This is an edited version of a story that I wrote for a Leeds Savages writers meet with the theme of 'winning', and the second story that I've based in the imaginary English village of Winfordshire.
JUDGEMENT DAY
It started with a marrow. With the girth of a tree and weight of a child, Teddy Ward’s pride and joy was certainly not the bog-standard squash you might pick up at your local greengrocer. This beast was far beyond the capacity of a shopping-basket, with two sweating flat-capped gentlemen and a large metal wheelbarrow employed in order to transport it to Winfordshire village green for judging. Young Eric Marmaduke had never seen such a thing before, but from the moment he first laid eyes on Teddy’s glorious green triumph he knew that he wanted in. Over the next few years he learned from the master everything there was to know about cultivating giant vegetables. When Teddy passed away everyone, Eric included, assumed that the lad would step into his shoes and win a clean sweep of rosettes at the next village fete. It was therefore a huge disappointment when he failed to cultivate anything greater than a distinctly average 18 incher the following summer, and saw the honour he had always dreamed of being his bestowed on smugly grinning Frank Porter.
As the years passed Eric became a husband and father but never faltered in his devotion to the giant veg cause. Mrs Marmaduke always said size isn’t everything, to which Eric would scoff “What? Of course bigger is better!” She would also tell the girls that winning isn’t important as it’s taking part that counts; this provoked indignant huffing from her husband who would respond that only losers could speak and believe such ridiculous sentiments. At the time Eric had accused Maureen of not taking his passion seriously, but looking back he realised she had only said these things in the hope that she could protect him from the disappointment that would inevitably hang over him like a dark, thunderous cloud for the months between judging and planting season. Now that she was gone, Eric decided to have one more stab at glory in her honour before hanging up his gardening gloves forever.
The spring weather had provided perfect growing conditions and Eric was optimistic that after fifty years of failure this would be the summer that he would steal the Vegetable crown from Frank’s bald head. He had always wondered what was the secret of Frank’s success but would never stoop as low as to actually ask his advice. There were countless rumours circulating including speculation that he watered his marrows with single malt whiskey and would play the mandolin to his tomatoes for hours on end. Eric had tested these methods, albeit on a slightly tighter budget with Best-Buy Brandy and a cassette recording of Cher, but to no avail. Eric’s vegetables were larger than most, but nothing compared to Frank’s progeny. With only a week to go before the Fete, Eric surveyed the allotment with tears in his eyes. Since Maureen had died he had kept himself going by imagining ascending the podium and dedicating a prize to his wife, but it was becoming clear that that was never going to happen - he would be lucky to scrape a bronze, let alone the coveted best in show. Frustrated, he kicked the marrows, tore down the creeping runner bean vines and threw handful after handful of tomatoes and strawberries at the greenhouse.
When Eric’s youngest daughter turned up at the allotment intending to catch the sun for a few hours along-side her Dad she was shocked to find him sat on the ground surrounded by a scene of vegetable carnage. Initially she thought that it must have been the work of vandals, but as she moved closer the stains all over his clothes and skin revealed the truth. Claire took his hand and gently helped him to his feet. “Let’s get you home. I think what you need is a nice cup of tea. Don’t worry, I’ll tidy up later.”
A week passed and Eric did not return to the allotment. As far as he was concerned, his life’s work was over - he’d had enough, and after years of labour his knees were knackered anyhow. It was time to put horticulture behind him and spend some quality time with his family. It was what Maureen would have wanted.
The day of the fete came around and Eric had no intention of leaving the house let alone going to watch Frank Porter gloat once again. It came as a surprise therefore when all three daughters turned up on his doorstep along with his four grandchildren demanding that he accompany them to the village green.
“Come on Dad, you’ll enjoy it;” Claire pleaded.
Reluctantly Eric pulled on socks and shoes. “Can’t we just go down by the river instead? You were never interested in the fete before, why the sudden change?”
“You’ll see;” Claire replied.
As the family strolled across the green a loudspeaker crackled to life.
“Great, sounds like we’re just in time for the judging;” his eldest, Susan, squealed enthusiastically.
“Brilliant” he mumbled in sullen reply as they took their place in front of the stage where the Mayor stood in full regalia.
