prompt - Some Forgotten Detail

'Well we're going back,' said Phyll.

'What?!' Ann's voice steadied a little. Hope rising as she took in what her mother was saying.

'We're going back. And we're going to find it,' said Phyll. 'There's no way you're losing that. We'll find it, you'll see. I can feel it. Go and get in the car. Come on Duncan, you come too.'

'What? Me? Why?' said Ann's brother.

Twenty minutes later and we were back on the beach. Felixstowe. Summer heat hanging on though the breeze had lifted a little.

I stopped and scanned the horizon. A tanker balked on the skyline. At this distance it seemed motionless as if set on the shelf of the sea. But when I checked again a few minutes later I could see it had moved. Like it was playing some magnificent, slow game of Grandmother's Footsteps.

'Come on, Chris. Help!' Ann was with her mother and Duncan, heads down, all in a line stretched out across the shingle. Eyes becoming fingers, touching shells, turning stones, sea glass, in the clinging hope that the watch would appear.

I caught up with them, coming in between Ann and Duncan. I slipped my hand into Ann's. She squeezed it but released it immediately.

'Not so close,' she said without looking up. She pushed me away a little, and Duncan too moved slightly further out.

Phyll had dropped behind us, scouring the ground more thoroughly. Her positive tone from before had changed somewhat.

'I can't believe you came here with it on. What were you thinking?'

'Don't, Mum,' Ann snapped. 'Just don't!'

'What would Nana say? I told her she shouldn't have given it to you. She should have waited till....' Her voice trailed off.

'Waited till when?' Ann's voice rose in indignation at her mother's suggestion.

'Nothing. Forget it.'

'Waited till she was dead – that's what you mean, isn't it.'

'Don't be so horrible, Ann.'

'But that is what you're saying, isn't it? She shouldn't have given it to me. She should have left it to me in her will! That's what you're saying.'

'That's not what I'm saying, and you know it.'

'Oh, just shut up!'

A heavy silence settled upon us once again.

I couldn't help but think that, actually, Ann's Nana would not really have much thought about it either way.

We'd been to see her the summer before in North Berwick. Caught the bus from Edinburgh. A glorious day, the Firth of Forth glittered under a cloudless sky.

We got off on the main street and bought grapes and a pack of Tunnocks teacakes to take to her. Then we climbed the hill out of the little town until we found the path that led through carefully- tended grounds surrounding the home. It was a grand building, white against the green lawns with gentle gravel paths and wooden benches. Residents dotted themselves around the grounds. They seemed motionless and yet, when I looked again, I could see they had moved.

Inside the heat hung like fog. Radiators on full. The air was dry, with the smell of warm carpet and recently cooked cabbage. We were led into the day-room and there was Nana, sat in a high-backed, winged armchair looking out through one of the bay windows.

Ann's voice didn't seem to register immediately.

'Hello, Nannan!'

It must have been a greeting heard regularly here and old Mrs Bathgate left it unheeded.

'Nannan?' Ann moved and placed her hand on the old woman's where it rested on the arm of her chair.

She looked up at Ann and smiled.

'Ooh!' she said. 'Now who's this?'

Her soft Scots accent made a gift of the words.

'It's me,' said Ann, 'Ann. Tom and Phyll's daughter. You remember.'

'Of course it is,' said Nana. 'Tom and Phyll's daughter. You're Ann. I can see that. And here you are. Ann.'

She smiled and took Ann's hand in both of hers.

'Come and sit down, ma' hen.'

I moved to find a chair – an ordinary dining chair for Ann and set it down close enough to Nana so that Ann could sit down without letting go her hand.

'You're Ann. Tom and Phyll's daughter. Yes. Ann. And here you are.'

'Nana, I want you to meet someone.'

'Oh yes, dear.'

'This is Chris.' Ann looked up at me and took my hand.

'Chris,' said Nana. 'Oh yes, Chris. My, he's a handsome young fellow, isn't he? Chris.'

'We're engaged,' said Ann. 'I wanted you to meet him.'

'Oh,' said Nana, 'engaged are you? So he's not for me then?' She twinkled her eyes at me and chuckled to herself, her shoulder lifting up to her ears.

'Nannan,' scolded Ann. 'Don't be naughty!'

'He's a handsome fellow. What did you say his name was?'

'Chris.'

'Chris, yes Chris, that's right. I remember. And you are...?'

