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)

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

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

The Edge

‘It may be the Hippodrome, but please, Clara, my darling, no hippo-dramatics here.’

Clara continued to remove her costume, piece by piece, from her trunk and hang each item carefully on the rail.
‘This is the last show before London, my darling, and I really can’t have any of your clumsiness - do you hear me?’
She reached once again into the trunk and with one hand drew out her boa. She played it across her other hand, pulling it over her palm, feeling the soft kiss of the feathers as they passed through the crook of her thumb. She felt her resolve grow stronger as the gaudy feathers aligned. She carefully draped the lithe snakelet over the hat stand that stood by her dressing table.
‘We really can’t have a repeat of Ipswich, can we. Promise me, my darling. You will take extra care tonight, won’t you. Extra care. You will won’t you?’
The lacquered make up box containing all her makeup - sticks of greasepaint, powder, eyelashes, brushes, lotions, and creams - was the last item she lifted from the trunk. She placed it upon the table between herself and the mirror.
At last, Clara turned to him, held his eye and gave him her most pleasant smile.
‘Of course,’ she said.
He studied her for a second, his gaze flickering back and forth from one emerald eye to the other, always seeking the sincerity he craved.
At last he smiled too. She felt him move momentarily towards her, hesitate, then lift his hands to her face. He cupped her cheeks and drew her lips towards his mouth.
She tasted whisky, stale smoke on his breath.  She felt the bristle of his moustache as his lips pressed into hers. She found the tip of his tongue pushing, penetrating, seeking entry between her teeth. She resisted the pressure to open, locked her jaws and hardened her lips.
At last he withdrew from the kiss.
‘You know how precious you are to me, my darling. You know I cannot live without you. Your love is all I long for, all I crave. You know this, my dearest darling, my angel, don’t you.’
She stood motionless, held her breath as she waited for him to release her from this moment. She waited for the freedom that would dissolve the chill that froze her blood.
But before he relinquished her, he pushed his mouth onto hers again. His saliva lubricating the motion of his lips upon hers. Then with sudden flourish he turned away from her towards the door.
‘I must prepare, my dearest dear. Come wake me at the half. I will need a shave. And please, until then, no noise... no noise.’
He turned towards her again a placed a final finger over her lips.
‘So beautiful,’ he said, ‘so beautiful.’

Alone at last, she breathed, wiped her hand across her mouth, and dropped weakly into the chair in front of her mirror.
How she hated him.
How she hated what he had done to her, what he had made her into.
She reached for her makeup box, flung open the lid and reached into the corner. The razor. She felt its coolness in the palm of her hand. She opened the blade and laid it on the table in front of her. There was a comfort in the reflected light from the blade. The familiar blade. She felt a frissance in the skin of her thigh. The gorgeous terror rise in the pit of her stomach. The skin opening a scarlet smile. Past pains released. Blood on her tongue.
But not today.
Now she saw the blade as it rested against the skin of a throat. The artery pulsing beneath the lightest of pressure. She had learned to shave her father after the accident, carefully drawing the blade across the hair of his chin and neck, severing each at the root. Those days, before she had learned the keen bite of the edge, she had often seen the blood seeping into the white lather on her father’s neck. He never complained, never even winced and slowly she had learned the skill of it. The delicacy.
But this man. If she so much as nicked his cheek, he would reprimand her and scold her, call out her clumsiness, abuse her, ridicule her. True, no hand had he ever laid upon her. Not in anger. But afterwards, after the evening performance and sometimes after the matinee, if the crowd had been appreciative and respectful, had rewarded his efforts with their praise, afterwards he would call her into his dressing room and insist she help him.
‘I can do nothing,’ he would say, ‘I am a child, helpless, completely helpless. Come comfort me.’
And she would stand before him and spread cream thickly upon his glistening face, into the folds of flesh around his neck, the sly intimacy of his closed eyelids. Then she would wipe him with balls of cotton wool. His flesh moving in waves beneath her fingers. And he would murmur to her as she worked.
‘You are my angel, my saviour, without you I am nothing, my darling, nothing. Kiss me, my darling, lay your lips upon mine for your kisses are a balm to me, a healing balm.’
And then he would have her open his clothing, guiding her hands to each hook and button of his shirt, pushing the linen open across his belly, pulling it free of the waistband of his trousers. Then the buckle of his belt, buttons. He would stand and draw her hands up again to his breasts and he would gaze into her eyes as his hands descended and his movements would be rhythmic and she would feel his heart beat as he became more frenzied until... until... She could not, would not imagine it. But he would crumple under her hands, his mouth gaping like a landed fish, a shudder stuttering through his body. His head would drop.
‘Leave me,’ he would say, ‘leave me now.’
And she would withdraw in to her room, into her mind and visit places of her childhood dreams again. Summer afternoons. Ice cream sundaes. The gentle touch of Frederick's hand upon her cheek.

A tap.
A light tap.
A tap at the door and she surfaces through sunlit water and back into the fusty dressing room. The theatre boy outside the door.
‘That’s the half, miss.’
She says nothing.
‘Miss? D’you hear, miss, that’s the half.’
She rises. Goes to the door. The lad looks at her, startled to see her in front of him.
‘Yes.’
‘The half, miss, your half hour call.’
‘Yes, yes.’
Was her tone sharp? He looks a little alarmed.
She slips her fingers into the purse at her waist and draws out a coin.
‘Thank you, Alfie, I’ll tell him.’
‘But...’
‘I’ll tell him Alfie. Go.’ She presses the coin into his hand.
‘Thank you, miss, to be sure...’
‘Go.’
She closes the door and turns back to her table. The razor gleams.
She lifts it and tests the edge against the ball of her thumb.

prompt: ecstasy
06.08.2019

Ill Wind

It didn't snow straight away but she knew it wouldn't be long.

She'd woken in the morning to an unfamiliar metal squealing as the weather vane on the barn swung round to the North. And to the sound of banging. But she didn't think. Patrick would have known to go and close the barn doors but Patrick was gone. There were so many things he used to do of which she was simply unaware. They'd made a good team. But now, alone, she was a novice again, and she cursed herself for the things she didn't do until it was too late.