“Today is a very special day for Winfordshire;” the Mayor began. “As you’ll know there is always a very high standard of entries here, but this is the first year that a villager has won seven gold medals in a single year, crushing the record of five previously held by Frank Porter. Mr Eric Marmaduke has for many years been growing fruit and vegetables, but little did we know just how wonderful they tasted. I am delighted to present Mr Marmaduke with the Best in Show award for his Marrow Cake – so moist, I’ll certainly be asking for the recipe! Mr Marmaduke has also won gold medals for his chutney, jam, carrot scones, tomato juice and berry pie, along with the photography prize for a most unusual image entitled Allotment Massacre at Sunset. Please put your hands together as Mr Marmaduke makes his way to the stage.”
Eric looked around at the smiling, appreciative faces of his family and felt on top of the world, ascending to an even higher state of nirvana when he saw Frank Porter’s ruddy face scowling at him.
“Go Grandad” urged his grandson. “Get your prize.”
As Eric ascended the steps he imagined this must have been how Bobby Moore felt when he lifted the World Cup back in 66. Having spent his entire adult life trying to grow obscenely large vegetables, it had never once crossed his mind to actually taste the things – he’d always been more a meat and potatoes man.
“Thanks, thanks;” he stuttered. “I’d like to dedicate my awards to the memory of my wife Maureen, the most wonderful woman in the world. And to three equally wonderful ladies, my beautiful daughters who I’m proud to have with me today.” He looked from one beaming smile to the next before winking at Claire.
“Thank you girls. I couldn’t have done this without you.”
Thursday, 1 July 2010
Thursday, 24 June 2010
Elvis....
I haven't had time to write much over the past couple of weeks - have had numerous musical rehearsals and performances, been to the theatre to see Hairspray (great fun!) and been generally busy, though am promising myself that i'll get pen to paper for a few hours this weekend....
Here's a poem I wrote for the most recent Leeds Savages (http://www.leedssavage.com/) writing group; the task was to write something about or inspired by Elvis, and I decided to write a light poem featuring the titles of twenty of 'The King's' singles....
ELVIS
'I wish' she cried, 'you were more like Elvis
With those twinkly eyes and that exquisite pelvis
The way he moved got me 'all shook up', from my heart down to my thighs,
As I’d sigh and swoon to each sex soaked tune, Ma called him the 'devil in disguise'
I wonder if she knew that when I kissed my 'teddy bear'
I was dreaming of stroking those skin-tight jeans and running my fingers through his hair
But darling, those muddy trainers, well they’re hardly ‘blue suede shoes’
And that sorry attempt at a goatee beard I find quite hard to excuse
That awful shirt that you somehow adore I’d like to ‘return to sender’
You used to have taste, where did it all go wrong? And you used to be so slender....
I miss that hunk of ‘burning love’, I don’t want us to go our ‘separate ways’
But sometimes I wonder if you’re still that boy whose heart I set ablaze.
So if you really ‘love me’, if you want us to stay together,
Then baby show me a ‘good rockin’ tonight’, I swear ‘its now or never’.
He looked at her and gave a smile
‘I’m sorry I can’t compete with Mr Presley’s style
But from the first day that I met you, you were ‘always on my mind’
You set alight my ‘wooden heart’, put my lonesome days behind
I followed you round like a ‘hound dog’, all panting tongue and wagging tail
And at night would pen you ‘love letters’ that I would never ever mail
I hoped for a ‘little less conversation’ when we went on our first date
But you were always a ‘hard headed woman’ and you made this ‘poor boy’ wait
There was 'crying in the chapel' on the day that we were wed
All I could think of was the 'wonder of you' and how I couldn't wait to get you to bed.
But if you no longer 'love me tender', if I fail to give you thrills,
Then I'll put on a sparkly jumpsuit, knock back some pies and prescription pills
I'll be surrounded by girls less than half my age, they'd sell their souls just to hear me sing
But have no fear, for you, my dear, are the only one who’ll ever rock this King.’
Here's a poem I wrote for the most recent Leeds Savages (http://www.leedssavage.com/) writing group; the task was to write something about or inspired by Elvis, and I decided to write a light poem featuring the titles of twenty of 'The King's' singles....
