere in the evening. Or at the weekend. No family ever came to visit her. No children. Perhaps she was lonely. Perhaps he should pop round one weekend and see if she wanted to play cards or something. Or was that a little too presumptuous? Yes perhaps it was.

He found himself wondering about her as he cleaned his teeth. Wondering what her story was. Widowed maybe? Oh how sad. She’s only young to be widowed. Cancer probably. Or divorced. Oh dear, yes, maybe divorced. That put a different complexion on things. So she was married but she couldn’t live with him, or he couldn’t live with her. Couldn’t stick at it, though, and work it through? That’s disappointing. When people can’t stick at it and work it through. But then maybe it would have been for the best. Maybe he was abusive and she was just better off out of it. Like Nana with that bastard of a man. She stuck it out too long and look where that got her. Nana should have known from the outset really. But times were different then.

Or maybe she was lesbian. No. She couldn’t be. She was too attractive. She often had lipstick on in the mornings. And besides she was a bit too old for that sort of thing.

She seemed happy though. Content. She’d smile at him when she saw him there waiting. With his cup of tea. She’d give a little wave perhaps. No, she definitely wasn’t lesbian. Sometimes she’d do a little face to show him how heavy the shopping was. Or what a tiring day she’d had. Or that it was cold and that it looked like it might snow.

Sometimes she’d mouth a question at him - Are you ok?

Me? Oh yes I’m fine, thank you. How are you?

Tired.

He couldn’t hear her properly. Not through the double glazing. But they’d smile at each other and were neighbours for a moment. And she’d fish out her key and struggle with her shopping as she unlocked the door. Then she’d give him another little wave as she pushed the door shut with her bottom. He’d just get a little glimpse of the inside of the hallway when the door trapped on something. Something on the mat. Letters. Post. Circulars. There was a lot of post on the mat. A lot for someone who lived on their own. Why didn’t she pick them up? Was she too busy to pick them up? How busy do you have to be not to pick up your post from your doormat. Even if it is just to put it in the blue bin. Was she untidy? Was that the problem? Was she one of them hoarders who never threw anything away? Is that why her husband left? She was so untidy he couldn’t stand it any more and left. So that was why she was on her own.

He hoped she didn’t think he was being rude, by not going round. He would feed her cat if she asked. But he wouldn’t offer. Not yet anyway. But if she asked. Although it would be tricky to find everything if the house was so untidy. Poor cat. Probably hungry if it wasn’t getting fed regularly. Perhaps he should buy some cat food just in case. Just in case it came looking for something to eat. No, he’d better not interfere.

Besides he’d never met one of her type before. He wouldn’t know what to say.

prompt: Messy job

Electric Tomatoes

3^rd April, 2020

Me, reading A Messy Job

Mum Said

I

Mum said

“Old Mrs McGinty’s dead

- how did she die?

Nod in her head…

Old Mrs McGinty’s dead

- how did she die?

Nod in her head, wink in her eye!”

The man

down the road

showed Mum his willy

from his bedroom window

when she was on the way to Wanstead Flats –

She was eight.

She was scared.

He winked,

but she didn’t tell anyone.

Mum said

when she was young

she thought

there were men, women and nuns,

and nuns went around

on wheels

under their long black dresses

– and that was a bad habit.

Mum said

When she was at boarding school

during the war

she used to eat soap

to make herself sick

so she could have a day in bed

- but it never worked.

And at dinner time she used to put

the fat from her meat

up her knickerleg

so she wouldn’t have to eat it.

And during

the War

she had to learn

how to fold toilet paper

so she could wipe

again and again

with the same piece.

And she said

that she wrote off

and got a signed photograph

of Gregory Peck.

She loved Gregory Peck

and wanted to marry him.

But the nuns took Gregory Peck away

and tore him up.

And Mum said

one of her friends at school

was her cousin

and she was called

Ursula Mary Brock

which meant

She-bear-bitter-badger

and one was called

BCM

which meant

Big Country Mary

but I don’t know why.

But the best of her friends

was Auntie Mon.

And they always called Mum

‘Tiddler’

because she was small,

and that’s why all our cousins called her

‘Auntie Tid’

even though by then

her legs were thick as tree trunks.

So Mum said.

“Old Mrs McGinty’s dead

- how did she die?

Nod in her head…”

II

Mum said

she saw the curtains burning

in a house

as she walked down

Woodcote Road.

She said

she thought the owners must know

so she didn’t bother to tell them.

And Mum said

she had danced with Mr Waverley

– Mr Waverley from The Man From U.N.C.L.E.

– but not with Napoleon Solo,

or even Ilya Kuriakin.

And one time

when she had gone to a dance

with some friends

a young man noticed the wet patches

under Mum’s arms

while he was dancing with her

and he said:

“Coo – you sweat a lot, don’t you!?”

which put her off a bit.

And she said

she and

Dad

had had

Tea

with

the Queen Mother

– but not in her house.

You had to have good manners

and not put the elbows on the table.

III

Mum said

she thought

she had just

happened to be born a child

– that was just what she was,

not a man,

or a woman

or a nun.

And because they were all children

Dom and Jack

poured

methylated spirits

onto Mum’s doll’s house

and set it on fire

– with a Swan Vesta –

and Mum got very upset

but of course it didn’t burn.