Coombe Farm nestled in the rounded belly of the valley end and usually benefited from the shelter of the rolling hills that cradled it. The fields on the northerly side bathed in generous sunlight and the wooded slopes of the hills opposite softened the breath of the warmer winds from the south. But at this time of year, the wind swung around and sharpened its edges. It smelled of frost and peat and smoke and damp. It seeped through the cracks in the door and rattled the glass in the windows.

The wind wrapped itself round the back of the house and found the year's gathered detritus – old sacks, leaves, straw – and scattered it back across the yard. She felt as if she'd been found out. Everything the wind said was cruel. A judgement. The songs it sang were bitter and grating. It found her flesh between her clothes and dragged its sinister blade across her skin. There was no getting warm. The smoke backed down the chimney and smutted the clothes on the dryer in front of the hearth.

She cursed the wind every moment she had to venture outside. She cursed Patrick too for leaving her to this, this bitter solitude. She stayed in as long as she dared, putting off the tedious tasks she knew she must perform. She went to the back bedroom and opened the blanket box, cursed the moths that had evidently been feasting on the blankets and garments within. At last she found it Patrick's old Guernsey and the looseknit shawl her mother had worn. She wrapped herself against the oncoming grief of the wind.

She battled across the muddy yard and opened the henhouse. The five were hunkered on the lowest perch, their heads pulled down into the shoulders of their wings, feathers ruffled up such that she could see the purple grey roots of their plumage. She tipped grain into the feeders and cracked the ice in the water trough but the birds remained in their maudlin meditations, sullenly blinking at her for disturbing them. She could feel their annoyance. Should she leave the flaps open? They showed no inclination to venture out into the gritty wind.

'You've got drink. You've got scran. You'll survive a day,' she said.

It was only after she had lowered the flaps again that she heard the beating of wings come from inside,

'Ah, bugger you,' she said. 'Bugger the lot of you! You'll stay in there now and like it!'

Now the snow had started, thick and fast. It had plastered itself across her back much more thickly than she had realised as she tended to the chickens. She turned her head as if to challenge the beast wind but was forced to squint her eyes against the icy blasts. Snow crystals stung her cheeks. Head down, and pulling the shawl tighter around her, she set off across the yard to the barn.

And now she saw her mistake, the barn door had been flung open before the wind. She should have come here straight away – as soon as she had caught the sound of the weather cock grinding its unfamiliar wail. The barn had shuddered and swallowed gust after gust of the shouting wind.

During the night the milker had given birth. She had heard the animal lowing, a dark rich guttural moan. Patrick would have recognised the signs and she would have left her bed and followed him to the barn, lantern in hand, to see to the animal. She knew how to follow him. She knew how to be at his right hand. She knew what he would need before he knew himself. But with Patrick gone, the rhythm was upset. The natural order was in chaos. The sound and sights that were language to him, cues and clues as to what he needed to do, now went untranslated for her. She was alone and the wind sharpened her aloneness, tattering the memories of their life together, ripping their story from the landscape and leaving her with broken words, fragments of their togetherness that no longer meant anything but just hung like brittle flags, dissolving under the acid breath of the North wind.

The milker lay on her side. A black motionless mound was spilled in the straw beside her.

Snow still gusted in through the open barn door. It had been closed the previous night as usual. She had made sure of that. But as had so often happened before, the wind change had challenged the latch and caught the great timber panel full force, splintering the wooden closure like kindling. Patrick had had to repair it many times, had often said he should get an iron fixing from Howlett the farrier, but had never got round to it.

She cursed him again, this man whom she had loved so deeply, relied on so completely and who had left her so suddenly.

It was her grief at losing him that was transfigured into this anger at him and now, as she stooped to test the little corpse for any vestige of life left, she cursed Patrick until the tears ran. She held the head of the calf in her lap, pulled at the mucus that still clung to its muzzle. But nothing. The animal's eyes were half open but glazed and dim. The neck was stiff and cold.

The milker turned her head towards the woman and a deep rolling growl rippled in her throat.

'Tis too bad, old girl. Too bad. I'm sorry.'

She stood up. Pushed the tears from her eyes with the back of her wrist. She bent and found the calf's front hoofs and, holding them together in one hand dragged it out of the barn. The umbilical cord trailed after it, terminating in a massed clamp of blood and slime and mucilage. She would figure out what to do later. It would come to no harm now, no greater harm anyway, and the cold wind would slow the rotting. She left it around the side of the barn and covered it over with some old sacking.

The snow was falling thicker still and no sooner had she pulled the sack over the little corpse, than the flakes began to blanket it.

She rubbed her hands on her skirt, cupped them together and blew into the opening between her thumbs. As she stood and looked down the valley, into the very throat of the wind, she saw a dark smudge among the falling snow, moving vaguely, slowly, towards her. The smudge moved in the rhythm of a person walking, head down, trudging through the thickening quilt of powder.

She saw the body opening and closing with each heavy step.

A person, a woman, coming towards her – a dark, hooded figure looming out of the snow towards her...

19.02.2019

Winter Blues

'Yes, yes,' he said, 'I'll get it fixed. Don't you worry about that. Don't you worry. I'll get it fixed before the cold weather comes. I've got a guy does things for me like this. Jim. I'll get him to come over and have a look, ok. He'll fix it. He's good at boilers. I'll get him to come over next week. You here next week? I'll get him to come over and have a look... What day is best for you? He'll have to come and have a look then probably he'll have to order some parts, so it might take a day or two to get them because... these old boilers, well, the merchants don't keep the parts in stock now, you know. You can still get them, like, but you have to order them, you know.

'Ok, so I'll get Jim to come and have a look and then when he's got the parts he'll come back and fix it. You know, it might take a week or two, but it'll be done before the cold weather comes you can be sure of that. I don't want to mess you around. You'll need the heating when the cold weather comes. These old blocks are freezing in the winter - no insulation, see - they didn't think about that when they built them, I suppose. Didn't have the technology, maybe.
'Rightio is there anything else while I'm here?'

'Well, you said that you would fix the window in the bathroom last time you came ...'

'I did, I did! I haven't forgotten, but I need to... I just haven't had time to get to the glass place, you know. But it's on my list. It's top of my list. For next week. I'll get the glass and come over. And fix it. Do you mind me just letting myself in if you're not here?'