'Ann. Tom and Phyll's daughter.'

'That's right.'

'They send their love!'

'Hm?'

'Mum and Dad. They send their love.'

'Oh, no dear, they're dead now.'

'No, no – my mum and dad, Tom and Phyll. They send their love.'

'Oh. Tom and Phyll. Oh, are they here?'

'No they're in Ipswich. Chris and I are just up for the festival.'

'Ipswich? What are they doing in Ipswich?'

'They live there. In Ipswich.'

'Oh I don't think they should do that, dear. Now wait...' She paused to search her thoughts for a moment. 'Ach, it's... no I'll tell you tomorrow.'

'We're staying in your flat, Nana. Chris and I. For the festival... well for a few days.'

'Oh, lovely.'

'You remember your flat. On Leith Walk?'

'Remember. Oh yes, I remember. Who's this young man? Yes, Leith Walk.'

'Chris. He's my fiancé.'

'Oh yes. I remember.' Again she paused with a furrowed brow. 'Och, no... no I'll tell you tomorrow.'

Suddenly her eyes brightened and opened wider.

'Ann,' she said. 'Ann Julie. Your Thomas's daughter.'

'Yes!' said Ann. 'Thomas and Phyllis.'

'Oh how lovely that you've come to see me.'

'I wanted you to meet Chris.'

'Yes, Chris. How lovely.'

She looked at me with grey violet eyes. Took my hand in hers. Her skin was pearlescent, cool and dry under my fingers, wrinkling as I stroked my thumb gently across the back of her hand.  Her age granting me permission for such an intimate act. 

She smelled of peppermints and lavender.

'Ann,' she said. 'I've something for you. Young man, would you go to that table, open the drawer and bring me the box from inside.'

She indicated a small table and I followed her instructions. She opened the box and removed a wrap of white tissue paper.

'Take that, Ann, it's for you. I don't need it any more. I've been keeping it for you.

Ann took the tissue wrap and carefully unfolded the paper.

'There!' cried Phyll. 'There it is!!'

She rushed forward, bent over and pulled the watch from the sandy shingle.

'Oh thank God!!' cried Ann. 'Mummy, Mummy, Mummy! You clever thing!'

prompt - tried but not tested

tried but not tested

start here, it says

against a chalk line

on the new ash black pavement

start here, it says

here feet pixelate

on newly laid asphalt

footprints stick

and soles pick grit

from tar

start here – humans

drag holes into the pristine surface

while

from the window I

watch a cat

pad stickily

from kerb to gatepost and

unexpectedly held by

clagged

tarry paws

miss the pounce to the stone-topped wall

and scat-scrabble away under the hedge

Prompt: - In the beginning, there was Kevin

I've recently joined a writing group called Electric Tomatoes.

Each week there is a warm up prompt - to which we write for ten minutes or so and then share.  Then a main prompt, for a longer write - about an hour.  This week's main prompt was as the title of the post - In the beginning there was Kevin.  This is what I wrote:

In the beginning it was the way the sun rose behind the mountains.

I watch the horizon as the sky brightens. You can smell the changes of light. The curlews call more at this time of day too. You can hear them across the water. Maybe they call all day but it is the mornings when I hear them most. Me, down on the foreshore with my first cup. Sipping black heat into the morning fug in my head. Caffeine coursing through my thin limbs.

Yes that's what attracted me to the place first – the sunrise. Although...

Well, no, of course it wasn't really because I wouldn't have known about the sunrise if I hadn't been here already anyway. So I suppose to be most truthful – and God knows I've learned that I need to be truthful – to be most truthful I was first attracted to the place because it was cheap. The only one I could afford actually so the choice was made for me.

God knows I did not expect to be spending Dad's inheritance convalescing. But thank God it was there. That sounds awful doesn't it? Like I'm saying 'Thank God Dad's dead.' And of course I don't mean that. I miss him every day. Every day. Sometimes it seems it's getting worse – the missing him.

I still hear him behind me sometimes. When I'm in the kitchen usually – at home that is, not here. I haven't heard him here. But at home, and the house is quiet he comes into the kitchen while I'm washing up and just stands there. I don't turn around because I know he isn't there really – and I like the feeling. It's comforting.

So yes it was the cheapness of the place that first attracted me. Because to be honest, the brochure listing didn't do it any favours. Really they just needed a photo of this sunrise over the lough to sell it.