ELVIS
'I wish' she cried, 'you were more like Elvis
With those twinkly eyes and that exquisite pelvis
The way he moved got me 'all shook up', from my heart down to my thighs,
As I’d sigh and swoon to each sex soaked tune, Ma called him the 'devil in disguise'
I wonder if she knew that when I kissed my 'teddy bear'
I was dreaming of stroking those skin-tight jeans and running my fingers through his hair
But darling, those muddy trainers, well they’re hardly ‘blue suede shoes’
And that sorry attempt at a goatee beard I find quite hard to excuse
That awful shirt that you somehow adore I’d like to ‘return to sender’
You used to have taste, where did it all go wrong? And you used to be so slender....
I miss that hunk of ‘burning love’, I don’t want us to go our ‘separate ways’
But sometimes I wonder if you’re still that boy whose heart I set ablaze.
So if you really ‘love me’, if you want us to stay together,
Then baby show me a ‘good rockin’ tonight’, I swear ‘its now or never’.
He looked at her and gave a smile
‘I’m sorry I can’t compete with Mr Presley’s style
But from the first day that I met you, you were ‘always on my mind’
You set alight my ‘wooden heart’, put my lonesome days behind
I followed you round like a ‘hound dog’, all panting tongue and wagging tail
And at night would pen you ‘love letters’ that I would never ever mail
I hoped for a ‘little less conversation’ when we went on our first date
But you were always a ‘hard headed woman’ and you made this ‘poor boy’ wait
There was 'crying in the chapel' on the day that we were wed
All I could think of was the 'wonder of you' and how I couldn't wait to get you to bed.
But if you no longer 'love me tender', if I fail to give you thrills,
Then I'll put on a sparkly jumpsuit, knock back some pies and prescription pills
I'll be surrounded by girls less than half my age, they'd sell their souls just to hear me sing
But have no fear, for you, my dear, are the only one who’ll ever rock this King.’
Thursday, 10 June 2010
The Final Whistle #fridayflash
This is a quick little story / sketch that I wrote in front of one of the very very many tenuously football related programmes currently clogging up the television schedules (A footballers wives edition of Come Dine With Me to be precise!) in honour of the FIFA World Cup, which kicks off today.
FINAL WHISTLE
Come on come on come on come on, that's more like it, yes! NO!
You idiot, what the hell was that? Come on lad, get the ball, come on,
that's more like it, YES! What? Call that a foul, you blind fool?
Get your eyes tested mate! Oh no oh no oh no I can't bear to watch oh no no
NO!
Darling, I think we need to talk....
What, now? Can't you see I'm watching the game?
Now be a love a fetch me a beer....
Oh christ these Argies are going to be the death of me,
one nil, ten minutes down and already one nil,
PULL YOURSELVES TOGETHER LADS!
Come on boys come on you can turn this around; that's better,
a bit of aggression lads, give them a taste of their own medicine.
Yes, yes, that's it, that's it, push it, push, COME ON!
I'm seeing someone else.
What? Don't be stupid.
It'll all be over by 9.30 and then you can watch your soaps.
OH FOR GOD'S SAKE! How did he miss that?
My nan could have scored there, you overpaid waste of space.
Come on now, come on, that's it, that's it, I've got a good feeling here,
this is it, this is it, yes, yes, yes, YES,
GOOOOOOOAL!!!
What a beauty, oh yes, get in!
His name's Edward. I met him at Pilates.
Yeah right, as if any straight man would be seen dead at pilates.
Did you see that goal? An absolute beauty, here , watch the replay,
d'you see that? ENG-ER-LAND!!!!!
Yes I saw. Great.
A load of millionaires running around like overgrown schoolboys.
Somehow I doubt those big busted models are with them for their admirable ball skills.
Now, do you want to see something?
Look at this picture, yes, that one on my facebook profile.
You didn't know I was on facebook?
You really don't know that much about me at all, do you.
Stop with the attention seeking, look it's almost half time,
we can have a chat at half time,
I'll even get you a cuppa.
COME ON ENGLAND!
EN-GER-LAND!!!
We'll talk at half time, you say?