'No no that's... '

'I'll come over next week with the glass and I'll... Right, if there's nothing else I've got to get home. Sharon's got line dancing tonight and I said I'd drop her. All right? I'll love you and leave you then, Amanda, and I'll give you a ring when I've spoken to Jim to let you know when he's coming over. All right?

'Yes that's all right, I suppose.'

'Good, good, see you then, then... I must say you've got the place looking nice. Better than the last guy. Still that's a woman for you, isn't it, making things look nice. Men can't be ars... bothered with stuff like that can they, but no, but yes, you, you've got an eye. I can tell. I should take you on, eh? Take you on as a stylist, eh? You could sort them all out, couldn't you? Ok then, bye bye...'

'Bye, Phil...'

She pushed the door closed behind him and turned and leaned against it. She could hear his footsteps on the concrete in the stairwell, the resonating tang of his wedding ring hitting the iron handrail. Then his voice booming and indistinct as he met some other tenant down below. What was he wriggling out of doing for them, she wondered.

She hadn't got it looking nice. She hated it. All she done so far was hang some of her tapestry pieces on the wall. The two garden scenes she done for her degree show, and the framed seascape that Dad had liked so much.

She was desperate to hide the reality of the rooms. The damp plaster, the peeling wallpaper. She knew what she would do if it were her flat but as a tenant, a poor tenant, she was only too aware of the large sum Phil held as her bond. He was a git, she thought. Harmless, but a git nevertheless. He hadn't yet done any of the repairs she had asked him to do since she moved in: the bath tap washer; the leaking cistern on the toilet. Eventually she had given up waiting and borrowed some tools from Marchin and done it herself. Marchin wanted to do it for her but she wouldn't let him.

He had wanted to do a lot for her. She wouldn't let him do any of it. She could feel his Polish machismo in every throbbing sinew of his body. And while she loved that strength, the confidence in his blood, she hated how small she felt against him. She despised the simpering child that she regressed into in his arms. Shrank from every feeling of power she had painstakingly fermented in herself.

So while he became more and more dominating of her she found herself wanting more and more to resist. Their love-making which had been playful, sensitive and passionate in the beginning, became rough and angry, wild and unpredictable. He took to leaving while she slept so she'd wake up alone, wondering where he had gone.

So, when Cameron told her he'd seen Marchin with someone else she had ended it. And he didn't fight for her. It was, she felt afterwards, the typical male tactic of behaving so badly that eventually the woman would end the relationship and then he, as he already had, would take his victimhood and his urges into the bed of another. She'd felt the pattern many times before.

'Fuck him,' she said out loud, pushed herself forcefully from the door and into the kitchen.

'Bastard!'

She put the kettle on and looked out onto the swing park below. Two kids were sitting on the swings, rocking, but not swinging. They were, what, fifteen? Sixteen, maybe... hanging on to childhood securities but too cool to play. She had long hair. He had his hood up. Amanda, even from this distance, could sense the balance of tensions between them.

'Don't do it,' she mumbled to the girl as the kettle switched itself off. 'Don't get taken in by it.'

She made sweet chai tea, dangling and dipping the tea bag on its string. She watched the colour of the water slowly shift in hue until after a few minutes she pulled the bag out, held it over the glass mug with one hand, and ran the fingers of the other down the string to the soaking pillow at the end. She squeezed, and dark droplets fell into the mug like blood into water, clouding and swirling until they disappeared into the brew.

She lifted the cup to her lips and blew.

She looked out again and saw the trees beyond the swing-park had lost their leaves. When had that happened? Last time she looked they had been bedecked in verdant foliage. Now they etched lines against the grey clouds. It was getting dark, too.

The boy and the girl stood up. She studied the chair of the swing, ran her palms across her buttocks, while he hitched up his beltless jeans.

Whatever they had talked about had changed their status. A new stage in their negotiations had been reached because while she stood looking at her fingers on the chain, he stepped up to her and kissed her cheek. She shrieked and pushed him away in mock shock. Amanda thought she could hear her say 'Who said you could do that?'

But Amanda knew that she had said it even if she hadn't used words.

He was brave, though, stood his ground, and evidently had some persuasive comment for the girl. She turned to him and let him take her hands. He pulled her towards him and their faces met.

Then she hit his chest and ran off laughing.

Amanda stood and watched the sky gradually darken. Then, from below, a voice drifted up to her - a woman's voice, singing. A deep sorrowful voice, singing an old song. The notes hung in the air. Maybe it was the black woman who had smiled at her in the stairwell yesterday, now lilting her desperate song out into the early evening.

'... caaaan't help lovin' that maan of mine.'

Ella sings...

Swinging at the end of a rope.

Something of a departure for me, and feels perhaps like an excerpt from something larger... The prompt was 'Swinging at the end of a rope' and I seem to have taken it very literally. 
I'd love to know your thoughts... 


