Prompt - The Colours Were A Little Garish

Sylvie waited still.

Even Jenna had gone now.

But Sylvie sat on the wall, a tissue crumpled in her hand, her thumb pushing at the ball of paper. Pushing it into her palm, over and over. The soft paper creaking under the pressure.

Some friend Jenna turned out to be.

Sylvie awoke to the sound of someone moving near her bed. She cracked her eyes open just enough to let a little light in. Her father was stealthily creeping around, treading very lightly. It was still dark and as she quietly pulled the covers back to get a better view, she felt the cold air on her nose.

Her father seemed to turn towards her – she snapped her eyes tight shut again.

She must have slept again within moments because she didn't remember him leaving and the next thing she knew her mother was cooing her name softly.

'Sy-lvie... Oh, Sy-lvie.' she drew back the curtains. 'It's time to get up... You know what today is!?'

'It's my bathday,' said Sylvie groggily, rubbing the sleep from her eyes then driving the annoying itch from her nose with her knuckles.

'It is! It's your birthday! Yes! And how old are you?'

'I'm six.'

'Six! Yes! That's right. Such a big girl. But Sylvie... Look!'

Sylvie followed her mother's pointing hand.

Hanging from the central light was... a thing... a beautiful... thing.... She could not think what to call it. It was a... thing... a hanging thing. And it was beautiful.

'Can you see?'

'Yes! Yeeess!!,' said Sylvie. 'It's ...it's...'

'It's a mobile,' said her mother.

'A what?'

'A mobile... that's what it's called.'

'It's a rainbow...' said Sylvie. 'It's a beautiful rainbow!'

'Yes,' said Mummy. 'Daddy made it!'

'Daddy?'

'Yes he made it and painted it, and...'

'When?'

'In the evenings after you'd gone to bed.'

'Where is Daddy?'

'He had to go to work, darling. But he'll be back later... He'll be back later.'

'Can we have cake?!'

'Yes. We'll have cake with Daddy, when he comes home. Come on now.'

'Can I just stay here and look for a while. I like to see it moving in the wind.

'All right for a few minutes, while I get the breakfast.'

Sylvie lay on her back on the floor - knees up, feet flat on the carpet - directly beneath the light.

She watched as each band of colour moved independently, all spinning around the same piece of fine thread. Each swinging freely at the slightest suggestion of a breeze.

Sylvie lay and blew as hard as she was able to wobble the pieces in the air. She blew again.  Wafted her hands. 

Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo, Violet.

Richard Of York Gained Battles In Vain. They'd learned it at school and even Mummy knew it. 'Yes,' said Mummy. 'I learned it at my school.'

Sylvie particularly liked the orange band as it curled between the red and the yellow. She imagined the ceiling was the wide blue sky and she was a bird flying high, high, high up into the sky – over the rainbow, up, up, up into the blue, blue sky.

Eleanor Brockless, Y10, pushed Sylvie, Y8, as she went past her on the way to the back seat.

'Get off,' muttered Sylvie.

'What?' snarled Eleanor Brockless. 'What did you say?'

Sylvie knew better than to repeat her comment.

'Just leave her alone,' said Jenna from the seat next to Sylvie. 'Just leave her a-fucking-lone!'

Eleanor Brockless pulled a long strand of chewing gum from between her teeth and then chewed it back into her mouth. Then she took the ball of gum right out and squashed It down onto Sylvie's head.

'Fuck sake!' shouted Jenna, immediately trying to pick the gum out of Sylvie's hair. 'Leave her alone!'

Sylvie said nothing; she just sat there waiting for this torment to end.

'Oi!' said Eleanor Brockless. 'Give me your bag, y'fat cunt.'

This was regular by now. Eleanor Brockless helping herself to whatever she took a fancy to. Sylvie knew better than to resist but she didn't offer it either. Eleanor Brockless grabbed it from her lap.. Rifled through it. Pulled out Sylvie's rainbow pencil case.

'Too good for you, y'cunt,' said Eleanor.