Well i'm sorry, but I'm not putting up with this anymore.
As far as we're concerned it's full time.
We're over.
What? Oh my god, my god look at this, can they, can they, oh my god,
yes, yes, yes they can! Two one to EN-GER-LAND!
GOOOOOAAAL!
Right that's it I'm off, I'm going to Edward’s.
Don't bother calling me, I'll be too busy having hot, sweaty sex to answer.
Ok, right, be seeing you then. Two one, my god, we really might do this.
ENG-ER-LAND! EN-GER-LAND!!!
She had been all well and good when it came to cooking, cleaning and bedroom services, but there were no doubt other women out there who'd be able to fill that void when takeaways, squalor and porn became too much. The world cup final though - this could be a once in a lifetime opportunity. He knew without a doubt that when that final whistle blew he would be experiencing either the greatest ecstasy or loss of his life.
His wedding really had been pale in comparison.
Up against the true love he felt for those eleven men, that white shirt and St George's proudly flying flag, Frank’s wife of ten years was never going to compete. Women can come and go but football – ah, football!
Football is forever.
FINAL WHISTLE
Come on come on come on come on, that's more like it, yes! NO!
You idiot, what the hell was that? Come on lad, get the ball, come on,
that's more like it, YES! What? Call that a foul, you blind fool?
Get your eyes tested mate! Oh no oh no oh no I can't bear to watch oh no no
NO!
Darling, I think we need to talk....
What, now? Can't you see I'm watching the game?
Now be a love a fetch me a beer....
Oh christ these Argies are going to be the death of me,
one nil, ten minutes down and already one nil,
PULL YOURSELVES TOGETHER LADS!
Come on boys come on you can turn this around; that's better,
a bit of aggression lads, give them a taste of their own medicine.
Yes, yes, that's it, that's it, push it, push, COME ON!
I'm seeing someone else.
What? Don't be stupid.
It'll all be over by 9.30 and then you can watch your soaps.
OH FOR GOD'S SAKE! How did he miss that?
My nan could have scored there, you overpaid waste of space.
Come on now, come on, that's it, that's it, I've got a good feeling here,
this is it, this is it, yes, yes, yes, YES,
GOOOOOOOAL!!!
What a beauty, oh yes, get in!
His name's Edward. I met him at Pilates.
Yeah right, as if any straight man would be seen dead at pilates.
Did you see that goal? An absolute beauty, here , watch the replay,
d'you see that? ENG-ER-LAND!!!!!
Yes I saw. Great.
A load of millionaires running around like overgrown schoolboys.
Somehow I doubt those big busted models are with them for their admirable ball skills.
Now, do you want to see something?
Look at this picture, yes, that one on my facebook profile.
You didn't know I was on facebook?
You really don't know that much about me at all, do you.
Stop with the attention seeking, look it's almost half time,
we can have a chat at half time,
I'll even get you a cuppa.
COME ON ENGLAND!
EN-GER-LAND!!!
We'll talk at half time, you say?
Well i'm sorry, but I'm not putting up with this anymore.
As far as we're concerned it's full time.
We're over.
What? Oh my god, my god look at this, can they, can they, oh my god,
yes, yes, yes they can! Two one to EN-GER-LAND!
GOOOOOAAAL!
Right that's it I'm off, I'm going to Edward’s.
Don't bother calling me, I'll be too busy having hot, sweaty sex to answer.
Ok, right, be seeing you then. Two one, my god, we really might do this.
ENG-ER-LAND! EN-GER-LAND!!!
She had been all well and good when it came to cooking, cleaning and bedroom services, but there were no doubt other women out there who'd be able to fill that void when takeaways, squalor and porn became too much. The world cup final though - this could be a once in a lifetime opportunity. He knew without a doubt that when that final whistle blew he would be experiencing either the greatest ecstasy or loss of his life.
His wedding really had been pale in comparison.
Up against the true love he felt for those eleven men, that white shirt and St George's proudly flying flag, Frank’s wife of ten years was never going to compete. Women can come and go but football – ah, football!
Football is forever.