He was used to this by now, the gradual greying of the light in the cell. Winter light fading.
He sat on his cot in the usual place. Watched the sky thicken through the small high window.
From the bowels of the building he heard the sound of others. Voices echoed. Doors clanged shut. Orders barked, reverberating down the cold, stone corridors. Metal buckets scraping on floors. Someone calling out in pain - anguish rather than bodily sensation perhaps, but they sounded the same in this dark place.
The distant growl of a group of persons approached, consolidating itself, defining itself into the scuffing of feet, several pairs, moving purposefully. Growing louder. The sound growing denser, seasoned with short vocal snaps. A female voice among the male.
And at its peak the sounds transformed from travelling to entering. The feet shuffling by the door. The viewing panel sliding open then closed. The key entering then turning in the lock. The tumblers falling, handle turning, catch disengaging, hinges grinding. Further, further. Voices opening with the door. Filling the air.
"The prisoner will stand."
He had already gathered his feet beneath him in readiness. Felt the chill of the floor against the skin of his feet. Felt the unwilling muscles of his legs tighten as he pushed himself to standing.
In the gloom two officers had entered. One carried a lantern. Shadows flickered.
"Visitor," said one.
Between the two, she entered. Portly, regal, a ship under sail but seemingly creating the wind rather than being driven before it. Behind her a third officer appeared carrying a wooden chair. He placed it in the centre of the cell facing the prisoner.
The woman glanced at the chair then placed herself upon it.
"The prisoner will sit," the guard barked.
He sat again upon the edge of the cot as the woman arranged herself upon the chair straightened the drape of her coat over her knees. Lifted the gauze veil from her face. Placed her gloved hands precisely in her lap.
She looked at him for some moments. He returned her look but could not bear the accusatory glare. He dropped his eyes, wrangled his fingers together, felt the woman's disapprobation. It triggered sensations in his face. An itch at the side of his nose. His right earlobe needed pulling. The actions were involuntary. His hands went from nose to ear performing the necessary tasks then to his head where it ran across his crown, chasing down the coarse stubble that remained of his hair.
At last she spoke.
'Well?' her voice impatient, hard, unforgiving.
He looked at her. At a loss.
He glanced nervously at the two guards. But he said nothing. She noticed the glance, turned to the guards irritably.
"Leave us," she snapped and immediately turned her penetrating focus to him while she waited for the order to be fulfilled.
He saw the guards flick a glance at each other as if in some silent debate then evidently they came to an agreement. One knocked twice upon the door and the sounds of the opening scattered the silence in the cell.
With the guards now outside, her demeanour slackened a little. Her voice previously imperious, commanding, now coarsened slightly.
"When?"
For the first time he recognised his mother.
"Dawn tomorrow?"
"You fool," she said with venom. "You careless fool!"
He could not look at her. He had anticipated this moment and, in many ways he could not comprehend, had dreaded it more than the events that would take place the following morning.
"I know," he said.
"You got caught."
"It wasn't..."
"Don't speak! You utter fool. Have you learned nothing?"
Still he could not look at her save for the black toes of her shoes.
"Of all the brothers it was you caught. Pah! So now what? Now that I must wash my hands of you..."
"I'm sorry."
"Sorry? You're sorry? It is I who am sorry. It is I who will be left to carry on for who will follow me now? Tell me that. Who? Diccon? No, he is a hothead. Barrett? He is a thick head. It was you I was relying upon. But this was my mistake, my grave mistake. Bah. I have only myself to blame. What species of fool was I to think it could be you?
You?! I should have seen it. Your father was no better. Clumsy. Careless. Even in your very conception he showed that."
"My father? Careless? No, father was a thoughtful man, a considered man."
"Oh, be quiet! I don't mean Harold, for Heaven's sake. Your real father. Wyatt. Wyatt."
"Wyatt? Who is Wyatt? Why did you not tell me this?"
"Ah,what does it matter now? You have ended in the same manner as he, swinging at the end of a rope. And for what? Nothing. Because you were careless. Proud, arrogant and careless. One moment of carelessness and you end like this. Ah, what is to become of me?"



Sent from my Huawei Mobile

The heavy table

Another recent piece written at an Electric Tomatoes session.  The prompt was The Heavy Table. Family members will recognise some of the ideas in this piece. 


Grandma died.
On the first Sunday after Easter.
Granddad said she stayed home from church because she felt a bit queasy but when he got back there she was on the scullery floor. She'd been taking clothes out of the twin tub he said. Heart attack.
He said he hadn't known what to do with her so he phoned the ambulance even though he knew she'd gone. He phoned the ambulance and then he carefully stepped over her and finished taking the stuff out of the washing machine. It was his shirts mainly. He just used her wooden tongs and slumped the shirts over into the spin dryer while the water drained. But then he noticed he was splashing her and knowing how noisy the dryer was he thought it best to wait until she'd been... taken care of. That's what he said.
We had the funeral a week later and when everyone was gone Dad had said he was going to talk to Granddad. He took him out into the back garden. But only a few minutes passed before Granddad came back in.
'Where's me pipe?' He said. 'Where's my effing pipe?' He sounded cross.
It was there on the side table next to his chair, hanging in the pipe rack Jack had made him.
'It's there Grandad,' I said.
'Where?' he said. 'Fetch it for me, lad.'
I ran and rattled the pipe from its stand. Dad was standing in the back doorway watching him with a grim look on his face. Mum came in from the kitchen and caught Dad's eye. They didn't say anything but I saw Dad give a little shake of his head.
'Do you want tea, Dad?' she said.
'And the pouch, lad. Don't forget my baccy.'
I popped back to the table and looked for the pouch.
'In the drawer, in the drawer.'
I slid the drawer open and grabbed it and the plastic lighter that rolled up to the front, the smell of stale tobacco rising bitter in my nose.
'Dad?' said Mum again, 'tea?'
'I'll take it outside,' he said, and with his smoking gear he walked past Dad in the doorway.
I could see them through the window. Granddad sat squinting on the bench where he would always sit and Dad stood looking at him. Mum poured the tea into mugs and carried them out. I couldn't hear what they were saying but they weren't smiling.
Then Jack came thumping downstairs. He been up in the guest room looking at the old stack of Beanos and Dandys that Grandma always kept for us.
'A-Team!' he said.
'Oh!' I said.
He ran out to Mum and a moment later was back turning on the television.
'Can we?'
'Yes, but we have to keep the volume down low.'
Hannibal was just lighting an enormous cigar and had a huge smile on his face as Granddad came in quietly and sat at the table. Mum and Dad came in too. I could hear them talking in the kitchen but not what they were saying.
I watched Granddad lift the tablecloth from the table as he sat there. Just the edge. And fold it back. He exposed the wood and ran his hand along it as if he was checking it was smooth. He curled his finger around the corner as he reached it then slowly slid his hand back along the edge again. He saw me looking. Pulled his mouth into a sad smile. I smiled back.
'Anthony,' he said - pronouncing the 'th', no one else called me that. With everyone else I was Tony or Tone or even Ant but with grandad it was always the full Anthony.
'Anthony,' he said, 'come here.'
Even grandma called me Tony.
I went over to him.
'Give me your hand,' he said.
I held it out as if to shake hands.
'Put it there  pardner...' I said.
'No, flat. Like this.'
He stretched his hand out palm up. The skin of his open hand was dry - a little shiny in places. The creases across his palm spelling a clear M.
I pushed my hands out like his, fingers straight, tight together. There were the feint lines of an M on my hand too. 'Man' it would say one day, Grandma had told me, but I couldn't pretend it said that yet.
'Looser,' said Granddad.
'What?'
'Relax your fingers let it go a bit floppy.'
I did as he asked and he then carefully took my upturned hand in his. Cupped his under mine. Then slowly led it to the underside of the table.
'Now... just under here,' he said, pressing my fingertips lightly against the bottom of the table.
'Just under here... .' He slid his hand to one side with mine in it still touching the wood.
'Just under here... Can you feel it?'
'Feel what?'
'Feel again, very gently.'
'What is it?'
'No mouth, just fingers. Feel.'
I carefully spread my fingers brushing the under surface. It was slightly rough.
'It's rough.'
'It is.'
'Like dents in the wood.'
'Pop down and have a look.'
He swung his knees to the side and made an opening for me next to the table.
'Go on,' he said.
I dropped and looked up at the underside of the tabletop where my fingers had stroked. It was dim, dark, but I could just make out some marks along the edge.
'Is it... it looks like... is it writing?'
'It is indeed,' he said. 'Can you read it?'
I peered at the marks that were clearly words forming a sentence but could make out nothing.
'No, it's too dark.'
'And,' said Granddad, 'it's in German.'
'German?'
'Yep!'
'Why? What does it say?'
'It says "Diese Tafel ist für Josef". Can you tell what it means?'
'Er... No.'
'Well what do you think "Diese Tafel" means?'
'No idea.'
'Well, "Diese" means "this"...'
'This?'
'Yes. So "Diese Tafel" means... this...?'
'This... er...'
'Well, what is this?' He banged his hand down onto the table just by my nose.
'This? It's a table...'
'Exactly... ."Diese Tafel" This table...
'Right...'
'"Diese Tafel ist für Josef"', he repeated "This table ist für Josef." Is for Josef.'
' Oh! I said. Who's Josef?'
'My dad! Your great granddad. Josef was my dad and he married my mum, Anna Maria, and they came from Germany to London just before the Great War.'
'Right! They were German?'
'Yes.. Well, Alsatians..'
'Alsatians? Like the dogs?'
'Alsatians are people from Alsace. That's where they came from.'
'Right... So who wrote this then?'
'That was written by my grandma, your great great grandmother, Elsie Dreyer. When Elsie died she wanted to make sure that this table went to Josef, my dad, so she wrote on it. She wrote on other things, too, but this was the only thing for him.'
'And he left it to you when he died?'
'Yes, but he didn't write on it.'
'No?'
'No, he didn't need to. Nobody else wanted it. It was too big and heavy.'
'Right.'
'But I love it.'
'Me too,' I said.
Mum came through from the kitchen.
'Tony, Jack, go wee. We're going now.'
'Why?'
'Because... It'll be bedtime before we get home and you've got school in the morning.'
'But.. Granddad!'
'Yes?'
'He'll be...'
'Oh don't worry about me lad!' said Granddad.
In the car, Mum turned off Sing Something Simple and turned round to us, leaning over the back seat. She spoke in her soft voice.
'So Tony, Jack, how would you to like to share a room?'
'What?'
'What! Why?'
'Because... because we've asked Granddad if he'd like to live with us.'
'What!'
'Yes.'
'What did he say?'
'He's thinking about it. But he'd need a bedroom.'
'But what about all his things?'
'Well he'll bring all his clothes and things of course.'
'And his furniture? Where would we put it all?'
'Well we wouldn't be able to take all his furniture.'
'Oh!'
'So he could bring his favourite chair perhaps, and his radiogram, but we'd help him sell the rest.'
'What? I said,' but not his table?'
'The table?'
'Yes, Josef's table...you can't sell that.'
'Yes, well, it's a bit big. We'd have to sell that. If we could find anyone to take it.'
'It'll go in the auction,' said Dad, 'somebody will take it I expect.'