She unzipped the zip and emptied the contents over Sylvie's head. Pens and pencils, of course,
also flower-shaped rubbers, highlighters, felt tips, biros, a small plastic ruler, a pair of compasses, a pencil sharpener detached from its pot, the pot itself complete with many days' worth of pencil shavings. Everything was scattered on her head, in her lap, onto the floor.

Daddy didn't come home at four as usual. He didn't come home at five like Mummy said he would if he got the next bus.

At half past six, Sylvie blew out the candles on her cake and Mummy cut her a slice. She could hear Mummy talking on the telephone while she ate the cake, but she couldn't hear what Mummy was saying.

At the Freshers' Fair, Sylvie joined DramaSoc, the Debating Society and Rainbow Alliance. She knew she wasn't lesbian. Or at least she knew she was mainly straight. Dean had shown her that. And he'd come to Uni here too. She loved him. Not just the way his penis filled her, ground into her, pushed right up into her cervix, but his hands – his long fingers – she found them so alluring from the very first video he sent her. How he had caressed himself. She imagined him touching her with such gentleness. A musician. He learned how to play her. Draw sweet music from her.

No, she wasn't homosexual. Mostly. But she felt drawn to the colourful Rainbow logo and, of course, the idea of it. People coming together, gay, lesbian, bi and straight, supporting each other. Why wouldn't you? How could anyone judge anyone else for loving someone, whatever, whoever they were, male, female, trans, alt? Why? She couldn't understand it.

Jenna came and stayed the weekend of Pride. Jenna thought she might be lesbian. Jenna slept in Sylvie's bed with Sylvie. Dean stayed at Loz's.

When Dean came round next morning. Sylvie and Jenna were still in pyjamas. Sylvie's pyjamas. Jenna hadn't brought any nightwear. Jenna darted dark looks at Dean while she chatted with Sylvie.  She needed him to know, she didn't like him.

Dean was twitchy. He hadn't slept much. He sat at the table while the girls made coffee and heated croissants. Dean wasn't hungry. He wrangled his long fingers together as he watched them laughing. Joking. Touching each other.

'What the fuck's the matter with you?' said Sylvie when Jenna had gone to shower. 'You're so fucking gloomy.'

'Look...I....' Dean blushed.

'What?'

'I just need to know. Did you...'

'Did I what?'

'You two. Last night. Did you... y'know...'

'What? Did we what? Did we make love? God, Dean, for fuck sake...'

At seven, Mrs Derbyshire came.

Mummy went out then.

'Don't you worry, pet, she's just going to help Daddy.'

Sylvie didn't worry.

Mrs Derbyshire read 'The Tiger Who Came To Tea' and 'Hairy McLairy Of Donaldson's Dairy' and 'The Rainbow Rabbits' from the big book. Then she told Sylvie that Sylvie must go to sleep.

Mrs Derbyshire sat on the edge of the bed stroking Sylvie's hair.

Her fingers were fatter than Mummy's.

Sylvie pretended to be asleep so that Mrs Derbyshire would stop. Mrs Derbyshire went downstairs.

Sylvie got out of bed and lay on the floor underneath the rainbow mobile again. It was too dark to see much but she could imagine the pieces swinging, spinning. Round and round above her head. Round and round. In the dark.

They had decorated St Andrew's Church Hall in the most garish colours.

Sexy Red. Hot pinks. Burnt orange. Turquoise. Green.

Streamers hung from each corner crossing the room in undulating arcs below the ceiling. On the walls they had hung the great tie-dyed drapes that Sylvie had made for her degree show.

Vegan food from The Loving Spoonful would arrive from twelve. The ceremony was at eleven.

Sylvie looked at her watch.

Twelve thirty.

And now Jenna had gone too. Left her waiting outside Her Majesty's Office for the Registration of Births, Marriages and Deaths.

Where was he?

She had tried his phone forty times. Texted him fifteen.

Mum hadn't come anyway.

And all the Uni crowd had dispersed not knowing what to do. Loyalties to both Sylvie and Dean left them unable to act. They were aimless, stupid.