And of course it wasn't really choosing this place that was the start of it. You have to go back a bit further – before Dad had died really. Back to my diagnosis. Dad had been brilliant of course, running me back and forth. He knew the score by then. Knew the route in his sleep. But Mum's had been so short – we were still shocked that she was ill at all when she passed. And I suppose it was that shock that hit me so hard. Was I going to go as quickly?

So I suppose, looking back, you'd have to say it was Mum's illness that triggered it all. My... well my 'wobbly' as I like to call it.

She'd have loved this place. Mum.

We used to come to Ireland when we were kids. Not here but South – Kerry.

'We're going home!' she'd say, 'and I'll hear no complaints!'

Of course we did complain.

'Awh, Mum! Not again! There's never anything to do!'

'There's plenty to do,' she says 'you know you love it when we get there!'

'No we don't!'

Looking back, Trish was the loudest. She was older. Always looking for something more.

'Why can't we go where there are people!' she said. By which she meant boys of course.

'You'll have quite enough to do with 'people' when you're older, young lady!' said Mum.

I still think that sending Trish to the Convent to school was perhaps what actually started the 'problems' with 'people' that seemed to punctuate her life after that. Still do, as it goes.

'God you'll be the death of me, young lady,' Mum said once after the third visit to the school.

So maybe that was when it started. Back then.

Dad couldn't handle her at all – not in those wild years. She would be at it with Mum, rowing in the kitchen, and he'd be sat at the table in the dining room,with his hook box, listening – taking it all in while he finished his fly hooks – damsel, mayfly.

'They don't look like flies to me,' I told him.

'But if you're a trout,' he says, 'Down there looking up into the bright sun through the water and this plops onto the surface, then away, then back again, then away. Then when it comes back yet again, then, my boy, then you'd snap at it with your murderous, hungry jaws. Believe me, you'd think that all your birthdays... believe me! You come with me!' he said, 'next time, you come. You'll see.'

'Hmm'

I never went.

He'd have loved this place. Especially up by the beck.

You'd have loved it here, Dad.

So he'd sit there taking it all in and then there'd be a pause and he'd casually drop something in. Like a stone in a well.

'But Nan – I think you're being a bit harsh, darling. Look, how about if I go and get her afterwards, you know. Or we could like set a time – ten o'clock or something. How would that be?'

That was the stone.

It falls silently. Stones do.

They only make a noise when they land.

This well was deep.

The stone fell through the dark silence until...

It hit.

But not water – glass – panes of glass wedged into the walls. So that one by one the stone smashed through them – shattering them into the most violent, cacophonous explosion of Irish expletives ever listed. Counterpointed with shrieks of horror and disgust from my sister, as my father's attempts to cauterise the wounds my mother had inflicted upon her proved more painful than the wounds themselves.

'Shut yer feckin' mouth, you feckin' eejit! I not having no daughter of mine out all night with that good-for-nothing excuse for a lump of shite!' bawled the mother.

Backed by Trish's 'Oh my God, no way are you coming to get me! God I'd rather stay here and dag my eyes with knitting needles than have you come and get me. At ten o'clock. For fuck sake, I'm not six!'

'Don't talk to your feckin' father like that. How feckin' dare you speak to him like that. You'll get to your room this instant, young lady, and you'll stay there till you've learned some feckin' manners!'

But Trish was already out the door and slamming her feet on the treads of the stairs.

'You're fucking bastards and I hate you. Both!'

So was it then that the trouble started? I don't think so. She was young.

She'd hate this place.

'There are no fucking shops!'

No! There are no shops! There's this amazing sunrise. There's the tide coming in up the lough. The seals drifting up with the current and then just bottling heads up, checking me out on the shingle.

No there are no shops. No fucking shops!

And yet there was something about him that made her crazy. She was never like it with her other boyfriends. But this one was a screwball – kicking against everything.

I hated him. He treated me like an ally. I hated it.

He'd drop Trish home and she'd be off rowing with Mum in the kitchen. He'd come up to my room, me in bed. He'd sit on the chest of drawers.

'Hey kidder, you awake. Kidder?'

'Wha?...'

'Fuck!  You should have seen the new barmaid at the Nag's... All tits and teeth. You could open a beer bottle in her ass!'

He sits on the chest of drawers.  Farts.

'Fuckin' hell, mate! I think that one left a mark!'