prompt - Hollow victory

Latest writing from an Electric Tomatoes meeting - our prompt: Hollow Victory...

She could argue about anything. Made a point of it actually.

'Which do you prefer,' she said, 'the blue satin or the mauve?'

'I dunno.'

'Oh, come on! You're really not helping.'

'Well, they're both nice...'

'Yes, but you've got to have a favourite. Which is your favourite? Come on!'

'Well, the blue's a nice colour.'

'The blue? Really?'

'Yes, I like the blue.'

'You like the blue? Best? Really?'

'Yes. Of the two – the blue.'

'So why don't you like the mauve?'

'I do.'

'You said you like the blue.'

'I do. I like it best.'

'Why? What's wrong with the mauve?'

'Nothing's wrong with it.'

'Well why don't you like it then?'

'I do! I do like it!'

'Well why didn't you say so then.'

'I did! I did say! I said I like them both, but of the two – the blue. The blue's best! Jeez! Which do you like anyway?'

'Me? Oh don't bother about me! It doesn't matter what I like – no, because you can't stand the mauve so... well, there's no choice then is there. If you don't like the mauve, it's got to be the blue then hasn't it. Don't bother about me. Oh no, don't bother about my feelings!'

'They're your frigging shoes, love! You want the mauve, get the mauve. I don't mind.'

'Yes that's it, isn't it! You just don't care. You never listen to me. When I talk you just glaze over – I've seen you.'

'I do not!'

'Yes you do. I've seen you, you just glaze over and whatever I say just goes in one ear and out the other. You just don't care.'

'I DO care. Of course I care, you stupid c.... Of course I frigging care, but I don't mind which frigging shoes you choose. Either'll do. You've just got to choose the ones you'll feel comfortable in.'

'Comfortable? Comfortable – tell me you are NOT serious!'

'Well, you've got to be happy in them. You've got to feel right.'

'How can I feel right in them when I know you hate them?'

'Oh for fuck's sake woman, I do not hate them! Jesus wept, woman. Fuck it, I'm going to make some tea. Do you want some?'

'Of course I want some. Why wouldn't I want some? Of course I want some. Is that too much to ask? Is a cup of tea too much to ask when I can't have the shoes I want?'

So she bought the blue ones but all through the day she was checking them, mumbling about them.

Jeanine looked fabulous of course. Beautiful dress – cream silk with little red roses sewn on. A bit of a train. I could barely control myself as I walked her down the aisle. She always knows how to dress so why Em couldn't ask her advice about frigging shoes I don't know!

'I want them to be a surprise for her,' she says. 'Besides, I can't ask her. She's got too much on'

But all through the reception she'd be checking with people.

Moira, my sister, came over when they'd cleared the tables away and first thing she said was 'Oh Em, them shoes are to die for! Where did you get them?'