'If he... when he comes,' said Gryff, 'come and get us, yeah... we'll be in The Flag. Just come get us, yeah? But Sylv, babe, he will come. You'll see. He will. Send Jenna when he comes. We'll all be there... Just seems daft waiting around here. You know, now the next lot have gone in.'

Then Jenna's battery had died so she'd gone to find somewhere to plug it in.

'I'll go to The Flag too. I'll be able to plug it in there somewhere. Text me, y'know, if he...er shows....'

The tissue creaked again as Sylvie pushed her thumb deep into it.

Sent from Mail for Windows 10

The Elephant That Has Fallen Over

The elephant that has fallen over

is the last of the family of elephants

that Great Uncle Cyril

brought back

from Jaipur

in 1937.

We can see

how the ivory tusk has snapped

clean away from the ebony body

and

no

there is no glue

that can invisibly repair it.

We can note

how the ear has cracked

upon impacting the stones of the hearth

and the piece that has fallen away

has disappeared

somewhere

beneath the gas fire

in the fireplace.

We are aware

that this

the last elephant

in the family of six elephants

that Great Uncle Cedric

brought back

from Jodhpur

in 1939

is of course,

merely a thing

an object

an object of little intrinsic value

a mere and momentary

collaboration of molecules

formally arranged

in time

and space.

We will not cry

nor yet will we weep

for the object

we will simply

ponder upon it

think upon the time

it has been amongst us

We will cheerfully

cherish the memory

of our lost friend

and consign

his broken and battered

remains

to the all-consuming fire.

But...

may I just say that...

this

the largest of the eight elephants

in the family of elephants

that Great Uncle Collins

brought back from Pondicherry

in 1947

has successfully survived

seventy years

upon this shelf

even while its family have perished

until you

you

my dear boy

until you turned up

with you

infernal

Wii.

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Trivial Pursuit

He'd noticed her when they'd walked in.

And then when they had come to sit at his table he became quite agitated.

'Do you mind?' she said.

'Huh?'

'Do you mind if we sit here, only there's nowhere else.'

'Yes,' he said.

'What?' she said. 'You do mind?'

'No, no! Be my guest... guests...' he said.

She smiled at him and sat down on the stool across the table from him. She was small, he thought. No, petite. That was it. Petite.

The friend sat on the bench a little along from him. She had altogether bigger bones.

'You all right there, Chelle?' said petite.

''Course,' said Chelle. 'Why wouldn'I be? My round. What d'you want, Vick?'

Chelle looked at Trev. He smiled at her.

She went off to get their drinks.

Trev's beer was a little warm this evening. It was a warm night. Thundery.

'Are you here for the quiz?' she asked.

'Huh?'

'The quiz? Are you here for that?'

'Me? Nooo.... well not really. I don't do the quiz. I listen, like, and try to get the answers but I'm no good really. Except sport... I get the sport ones... usually.'

'Sport!? Really? Oh we're hopeless at the sport, Chelle and I. We never get the sport ones.'

'Ah... hahaha.'

'Hey! You'll have to help us!'

'What?'

'With the sport! You help us with the sport and we'll split the winnings with you.

'Me? Oh no... me? No, no, no.'

'Oh go on! Chelle, Chelle – he's going to help us with the sport. That's brilliant, isn't it.'

Chelle had returned and placed her pint and a gin and tonic on the table.

'Yeah, sure it is. Great.' Chelle didn't seem overly bothered.

'What do they call you?' said Vicky.

'Me? Oh, Trevor,' said Trevor. 'Trev. They call me Trev.'

Nobody ever called him Trev.

But he wished they did.

'Well, nice to meet you, Trev. I'm Vicky and this is Chelle.'

'Good evening, both,' said Trev

'Hello,' said Chelle.

'Name your teams please on the top of the paper.'

The quizmaster had fiddled with the PA long enough.

'Name of your team at the top of the paper. Please write clearly. No Simon, I do not mean you write the word 'clearly' on the paper – you dickhead dumbwit – CLEARLY, you write your team's name – it is an adverb. A what? An adverb. So...

'Name of the team at the top – a pound per person in the pot!' he pattered.

Chelle went up with their three pounds and returned with the answer sheet.