Thursday, 3 June 2010
'On the Town' - #fridayflash
ON THE TOWN
There came a point in my late twenties when staying out until the small hours of the morning in some sticky floored dive lost its appeal. Who, after all, would subject themselves to that once they’d discovered the joys of imbibing a nice pint of ale in an establishment where the barman knows you by name, where you can hear yourself speak and where you can stay until closing time yet still be tucked up in bed by 11.30? Not me. Yet there I was, pushing forty and queuing outside Aladdin’s, the best and only club in town, surrounded by teenage girls who could legitimately have been my daughter. With the young guys dressed casually in trainers, jeans and t-shirts, we, in pressed shirts and shiny shoes, felt hopelessly out of place.
The fish-out-of-water sensation continued further inside. The last time I had been to a club the playlist had consisted of cheesy pop concluding with a failsafe bit of Bryan Adams just in case you hadn’t yet managed to pull, but from the second we entered it was safe to say that Bryan would not be featuring in DJ Hacksaw’s set. I couldn’t see the appeal of the supposed ‘music’ that had substituted a recognisable melody with a looped sample of what sounded like nails being dragged down a chalkboard. The screeching noise seemed however to fit perfectly with the mood of my fellow revellers who were writhing ecstatically as if possessed by the dissonant sounds.
“Hey mate, having a good time?” Barry from accounts shouted over the racket. I nodded politely, though in reality was questioning why he had chosen here of all places to spend his last night before leaving the country. I hoped for Barry’s sake that Sydney would provide a better class of women than the scrawny chavs he was currently working the Barry magic on. We'd never really been friends but given that all of the other lads had agreed to attend his leaving do I’d figured it would have been a bit lame to say no. I got the impression that most of them had come because they wanted an excuse for a night on the tiles away from the wife and kids rather than through any sense of loyalty towards the colleague we’d always referred to as Fat Barry.
Barry pulled me aside and fished from his pocket a couple of tiny white tablets. “Fancy some?”
Surprised at the offer, I shook my head. “No thanks. I don't do drugs.”
“Lighten up, these are herbal, they’ll give you a rush but they’re completely legal. Everyone else has had some already”. He gestured to the rest of the group who were attempting to ‘throw some shapes’ much to the amusement of a group of giggling girls. Given the pounding bass I couldn’t make out whether the words the women were shouting were encouragement, verbal abuse or a combination of the both.
Barry pressed two pills printed with the image of a leaf to my palm. “Come on mate, there’s nothing to worry about. It’s not like I’m offering you crack, it’s all natural.”
Aware that Barry was not going to let me rest until I’d consumed his offering, I reluctantly put the pills onto my tongue and took a big swig of lager.
“Thanks;” I said in what was intended to be a sarcastic tone, the nuances of which were lost on Barry entirely.
“No problem. You can buy my next drink though; they cost a fiver each.”
“A fiver?” I spluttered in disbelief, lager dribbling down my chin. “They’d better be worth it. I could have bought three pints and a kebab for the price of whatever I’ve just washed down my gullet.”
Barry laughed.“Its top drawer stuff. The girls take it all the time.”
“The girls?” Barry pointed in the direction of the women circling my colleagues like hyenas, no doubt attracted by their propensity to buy a cocktail for any female willing to give them the slightest attention rather than their polyester outfits, receding hairlines or the scent of desperation oozing from their pores.
“We’re lucky that Rose was prepared to sell me these. She’s got plenty of regulars who’re going to go without tonight thanks to us.”
“Very lucky indeed;” I mumbled through a mouthful of beer.
I was about to get the next round in when two women grabbed our arms and forcefully dragged us towards the centre of the room.
“Your friends told us to fetch you for a dance.”
This was it, the moment I’d been dreading all night - I was going to have combat years of fear and dance in a public place. I suddenly felt a sense of gratitude for Barry’s pharmaceutical gift; hopefully the promised rush would kick in and I’d experience a magical metamorphosis into Sussex’s equivalent to Travolta.
Awkwardness gave way to a strangely pleasurable sensation as the bass-line vibrated through my body. The screeching music no longer seemed quite as offensive to my ears and I found myself nodding in time.
“Feeling good, mate?” Barry asked. “Told you it was first-rate.”
Barry and I were working on our best robot moves when the rest of the group interrupted our gyrations.