'Online,' says Em, ' allaboutheels.com. I'm not sure though. They had some gorgeous mauve ones, but they were threepence more expensive and Lord Snooty said no.  So I feel I've settled a bit. But I'm glad you like them, Moi. I'll probably send them back though after. Can't see me wearing them again.'

'You can't do that!' I said.

'I don't see why not,' says Em. 'People bring stuff back to us all the time and it's quite obviously been out on the town for the night. One woman brought a coat back. All the labels on it and everything – so we took it back, no worries. Then when Glenda was putting it back on the rack she found a half-chewed chicken leg wrapped in a KFC napkin in the pocket! I mean!'

'That's outrageous,' says Moira.

'Oh well then, do what you like, then,' says I. 'On your head though...'

'It'll be on yours as a matter of fact, smartass – it was your credit card details.'

'Oh well thanks very much,' says I. 'Thanks very much indeed!'

So she's off dancing with Moira and I'm stuck at the bar with Brian-in-law, and once we've done West Ham and Stoke and why neither of them are getting beyond the Fourth Round, we just stand there like lemons looking at the girls as they loop under each other's arms.

She's had a lot to drink, Em.

A lot.

To drink.

'Come on, Brian,' shouts Em, 'come and dance with me! He'll never dance with me. Old Lord Snooty. You come. Throw some shades with me, Briannn, come on!'

'Shapes,' I say to Brian, 'she means throw some shapes.'

'Bloody 'ell,' says Brian, 'do I have ter?'

''Sup to you, mate. 'Sup to you.'

So Brian pulls on a smile and bends his knees and shimmies like frigging Baloo over to the dance floor. And Em's there writhing her hips at him like she's seventeen again – well, like she remembers being seventeen anyway. She puts her hand up to his neck as he comes over, plays with the hair at the back of his neck.

I remember that.

So Brian dances with the pair of them for a few minutes till Moira sees her chance and dances her way over to me by the bar.

'Get us a Campari, bro,' she says, 'I'm going out for a ciggy.'

Off she goes and I follow her out with the drinks.

'Why did you make her buy them God awful shoes?' she says outside, 'They're completely the wrong shade.'

'Oh, don't you start! She could have whichever frigging shoes she wanted but no, no. She makes me say which colour I like best – I say blue – and that's it! She goes off on one!

'You're a cruel man, Kevin Bradley!' Moira laughs. 'A cruel man.'

'She just needs someone to blame!'

Then she tells me about Joey. Their eldest.  Twelve.  Leukaemia just diagnosed. God, sad!'

When we go back in it's 10CC - I'm not in love and, fuck me, there's Em with her tongue down Brian's throat. He's participating but it looks more as if he has to rather than that he's enjoying it!

Moira grabs Brian by the elbow and yanks him away.

Em turns to me – fire in her eyes.

'What!? He's more of a man than you'll ever be!'

She's barefoot now and staggers off the dance-floor and grabs her bag.

'I'm going for a piss,' she says. 'And don't fucking follow me!'

As if.

I pick up her shoes and go over to the bar and wait.

So.

That was last Saturday.

Now her mobile goes straight to answerphone and she doesn't return my texts.

So.

Well.

We'll see, won't we.

Just have to wait.

And see.

Out of the Ordinary

'She's an Alaskan Malamute.'

'Say what now?' 

I must admit I didn't really appreciate being woken up this early on a Saturday. I looked at my watch. 10.55. AM. 'You, bastard! Look at the time!'

'Yeah, I know. I'm really sorry, mate.'

Things hadn't been the same between us since Tori died. I don't know if it was just me or whether Gray had been hit bad too. They had dated for a couple of months before Tori and I got together but she'd always said it wasn't serious. To be honest I didn't really care about anyone else.

'It's just for a couple of days. I've got to get home. Ma's poorly and Dad's fallen apart. She's no bother, honestly. Well, y'know, beyond the obvious. Food, walks, shits in the woods... that sort of thing. What I mean is she's really well-behaved, y'know, when you go out, like... And she won't shit in the house.'

'Oh, fuck! All right, you bastard. But you're going to fucking owe me.'

'Yeah, 'course! That goes without... Y'know, like, understood.'

'Owe me big! What did you call it?'

'She's called Yeika.'

'Right. What?'

'Yeika!'

'Yeika? OK.'

'It means strong, graceful.'

'Oh, OK. But what type is it? You said...'

'Malamute. Alaskan Malamute. It's an Inuit sledding dog, y'know, like a huskie only a bit bigger and more out of the ordinary. She's special this dog. Honestly. You won't want to give her back, I promise you. I've only had her two months but already it's really fucking me over having to leave her. You'll love her, I guarantee it.'

'Get the fuck out of here, man, before I change my mind.'

Well, I was up now, with a monster dog in the lounge, so I went through into the kitchen and filled the kettle.

I heard its paws clicking on the vinyl behind me and it just stood and looked at me, its head to one side.

'What?' I said.

Its head changed to the other angle and it stepped forward a little to me. Snout straight into my groin, nudging my dick through my pjs.

'Fuck off, mate!' I said, gently pushing its nose out. But it'd evidently got all the info it needed because it wandered back through to the lounge over to the window. Paws up on the sill looking out through the nets.

'Get down,' I said. 'You're not meant to be here!'

And it did – straight away. Amazing.

The landlord was a bit of an arse and would kick up a stink if he knew there was a dog in the flat. He hadn't liked the iguana, and we never really got on until that snuffed it.

I got my coffee and sat on the couch sipping at it and looking at this fucking mad-looking animal that had just been landed on me. Mind you, it was good looking. For a dog. Thick hair. Well, you know, fur. Mostly thick grey but under its belly was white and black on its head. But like with a white face. Tail curled up across its back.

'What the fuck am I going to do with you?' I said out loud.

It wandered over towards me, stopping half way to stretch and yawn. Biggest fucking teeth I'd ever seen! And a tongue like a side of ham, for fuck's sake. Then it came right on over to where I was sitting, sat down on her haunches and laid her head in my lap. Oh my fucking God! It looked up at me – huge grey eyes – eyebrows kind of pulled up in the middle. Do dogs have fucking eyebrows? Yes of course they do. Well this one did, anyhow.

And she just looked at me. And darts went into my heart.