'What'll it be then, guys?' said Vicky.

'What?' said Trev

'The team name! What'll it be?' said Vicky. 'I know! Some part of each of our names and we'll stick them together. Ok, you're Trev... er, Trev, Tre Tr... and I'm Vicky... Vick, Vi, Vee... Trevee... and Chelle... Treveesh... Trevi-elle. Trevial. Oh! Trivial! Like the board game Trivial Pursuit! Oh wow! Shall we be that then, guys? Anyone mind if we're that? The Trivial Pursuits?'

No-one minded, riding on Vicky's enthusiasm.

'Are we ready?' boomed the Quizmaster. 'Round One – Soap Operas.... An easy one to get you started... Which Australian soap star went on to play Joseph on the West End Stage? The Lloyd Webber musical Joseph and His Technicolor Yawn or whatever it was. Which Australian soap star played Joseph. Don't tell me – just write it down... Right... Question two...'

He didn't know any of the answers until they whispered them but every time they got to one Vicky high-fived him as if it were his answer. Her hands were small, her palms warm. He started to anticipate the gesture, prepared himself for it. He laughed with her as she joked with Chelle – even though he hadn't heard what she'd said. She slapped his arm as if he had made the joke.

He saw the sparkle in her eyes. The slight shine of the gin on her lips. He saw how her breasts moved as she raised her hand up top – as she laughed...

A break in the proceedings and Chelle trotted off to the use the toilet.

'Oh no,' said Vicky. 'Sport round next! You up for it, Trev? We're relying on you!'

'I'll do my best,' he said, his heart turning a little at her words.

'That's the spirit, darling! PMA as my Dad used to say. Positive...'

'...Mental Attitude...' Trevor completed the phrase, and she high-fived him again. Just him. And her breasts moved again inside her blouse.

'Here you write the next lot.'

'Me?'

'Yes you! You've got all the answers – you write them... Here I'll come round there. Help you.'

Chelle returned wiping her hands on her buttocks.

'Musical chairs, Chelle. You're there now. Sport next. Trev's up, aren't you Trev?'

And suddenly she laughed a shocked, dirty laugh.

'Oh Chelle! Aren't I bad?'

'Why?' said Chelle.

'Trev's up, y'know, UP! I'm not surprised sitting with us two banging babes, eh Trev!' and she smacked him on the arm again.

Trev smiled. Blushed.

'You've made him blush, Vicky,' said Chelle.

'Haha! He's up for it aren't you Trev? Well up for anything aren't you, babe?!'

'Next Round – Sport...' and the Quizmaster belched down the microphone. 'Question One. Who, in 1971, won the FA cup? 1971. The F-A Cup. Two teams playing – which one won it? Simple.'

'Well, Trev?' said Vicky.

'Well it was either Leeds or Chelsea that year. I was at school. Leeds, I think it was. Yes Leeds. It was Leeds United.'

Vicky and Chelle looked at each other and smiled.

'Right, well write it down then, love!'

The gin had enlivened her. Trev felt her hand, warm, upon his knee as she leaned in to watch him write. He only glanced but he couldn't help noticing her breasts pushing against the fabric. He caught a breath of her perfume on her hair.

'Question Two – related question... Who was the goalie on the losing side? The Losing Side – the Goalkeeper. Who was it?... No Simon... 1971! .. not 1966. Gordon Banks played for Stoke City so shut the fuck up and apologies for my colourful language.  Now can we proceed, please...

'Peter Bonetti,' Trev whispered.

'Write it down!' said Vicky grabbing his arm with two hands.

Trev had an answer for all ten Sports questions and as the answers were read out and checked off Vicky became more and more delighted.

Chelle smiled, said little She watched her friend go up and down his arm, finding ways to touch him again and again.

Trevor floated on a Vicky-flavoured cloud. Every touch burned him Every flash of her eyes buzzed through him.

Papers were handed in at last

'God, I must piss!' said Vicky and wove her way between tables, out of sight.

Chelle and Trev sat in silence. Their reason for being hooked together here in this moment suddenly absent.

A heavy, ponderous minute passed.

Chelle took a swig of her pint.