He strikes a match to burn away the noxious gas.

Yes. Maybe it was him, that started all the trouble.

Yes .

Kevin.

Edinburgh Mug - a true story

So I stop the van on Newington Road in an easy parking space.

Viv jumps out and so do I – I nip round the front of the van to the ticket mahine to buy a ticket.

“Hang on we can only stop an hour,” I say.

“Well that's not enough,” she says. “You don't want to have to find somewhere else in an hour. Let's find a better one now.”

“Oh ok.”

I nip round the back of the van to go back to the driver's side and just as I do I see a guy walking fast past the front of the van. What's more I remember I just heard a click like the van door being shut. But it's not shut properly and when I open it and start to get in I see my coat's been disturbed on the seat. It was neatly piled up and now it's spread all over.

I put two and two together and stick my hand in the inside pocket of my coat. It's gone. My wallet. It's not there.

Viv's still on the pavement starting to get into the van.

“Damn!” I say, “he's nicked it.”

“What? Who? What?” says Viv. She hasn't seen anything.

“My wallet.  That guy who just went past must've nicked.”

“Who!?”

“That guy,” he's just disappearing round the corner of the side street a little way down the road.

“Fuck!” says Viv. She gets back out of the van and starts to run down the road but she can't see him.

“Round the corner,” I say, indicating with my hand. Meanwhile I've started the van and am pulling out into the traffic.

I get to the corner.  It's no entry - a one-way street but I turn into it anyway.  Viv has already gone around and is a little way up. There's the guy just rushing off as I pull the van up again.

But it seems she's not pursuing and as I stop the van she holds out my wallet.

“Fuck!” I say.

She opens the passenger door and hands me the wallet. She's shaking. I'm shaking.

“Fuck!” she says.  "I'm shaking!"

“Fuck, I know right,” I say.  "Me too!"

“Check it's all there,” she says, like she's ready to go after him again if it's not.

I flick through. There's nothing missing.

“Was there money in it?” she says.

“No,” I say. “Fuck!”

“I came up and he was just there standing in the entrance here by that car. I wasn't sure it was him but he was just standing looking at something in his hands and I came up and stared at him and he just said 'Sorry, sorry, sorry!' and chucked it on the ground and ran off.

“Fuck,” I say, “Thank fuck for that!”

“He was more scared than I was.”

“You were amazing! Thank you! God I'm still shaking!”

“Me, too,” she says. “But... oh I don't know.”

“What?”

“I don't know... but I feel bad for him.... I want to give him a fiver.”

"What!?"

Then we sit in the van and work out how things could have gone so much worse!

Slug and Chicken

So it was Paul Brake and me and Dom playing in the front garden and Eric Gowrie comes down the road. He doesn't live near our house, so he must have come specially.

Paul Brake and me and Dom are playing football across the garden even though the road is just there. But Dad's out.

“Hi,” says Eric Gowrie.

But Paul Brake doesn't look at him.

Eric Gowrie is from Singapore. He has shiny black hair that falls across his forehead like a curtain. His skin is like the colour of Toffoes.  He has pointed eyes.

“What?” says Paul Brake.

“How are you today?” says Eric Gowrie, really politely. He's talking to all of us but me and Dom know that Paul Brake has to answer.

Paul Brake doesn't know Eric Gowrie. Paul Brake doesn't know that me and Dom do know Eric Gowrie. Eric Gowrie goes to our Church. Yesterday at Mass, Father Macaffrey talked about love thy neighbour. Mr Seymour used to live next door to us. He was friendly and nice - but I didn't love him. Then he had his leg off. And then he died.

“What's it to you?” says Paul Brake.

Paul Brake is big. Me and Dom fit in behind him. Paul Brake is looking at the ground.

“Do you like slugs?” says Paul Brake to Eric. He still doesn't look at him.

“I don't mind them,” says Eric.

“Come here then,” says Paul Brake.

“What?” says Eric.

“I said 'Come here, then', didn't I?”

Eric Gowrie opens the gate and comes here. He steps up the steps and onto the grass.

Paul Brake is bending over and picking something up off the ground.

It's a slug.  Quite a big one.  It's brown.

“Come here,” he says to Eric.

“What?” says Eric.

“I said 'Come here', didn't I?” Paul Brake holds the slug on his flat fingers.  It has pulled in its horns.  It's like a slimy blob.