'Oh, God!' I said. 'Look, I'm not a dog person, right. Let's get that straight right now. I'm just not a dog person. I'm not a cat person either but that's not the poi...' Her eyes. Fuck!

She just sat there, her head on my lap.

I couldn't help myself, I just reached out my hand and rested it on her head. Not stroking mind, I just rested it. She moved her head a little under my hand and I had to readjust its position. And she moved again and so, yes, I moved again and then before you knew it I was stroking the top of her head and watching her eyelids droop down a little, you know, like she really liked it. And her warm fur under my hand was just, well, you know...

So next thing I know we're out in the park and she's walking beside me like she has done all her life. She's not pulling or tugging at the lead or anything. Just calmly walking along beside me like we're out together on a date or something just taking time, you know. Not talking, just walking. That's what you want, isn't it? Someone you can just be with, that you don't have to think of smart things to say all the time. Yeah, like Tori. Fuck. I reckon you find out more about somebody when they're not talking than you do when they are. Tori knew me – and I knew her

And anyway I'm feeling cock o' the north because, well, for fuck's sake, she's a fucking handsome dog. Fuck that, she's beautiful. She's fucking beautiful. And all these other dog-walkers are out there with their mutts and they're all looking at me as if to say. 'Fuck! You beauty!' And all their little pooches are straining at their leads to come over and have a sniff at her. And some that are off the lead do come over and are sniffing round her arse and she doesn't give them any attention. She just keeps on walking. And I'm trying to get them to keep off her but she's not bothered at all. Even when one or two start barking at her as if to say 'Come on, you stuck up bitch.'

And to be honest, she is a bit of a stuck up bitch! But I reckon that's a good thing.

And one thing's for certain. Gray's not getting her back.

Black Bin Bag

'I'll take them on Thursday,' I said, 'if that's ok.'

'Yes, whatever. Thursday's fine.'

'Or do you need me to take them today? I can take them today if you need me to. But they'll have to sit in the boot for a couple of days.'

'No, no, come and get them on Thursday. They're not going anywhere. I'm not going anywhere.'

'I could try and get back tomorrow but I can't promise. I'll try. But I can't promise.'

'Thursday's fine.'

He sniffed and started to tie the top of the bin bag closed. Then he opened it again and smoothed the top of the pile flat.

'They're all clean,' he said. 'All clean and ironed.'

'Of course. I know.'

He turned and closed the wardrobe. As usual the door swung open again. He pushed it shut and turned the key in the lock.

'Will you try and get out a little, Dad? You need to get out in the fresh air.'

'I went out yesterday.'

'Did you?'

'Yes, took a turn in the garden. I'm all right. You don't need to concern yourself.'

'Well, I do, Dad. Of course I'm concerned. You've lost a bit of weight the last couple of weeks. You look pale. I don't like to see you looking so pale.'

'Yes... well.... Thanks for that.'

'So, of course I'm concerned.'

He turned and went back downstairs. So I followed him down and into the kitchen. He took the kettle from the side and dipped it under the tap. I saw him glance up the garden as he stood waiting for the water to run faster.

'Grass needs a cut.'

'Yes... Well I can do that for you on Thursday, too. If you like.'

'I'll do it.'

'It'd only take a minute.'

'I'll do it.... Must fix this tap washer,' he said. 'Your mother keeps on at...' He realised what he was saying. I saw his jaw set and a look of irritation come over his face.

'Bloody leylandii!' he said. 'They should bloody get that thing chopped down. Look at it. Blocks all the sun out this time of day. Look at that bloody shadow. I'm going to have to tell 'em again. Bloody antisocial. Should be a ban on the bastard things.'

He placed the kettle on its stand and flipped the switch. But the red light didn't come on.

'Oh bloody hell, what's the bloody problem now?'

He picked up the kettle and put it back down.

'Bloody cheap kettle. I said we should get the Russell Hobbs.'

At last the light came on and the growl of the water heating steadily grew.

'What'll you eat tonight, Dad?'

'Oh, I'll be all right. You don't need to concern yourself. I'll find something in the cupboard. You don't need to worry.'

'I can cook you something if you like.'

'No, no, no – I've got something in the cupboard. You get off. You need to get off home. Sylvia will be wondering where you've got to, won't she. You get yourself off home.'

'She knows where I am. I said I was coming round.'

'Well... you get off home. I'll be fine. You don't need to concern yourself.'

'Ok. Well, I'll be back on Thursday, then. Ok?'

'Ok. I'll see you Thursday. I'll probably have sorted a little more out by then. You come on Thursday. It'll all be ready for you on Thursday.'

'Have you got enough bin bags, Dad?'

'Oh, yes. I've got plenty. Plenty. I'm going to put some stuff in the big suitcase anyway. They can have that an' all.  I'll not need it anymore.  I'll put the dresses and things in there and her unde...'

He bit the words back. I could see them ricochet around his mind. His hand went to his face as if he could pull the veil of sadness from his nose and mouth. His palm rasped on his unshaven chin. I put my hand on his arm. I couldn't find a word. My own throat was clammed tight.

'Yes, the other stuff... I'll put the other stuff in the bin bags. If they don't want them they can recycle or just chuck 'em. They're no use to me. And her shoes.'

He opened the cup cupboard and took out two mugs. He poured boiling water into them and dropped a tea bag in each. Went to the cutlery drawer and found a teaspoon and dabbed at the teabags in turn, forcing the brown liquid out of them.

'Fifteen pairs of shoes, she's got. Fifteen. I haven't had fifteen pairs in my whole life, but she's got fifteen sat there in the wardrobe. Who needs fifteen pairs of shoes?'

'Imelda Marcos.'

'Eh?'

'Imelda Marcos. In the Philippines. She had thousands of pairs.'

'Did she indeed?'

The tea was thick and brown. He hooked each bag in turn with the teaspoon, squeezing it against the side of its mug before pulling it out and dropping it into the pedal bin. ' Well, I think it's daft.'

'Yes. But Mum liked shoes.'

'She did... she did.' He slowly stirred milk into the tea.

'Not too much for me, Dad.'

'Hm?'

'Milk – not too much milk. I'm intolerant. Lactose.'

'Oh. Right.'

prompt - Waiting Room

I'll have a coffee now, I reckon.

Yes. I'll have a coffee now and I'll make it last.