'She don't mean anything by it,' she said, wiping her mouth.

'Eh?'

'She's a flirt. Don't put any store by it.

'What do you mean?'

'I've seen you looking at her... It's ok, but I've seen that kind of look a hundred times on men. They think because of how she is that they're in with a chance...'

'I...I...'

'It's ok... it's not you... it's just what she does. She plays with men. I'm sorry for you really. She doesn't mean to do it. Not in a bad way. She just can't help herself.

'Right... I didn't really....'

'It's as much part of her evening as the drink and the kebab. Sorry Love. Hope you're not too disappointed.

'I... I'm just going to have to go the little boys room.'

He crossed the floor towards the door marked Ombres.

Vicky came out of Signoritas. She sashayed over to him. Took his two hands in hers and placed them on her shoulders.

She looked up at him. Moved her hands to his hips.

Dark eyes flashing in the dim light.

'Dance with me, Trev, ' she pouted.

'But there's no music,'

'It's inside. Feel it inside. Inside here...' She pulled one of his hands down and held it on her chest. Feel it.'

'Oh, I...'

'Can you feel it?'

'I feel I need a wee...'

'Oh Trev, you're so romantic...! Well soon then! I'll be waiting.'

He pushed at Ombres.

Stood at the urinal...

Looked at the weak, golden stream that splashed down onto the blue iceblocks.

When he'd done he came back into the bar. Looked over to them.

Vicky was sitting on the bench next to Chelle. A young man sat resting on the stool, beer in hand, resting on the table. Vicky was smiling and laughing with him. Chelle looked over and saw him looking.

Trev turned and walked straight through out into the street. Large drops of rain had started to fall. The air smelled of earth and sex and flowers as he turned down towards Waverley Road.

Dead Flowers

rustles in the undergrowth

we fling stones

stand silent for a moment

to count the effect -

stillness still

weigh the probable outcome

in our minds until

with nervous glances between us

we push our hands

among dead flowers

separate stem from stem

touch fingers in our searching

and draw from the wrecked bed

a grey frog

eyes sunken from the stoning

a shattering of limbs

soiled with earth

our eyes meet in an understanding

of the creatures death

and the strange power of our hands

The Thin End

I don't mind. I really don't. It's my pleasure it really is. If you knew her you'd understand. And after 27 years you get into your patterns don't you. And although our patterns might look odd unfair even to an outsider, to us they work.

We fit.

We complement each other.

So no, I don't mind that in the bedroom she has her bobs and bits out on the top of the chest of drawers and across the mantelpiece and arranged over the surfaces of the dressing table.

I never use the dressing table so I don't need any space on there, do I. I mean, I've only got one or two bits I need to have out anyway.

I've got my hairbrushes that were Dad's with the ivory inlay. Ebony they are and I like to keep them out because, well, they remind me of him.

And the statue of the Virgin.  That's mine. Dead centre on the mantelpiece. She doesn't mind that.  It's... I mean... she's got her own place, the Virgin. You can't really think of devotional things belonging to a person anyway, can you - it doesn't seem quite fitting.

So yes. I've got my brushes, oh, and my nail clippers.

I used to use scissors, of course, which are fine for toenails but clippers are better for fingers because you can do both hands. And besides with me being left-handed scissors are tricky especially when I'm doing my wrong hand, if you see what I mean. If I've got them in my wrong hand, ie my right hand, I can't get them to function at all. So clippers, yes. Clippers are best.

So she lets me have the corner of the tumble dryer for my things. And then we both know where we are. 'Course, the wash basket – clean wash, that is – that lives on the tumble dryer too, so I don't have much room. But it's enough.  It's enough for me.

Downstairs it's a bit different. She doesn't like it if my shoes are out and not on. On my feet that is.

'On or away,' she says.

So I get one shelf of the shoe rack for my three pairs and she gets the other two shelves, and the bottom of the coat cupboard for hers, oh, and a box in the attic. And the suitcase. The old blue one we don't use. At least not for travelling. She uses that for her old shoes. The ones that she doesn't wear any more because – well – I'm not quite sure why she doesn't, but... well, she doesn't... But they're too good to go to charity.