“Kiss it,” he says.

“What?” says Eric.

“You like slugs? Then kiss it.”

Eric looks at Paul Brake.

Eric looks at me and Dom.

Dom and I look at each other. I've got my hands in my pockets and I nudge my willy because I suddenly need to wee. I see Dom's eyes look over to Eric and then to Paul Brake and then back to Eric again.

Paul Brake is just staring at Eric.

I think how horrible it would be to have to kiss a slug. My wee doesn't want to go away so I cross my knees a bit to keep it in.

“No,” says Eric.

“What?” says Paul Brake.

“I don't want to kiss it.”

“Are you chicken?” says Paul Brake. “Kiss it!”

Paul Brake holds the slug right up close to Eric's mouth.

Eric just stands absolutely still looking at Paul Brake.

I think Paul Brake is going to push the slug onto Eric's mouth. I look at Dom. But Dom is looking at Paul Brake. Paul Brake doesn't push the slug onto Eric's mouth but he steers his hand around the side of Eric's face and slowly presses the slug onto Eric's cheek.

Eric stands absolutely still. Still.

Paul Brake slowly takes his hand down again but the slug stays stuck to Eric's cheek for a moment.

Then it falls off onto the ground. There is a little slimy wet patch on Eric's cheek where the slug was.

Suddenly me and Dom hear Mum shout from the kitchen.

“It's teatime,” says Dom.

“We have to go in,” I say, “it's our teatime.”

“See you tomorrow,” says Paul Brake.

“Yes,” says Dom, “see you tomorrow.”

“Bye, Eric,” I say. “ Bye, Paul.”

“Yeah, bye,” says Paul Brake.

Eric doesn't say anything.

At tea, Mum says, “Did you have a good game?”

“It was all right,” says Dom.

“Eric Gowrie came round,” I say. Dom looks at me really hard.

“Oh did he?” says Mum. “Did he want to play?”

“No. Not really,” I say.

Dom looks at me.

I look at Dom.

“Can I have another cake, Mum?” I say.

I cut the grass today - 14th July, 2016

I, like so many, have been deeply affected by the horrific attack in #‎Nice‬ - the tragic loss of life - the shock and terror suffered by those people must have been awful. I myself am preparing to go on holiday today it seemed so trivial and in appropriate and this poem occurred to me as I did so. It is an imagined poem but it is offered out of respect for the dead and injured.

in memoriam

I cut the grass today

in anticipation of our holiday.

The stems bent before the blades.

I do not weep for grass -

there is satisfaction in a job

complete,

pleasure

in that moment of return

when looking out

from the kitchen window,

as the cold tap runs to drinkable

and the fridge shudders to life again,

to see the recovered lawn

once more needing

to be cut.

So I cut the grass today,

and as I do

you

text from France to say

that this is the best holiday

and that this evening you will go to see

the firework display -

Quatorze Juillet.

How nice, I say

and I picture you

in your holiday best -

cool sandals, shorts,

flowered shirt open over string vest -

as you promenade

des anglais

the English way

to take the air

and view the sea.

I zig and zag the grass

with the mower

buzzing through summer weeds

clattering unsuspecting stones

and insects.

You,

in my mind's eye

your child in arms

your lover's hand in yours

I watch

grass bending

before the blades.

Changing Schools

The car grinds gravel

as it swerves around the Virgin Mary.

It stops in front of the gates:

the car park – puddles and pebbles.

The woman gets out of the passenger’s side

and opens the back door.

"Come on, now," she coos.

"It'll be fine."

One by one,

three children slide across the back seat

and out onto the stony ground.

They huddle round the parent –

ducklings in an elastic bubble –

sheltering in her shadow.

She shepherds them through the gate

and into the asphalt playground.

Three children

in the wrong uniform

cling to her coat

as she scans for a teacher.

A large female

with huge hands

spies her and crosses towards them.

They talk adult

for a moment

before the female

switches to child

her voice simpers

and modulates 

as she invites the three

to go and play on the bars

until play is over.

They move inertly

and stand near the bars

while the mother

weaves out of the playground

issuing smiles, like seeds, to other children,

as if sowing protection for her own.

She waves a quiet goodbye,

climbs back into the car and

leaves.

A flock of watching infants

has gathered.

They have seen the car pull away

and now

turn

their attention.

The three circle their wagons

and eye each other hopelessly

as the silent tears come.