And once

she crept through

into the neighbour’s garden

and did a poo in the bushes.

And she said

one time

because they were all children

they had all sneaked through

into the neighbour’s garden

for a dare

and then the neighbour had come

and all the others had run away

and left Mum

who was too little to run

to face the neighbour

all on her own.

And Mum said

Uncle Jack

used to say

“Comment-allez votre Bum?”

And when he had swallowed a pin

he had to go to hospital

and they fed him cotton wool

to stop the pin sticking inside him

in his stomach.

“How did she die?

Nod in her head, wink in her eye!”

IV

And Mum said

great-great-granddad

was an Alsatian

and his family name was

Dreyer.

So, in Alsace,

where they spoke German,

they called him Herr Dreyer

– but I don’t think he was a barber.

Mum said

that

great-great-uncle Somebody

lived in Russia

and kept a circus

and was finally

done-to-death

by a yak.

Cousin Stella said he was gnawed by a gnu

but I don’t think that can be right.

And Mum said

that there was an ancient Spanish cousin

who did an act with snakes

and it was charming.

And somebody else

was so tall

they fitted into the

Guinness Book of Records.

Because gnus don’t gnaw

and they don’t live in Russia.

And Mum said

Granddad

electrocuted

the East coast Railway Line –

it was his job,

and he got paid

a thousand pounds a year

but he died before I was born

because he had smoked too many cigarettes.

And Uncle Dom

put his foot through the ceiling

while he was fixing the electrics

in the loft.

And Uncle Jack

got a tattoo

of an anchor

on his arm

when he was in the Navy Blue,

like Popeye,

but afterwards he felt stupid

so he would never

take off his shirt on the beach.

And they all sang

“Old Mrs McGinty’s dead

– how did she die?

Nod in her head…

Old Mrs McGinty’s dead

– how did she die?

Nod in her head, wink in her eye!”

V

And Mum said

of all her best friends

her best friend was

Auntie Monica

who was her sister

and who she loved better

than anyone.

And they were fiends –

the very best of fiends.

And they looked after each other

and called each other Feenie.

And when they got older

one Feenie bought

a birthday card

which said:

“Happy Birthday

to a real

(excuse the nasty word)

OLD

friend!”

And she wrote in it

“To Feenie

love

Feenie.”

And she sent it to the other Feenie.

Then

when it was the first Feenie’s birthday

the other Feenie

sent it back to the

first Feenie.

And it got sent

backwards and forwards

from Feenie to Feenie

until it fell down the back of the fireplace

in Tall Elms.

VI

And Mum said

Nana

had arthritis

and she lived in bed

and moaned

and would not have any one to feed her

in case they tried to scrape

Rice Krispies up her chin

with a spoon

and put them in her mouth

like they do with babies –

she wouldn’t have that.

And Mum said

that even though Nana could hardly walk

she got up

the day before she died

and tried to do the ironing

and the housework.

And afterwards

everyone looked at each other

and said:

“She must have known,”

and

“She didn’t want to leave things in a mess.”

And Mum said

that after Nana had died

Mum was traveling on the upstairs

of a bus

and she looked out the window

and there was Nana

sitting on a bench

on the Leytonstone High Road –

just along from Bearmans.

“Old Mrs McGinty’s dead

- how did she die?

Nod in her head…

Old Mrs McGinty’s dead

- how did she die?

Nod in her head, wink in her eye!”

VII

And Mum said

When she first met Dad

she wrote a thing in her diary

and this is the thing:

“Met a Ron – with a car,”

because it was unusual

in those days.

And the Ron took

her out to do

kissing in the car,

and

when they’d finished

and wiped their mouths,

the Ron started the car

to drive home

but when the headlights went on

there were a great lot

of rabbits

all sitting around on the grass.

And Mum thought it was a sign

because she was a Catholic.

VIII

She was an old, old, old, old lady.

And her eyes were a misty blue.

and she never said “yes”, and she never said “no”

all she said was

“I love you!”

When Mum was in her hospital bed

and it was my last time

she said,

“It’ll be all right.”

And she looked so old,

though everyone said

she was still so young,

and it seemed like there was

only one thing she could do.

So she had a cup of tea

from a baby blue beaker

with a spout

and then she went to sleep

and we all went home.

But we stopped

in a lay-by

and had the deepest of cries

with rain crawling down the window.

And Dad turned around

in the car

and tried to hug us all

at the same time.

Then in the morning

very early

she died.

They

telephoned

to tell us

and I ran upstairs to tell Kate.

And afterwards

I knew that Mum was right –

it was all right

because

she didn’t get stuck –

dying –

at least I don’t think she did –

she didn’t try to come back.

And Dad and Kate

went to get her stuff

because she didn’t need it anymore.

“Old Mrs McGinty’s dead

- how did she die?

Nod in her head…

Old Mrs McGinty’s dead

- how did she die?

Nod in her head, wink in her eye!”

*

I look out of the bus window

from the upstairs

and I often do see her

out of the corner of my eye,

but then when I look properly

she turns into someone else.

*

And Auntie Joyce said

that when we were camping at Daccombe

Mum said to her

when they were walking in the lane

that she just hoped

we would be old enough

to remember her

even if she died.

And then she did,

and I do

and I remember all the things

Mum said.

August 2005