We tend to use the two small suitcases now. Well she gets one, and half of mine. I can usually manage with just the appropriate number of pairs of jockeys and an equivalent number of socks but of course it does depend where we're going and for how long.

She likes a river cruise.

And I do too.

I'd like a sea cruise, you know, to exotic climes, but she likes to be able to see land at all times. She gets bilious if she can't see land. So we tend to do the river cruises now so we're both happy then. She gets to see land and I'm happy she's not bilious.

We met Marcel on the trip along the Rhine – it was fabulous. And he seemed such a pleasant chat such good English too. Spoke it better than Jean, truth be told. And she loved his accent, didn't she – and of course he played up to her.

'Bonjour, ma cherie,' he'd say - well I can't do it - but he'd call her 'mon amour' and 'la belle femme' and such like - she loved it.

'Oh, Phil!' she says. 'Why aren't you French? Why do you never say such things to me?'

'Well I don't know the lingo, do I Jean. How could I?'

'You should learn it, Phil. You should get some lessons. I'll get you a CD for Christmas.'

Anyway on the last night they organised a dinner dance thing, you know, because they're big boats these cruisers. They're a fair size, they really are.

And they decked out the Officers' Mess, as they called it. Bunting and such and so forth.

And a little band was playing dance classics, you know, slow ones that sort of thing, proper dance tunes, Blue Danube, some Napkin Cole. That's what Jean calls him. And you know, they had a keyboard so they could go for the swirling strings and such like - the Mantovani sound, you know.

And towards the end they played My Funny Valentine as a smoochie number and, well, that's been our tune forever, so I took her hand and we moved across to the dancefloor.

But then we'd just started and I feel this tap on my shoulder and it's Marcel.

'May I?' He says.

So I say 'Mais oui...'

Well, you can't really refuse, can you – and Jean's keen and kind of pushing me back a little so he can get in.

And the two of them go gliding off across the floor.

He's very good.  Well, you know, he's all right.

So I watch them go and then wander back to the table.

But I lose track...

And then the band finishes and everyone claps and when I look for them I can't see them. Even when everybody starts to leave and the waiters are starting to clear up. They are nowhere to be seen.

So I thinks I'd better check around on the viewing deck or else I'll go back to the cabin. And as I'm walking up to the prow I can see them leaning against the railing looking out at the city lights.

And as I get closer I see he's got his hand on her back. And I'm just walking up – they haven't seen me – and I see his hand slip down to her bottom. And I'm, well, I'm a bit surprised really.

I mean, Jean is not really one for a lot of physical contact but I can see she's not pushing him off or anything and then he turns her to face him and I can see him move in and then he's kissing her. And it's not just a peck either, you know, it's a full Bogart-Baccall job.

Well I don't know where to put myself so I think I'd better head back to the cabin.

I'm in bed when she gets back but I pretend to be asleep.

She gets ready just before she turns the light out she leans over and gives me a little kiss on the cheek.

I can feel it's a bit of a wet one.

But I don't want her to know so I just let it sit there unwiped until she settles.

Next morning she is getting dressed and she says 'Oh, Phil, Marcel asked if he can come and stay at ours in a month's time. He's got a conference thing in Birmingham and I said it would be nice. That's okay, isn't it? If he comes to stay?

'Oh. I should think. I… Yes, I'm sure that'll… Well I'll check the diary when we get back but I'm... Because I said I'd pop to mums, but…'

'Well you could still do that even so, couldn't you?'

'Yes I suppose…'

'I've bought a nice piece of brie,' says Jean on the Thursday night. The man says it's a bit under at the moment but by Saturday it'll be fine, you know… I thought Marcel would like that.'

'Are you not going to buy him a nice piece of English cheese?'

'It is English – I bought it in Sainsbury's.'

'Don't be daft... English would be better. He can have brie whenever he likes, can't he, in France.'

'Oh no!' she says.

'You know, proper English cheddar. Some Cathedral City or something. Cracker Barrel...'

'Oh no! He's French! He won't want them. He'll want proper cheese.'