Then I'll have another, let's see, at around eleven, well, half eleven if I can keep this one going till then.

Then we'll see. Where we are.

Maybe a scone at half eleven too.

Or a scone now?

I am hungry now. Maybe I'd better get one now.

Oh I don't know though – coffee goes quicker with a scone so maybe I'd better wait. Yes. Get a scone at half eleven.

Hm.

Oh! No, I know. I'll get the scone at half ten. Yes. With just a glass of water.

I can definitely make that last till half eleven.

A scone and some water.

And then I wouldn't have to stretch this out so long.

Right that's it.

Coffee now. Scone and a glass of water at half ten. Don't have to pay for water – yes!. Then second coffee at half eleven.

Yes – get in!

Sorted.

Then we'll see where we are.

Because last week it was all over by twelve anyway.

What with the trouble and everything.

I didn't need to think about after lunch.

Not with the trouble... et cetera.

O-oh! He's here.

Look at him. Smug get. Sitting there with his crossword.

Oh, The Taymes.

Oh yes, I do the Taymes crossword because I can. I can do all the hard clues because I am a smug get and I have a university education. You probably can't even do the word search in the Daily Fail. But I with my university education can tackle the most difficult clues. Because I am a smart get.

Pah. Look at him shaking his pen. Haha! Has it run out? Ha, not so smart now are we!

God, is that the 9.20. Fooking hell that's late.

Or perhaps I should have a slice of cake.

It's going to be really late in to King's Cross. Somebody's balls will roll.

Two sixty, though, it's a lot.

For a slice of cake. That's a lot that is.

Would be easier to stretch it out though.

Wonder what they've got on.

Who's on counter? Oh yes, Kyle.

Hm. Kyle. Wanker.

Look at him. Long bloody hair. Get it cut, Kyle. You work with food. Get your hair cut. I don't want you hair in my cake, thanks very much.

Tie it back at least.

I hate long hair.

No, it'd better be a scone.

Mind you one fifty's a lot to pay for a scone, I reckon.

It's not so bad if I get a couple of extra jam.

I'll get a couple of extra jam to take home.

Well, two to eat with...

and yes then a couple of extra to take home.

One fifty for a scone, two pats of butter and four jam.

That's not so bad, is it.

I could get two strawberry to eat with...

and a black cherry.

Got to be strawberry with...

and a marmalade. If they've got any.

Didn't have any left last time.

Mind you, van came yesterday, didn't it.

So they should have marmalade.

Nobody eats marmalade now though, do they.

Except me.

There was that thing on the radio about how nobody eats marmalade any more.

You wouldn't think they'd run out then, would you, if nobody's eating it.

You'd think that'd be the last to go.

But no.

Strawberry... there's always plenty of strawberry.

Black cherry... that can go either way.

But marmalade – they often run out of marmalade.

Chloë!

Oh look, lovely Chloë's coming on.

Fantastic!

Is she going to look?

Is she?

Hey Chloë, I think you're lovely.

Can you see me, Chloë? I'm blowing you kisses.

Can you see?

Go on, look over here, Chloë! Look over here.

I'm over here by the window. Look over...

Fook, she's looking.

Fook, she's coming over.

Fook!

Hello darlin'. Have you done with your cup?

Er, no... no I haven't.

Oh. Right. It looks empty to me darlin'. Can I take it?

Er, no... I've still got milk in the jug. I'm just going to finish it. The milk.

Oh. Ok. You finish up the milk and then I'll come back. Ok?

Yes. Ok.

You just finish up the milk and then I'll come back and get your cup. All right?

Yes all right. But...

She's gone.

Fook.

That was close.

Look at her hair though. Lovely long hair. I love long hair. Look at her - how it moves.

I love the way she doesn't tie it back. Just let's it hang loose.

I love that.

That nearly scuppered things though, eh!

Nearly put the kibosh on the Kaiser.

Fook's sake.

Maybe I'll get my scone now. My scone and water.

Mind, if Chloë's on, maybe I'll look at cakes.

While I'm up there. I'll check out the cakes.

Yes.

She cuts a good slice – Chloë.

Mind you no jam then. Or marmalade.

No, better stick with the scone.

Scone, two pats, four jams.

Right what's the time?

Ten to.

Right. Another ten minutes. Damn there's not much milk left.

You'd think they'd just order more.

Marmalade.

People obviously are eating it.

Look at her. Wow!

I love the way she wipes them tables. Look.

Oh yes.

Stretch over.

Right over, Chloë.

Ooh missed a bit.

Mmm. Nice bum, Chloë. In them jeans.

Oh fook!

She's coming this way.

Have you done, then? All finished? Finished with your milk? It's a lovely day out. You'll be glad to be outside I expect. I'll take your cup then.

Er, ok... Hang on there's a little...

No, look, it's all gone. I'll take it.

I was thinking...

Yes, it's a lovely day out. You should go and sit in the park somewhere. Somewhere in the sun. Soak up some rays. Get warmed up.

Yes, maybe...

You don't want to be cooped up in here again. All day. Do you.

Well...

You don't want to be stuck inside on a lovely day like this, do you. Missing all the sun.

Missing all the fun...

What? Yes, missing all the fun. No that's right. You don't want to miss all the fun. You want to get out there soaking up some rays.

Chloë...

Oooh! Can you let go? I don't like it when you hold my hand, do I. Do you remember? We talked about this last time, didn't we. Do you remember what we said?

Yes.

We said 'no touching' didn't we.

Yes

No touching – so can you let go. Kyle!

Yes, no touching.

That's right. Kyle! So can you let go please?

I just wanted...

I'm going to have to... Kyle! Get over here!

Oh, don't fetch Kyle.

Kyle, what fucking took you! Get him out.

But I want a scone.

Now come on, you know Chloë doesn't like it when you touch her.

I just want a scone and some jam. And a glass of water. That's all. I won't touch her. I just didn't want her to take my cup away again.

You can't stay in here all day – you just can't.

Get him out, Kyle. He's had his chance.

Yes, you've had your chance. Come on out now.

I'll go Debenhams

Yes. I'll go Debenhams.

I'll go and have a scone in Debenhams.

Then maybe a cup of tea.

Yes. Then I'll have a cup of tea at midday.

Then another at, say, half one.

I can make it last to half one.

With a scone.