On Saturday, she's made stew and dumplings. She's a good cook, I can't deny it. And apple crumble. Fantastic. And proper custard. You know, not out of a tin. Proper Birds.

Then out comes the cheese.

'Look brie,' she says. 'Brie, Marcel, I bought it special.'

'Merci, madame, you are trés gentille! Mais... I have eaten so much I could not possibly…'

'Oh,' she says.

I can see she's a bit crestfallen.

'Well,' I say, 'I don't mind if I do.'

'Oh, well go on then, Phil,' she says.

'But just a taste. I prefer an English cheese truth be told. Tell you what, I'll just take the very tip the thin end.'

'Aha,' says Marcel, 'that is considered the very finest part of course, the toe.'

'Oh!' says Jean, 'the toe! Oh la la! Well don't take that then, Phil! Marcel, really, you should have that – you're the guest.'

'But madame! I…'

'No, I insist you have it – the toe, Marcel. Go on – give it him, Phil. He is the guest.'

So I slide it onto his plate with my knife and Marcel cuts it with his, and he pulls a grape from the bowl in the middle and pops them both into his mouth.

Jean looks at him.

He looks at Jean.

I look at Jean, too.

She is smiling.

That's nice.

A Change Of Clothes

She missed him of course.

Jack.

His presence in the house.

The structure that his comings and goings imposed upon her day.

But she couldn't say she wanted him back.

And as she moved around the house now she still heard his voice – niggling at her, correcting her, undermining her.

- What've you done that for?

- Why do you do it like that?

- It'd be better to wash the inside of the windows on the Thursday then when the cleaners come on the Friday you'll notice the difference, won't you.

- It'd be better, do you not think, to wash the kitchen floor last thing at night rather than now, just before you're going to start cooking.

- I wish you'd think a bit, sweetheart. If you used your brain a little you wouldn't be so tired all the time, would you.

It was a Saturday when he had sat in front of the television while she ironed, steam hissing from her iron.

He turned up the volume.

- Sweetheart, do you have to do that in here? It's steaming the place up. Look at the windows. All that condensation. It'll rot the frames. It's not great, y'know. It's not like we're made of money to be able to buy uPVC, is it. It's me that'll have to fix it, isn't it. At the end of the day.  It'd be better if you did the ironing up in the spare room, wouldn't it. You could have the window open, couldn't you.

- But I like to watch the telly while I'm doing it.

- Well, you could take the portable in from the bedroom, couldn't you, love. Take it in and put it on the chest of drawers and you can watch what you want then, can't you.

- But I like watching with you, Jack.

- Well yes, but we don't really like the same things, do we. You're not that interested in football, are you. Be honest.

- I don't mind.

- And I can't stand that crap you watch. Don't Tell Them About The Dress or whatever it is. So it'd suit us both really, wouldn't it. I tell you what, at the break I'll nip up and put the portable in the spare room for you. I'll plug it in there, shall I. And you can go and take the ironing board up there and do the ironing in the spare room, can't you, and watch what you like then. I'll do that for you, shall I. Ok? You can watch what you like then.

The heart attack was only to be expected, the doctor said.

- But he was only fifty four.

But considering his family history, his passive life style, his poor diet, the doctor said.

- I always served him veg, she said. He just never ate any.

- Will you be all right, Mrs McKinnon? The sister asked as she led her out of the family room.

- I'll be fine.

- Is there anyone I can call for you?

- No, you're all right, I'll be fine.

- Sure? Sister? Children? Neighbour, perhaps?

- No, honestly. I'll be fine.

It was 8.00am when she left the hospital.

They wanted to call a taxi for her but she said she'd prefer to walk.

The May sunshine streamed through the trees as she walked down Canal Street and out into the park. A light green flush haloed the birches and tinged the air. She went and sat on the bench by the pond. 

- What now?

She felt a tightening in her throat.

A few ducks swam lazily towards her and then away again as they realised she had nothing for them.

- Nothing today, ducks, she said. Nothing today.

- You'd better get home, he said. It's nearly nine. What're you thinking? You should be home by now, do you not think? It'd be better if you went home now, love, and sorted things out. You know.

She stood up and picked her bag up from the bench. She'd better get home.

A cockerpoo came snuffling around the feet of the bench where she'd been sitting. Then it scented her and came over, muddy feet up on her leg as she stood there. She found she didn't mind.

- Hello, she said. You're a friendly thing.

The dog pushed its snout under the edge of her skirt. She pushed it down then sat back on the bench and started to pet the animal.

- Douglas Fairbanks? Douglas Fairbanks!

A man in his late forties was striding quickly towards them, empty lead in hand.

- Oh, I'm so sorry, he said. Has he been bothering you?

He bent and clipped the lead onto the dog's collar.

- D'you really call him Douglas Fairbanks?

- Haha! It was my late wife's idea. She loved Douglas Fairbanks. Well, in truth she loved Douglas Fairbanks Junior, but that seemed too much of a mouthful. Haha! Do you mind if I...?

- Be my guest, she said.

- Alec, he said.

- Tess, she said.

She looked at his trousers as he sat down. Sharp creases.

Clean shoes despite the Spring mud in the park.

She listened to his crisp, modulating voice as he spoke.

Saw the tidily manicured nails.

Noted the gold wristwatch, the heavy wedding ring which he still wore.

On the fifth of June, he took her to the City Hall. A tea dance. Saturday afternoon. They drank milky tea. They danced. He led. She followed.

On Monday, she sent Jack's clothes to the Mind Shop. She found she didn't.

On the seventeenth of July, while they were watching the special matinee showing of Gone With The Wind at the Great American Picture House on Bentall Street, he reached across the popcorn and took her hand. She noticed he wasn't wearing his ring any more.

She found she gave a damn.

August Bank Holiday and they made love in the afternoon in a small pension he'd found online on the Left Bank of the Seine. She'd never been to Paris before. She loved Paris.

- Can we come again, she said, as he held her.

His hand moved slowly over her belly, still glistening from their love-making.  It slid up her body to cover her breast. She felt an unfamiliar tingling in her nipple.

She loved him.

- It's a bit soon, isn't it? Dad's barely cold.

- Your father was cold before ever he died.

Anthea took the plates from the drainer, dried them and stacked them on the counter.

- Well as long as you know what you're doing, Mum.

- I know what I'm doing, love. I know what I'm doing.

On the first of December, he moved in.

Douglas Fairbanks hid under the dining room table while they went upstairs.

She sat on the bed and watched Alec unpack his suitcase.

He placed his socks in Jack's sock drawer.

He unfolded his shirts and hung them on hangers on Jack's side of the wardrobe. Next to her dresses and the white blouses she used to wear to the office.

His shoes – eight pairs, she counted – he arranged on a shoe rack he had brought with him.

- Thank you, she said.

- My darling, what for?

- Just... thank you. I love you.

- And I love you too.

- Do you?

- With all my heart. I never thought I could love again. You have proven me wrong.

- You make me feel like a teenager, she said. Except that when I was a teenager I had spots and big crooked front teeth and glasses.

- My darling, you are beautiful in my eyes.

- Thank you.

She felt herself flush.

He paused for a moment.

- Dearest?

- Yes?

- Don't you think it would be better if the head of the bed was against the other wall? Then when the sun rises it wouldn't be so directly in our faces.

- Hm... maybe... she said.

Thus have I killed you

And thus
have I killed you
a hundred times:
stalked your corpse
among the living;
ripped the soul
from your dead flesh
in some imagined resurrection.


Thus have I killed you
a thousand times and more
when every face I see
in some small way
reflects a part of you:
the line of jaw;
the velvet camber
of a sallow cheek.



Thus have I killed you,
oh, ten thousand times
and mourned your death afresh
for dead you are
it seems
four decades gone
or so they say
though I did never see you dead:
never measured your length
upon a slab;
just some old box we tucked away
into the ground -
a time capsule of a life.



And every woman
still
spotted from this bus
though two hundred miles away
in years and space
for a fleeting moment
breaks nature's rule
and feeds my futile heart
with desperate hope
that hers might be your face.