“Some of us aren’t feeling great, we’re going to go for some fresh air;” my colleague Jim announced.
“My guts are all over the place;” another of the guys muttered through clenched teeth.
We made our way to the smoking area and I too started to feel an uncomfortable stirring in my stomach.
“What the hell have you given us?” I asked Barry angrily. “It must be the pills, why else would we all be feeling rough?”
“Not quite all;” he said with a smile. “I feel fine. Mind you, I didn’t take any.”
“What?” the rest of us shouted in unison.
“Think of it as a leaving gift,” he replied. “A little something to remember me by. Do you know what I’ll remember about you guys? I’ll remember all those times that you went for a drink after work without inviting me, all those snide comments behind my back that you thought I couldn’t hear. Don’t act like you’re surprised; I knew all along what you thought of me. Anyway, in return for all those times that you treated me like crap, I thought I’d treat you to a truly crap night out.” He paused and laughed.
“I’d say ‘crap’s a given’ after a double dose of prescription strength laxatives...”
There came a point in my late twenties when staying out until the small hours of the morning in some sticky floored dive lost its appeal. Who, after all, would subject themselves to that once they’d discovered the joys of imbibing a nice pint of ale in an establishment where the barman knows you by name, where you can hear yourself speak and where you can stay until closing time yet still be tucked up in bed by 11.30? Not me. Yet there I was, pushing forty and queuing outside Aladdin’s, the best and only club in town, surrounded by teenage girls who could legitimately have been my daughter. With the young guys dressed casually in trainers, jeans and t-shirts, we, in pressed shirts and shiny shoes, felt hopelessly out of place.
The fish-out-of-water sensation continued further inside. The last time I had been to a club the playlist had consisted of cheesy pop concluding with a failsafe bit of Bryan Adams just in case you hadn’t yet managed to pull, but from the second we entered it was safe to say that Bryan would not be featuring in DJ Hacksaw’s set. I couldn’t see the appeal of the supposed ‘music’ that had substituted a recognisable melody with a looped sample of what sounded like nails being dragged down a chalkboard. The screeching noise seemed however to fit perfectly with the mood of my fellow revellers who were writhing ecstatically as if possessed by the dissonant sounds.
“Hey mate, having a good time?” Barry from accounts shouted over the racket. I nodded politely, though in reality was questioning why he had chosen here of all places to spend his last night before leaving the country. I hoped for Barry’s sake that Sydney would provide a better class of women than the scrawny chavs he was currently working the Barry magic on. We'd never really been friends but given that all of the other lads had agreed to attend his leaving do I’d figured it would have been a bit lame to say no. I got the impression that most of them had come because they wanted an excuse for a night on the tiles away from the wife and kids rather than through any sense of loyalty towards the colleague we’d always referred to as Fat Barry.
Barry pulled me aside and fished from his pocket a couple of tiny white tablets. “Fancy some?”
Surprised at the offer, I shook my head. “No thanks. I don't do drugs.”
“Lighten up, these are herbal, they’ll give you a rush but they’re completely legal. Everyone else has had some already”. He gestured to the rest of the group who were attempting to ‘throw some shapes’ much to the amusement of a group of giggling girls. Given the pounding bass I couldn’t make out whether the words the women were shouting were encouragement, verbal abuse or a combination of the both.
Barry pressed two pills printed with the image of a leaf to my palm. “Come on mate, there’s nothing to worry about. It’s not like I’m offering you crack, it’s all natural.”
Aware that Barry was not going to let me rest until I’d consumed his offering, I reluctantly put the pills onto my tongue and took a big swig of lager.
“Thanks;” I said in what was intended to be a sarcastic tone, the nuances of which were lost on Barry entirely.
“No problem. You can buy my next drink though; they cost a fiver each.”
“A fiver?” I spluttered in disbelief, lager dribbling down my chin. “They’d better be worth it. I could have bought three pints and a kebab for the price of whatever I’ve just washed down my gullet.”
Barry laughed.“Its top drawer stuff. The girls take it all the time.”
“The girls?” Barry pointed in the direction of the women circling my colleagues like hyenas, no doubt attracted by their propensity to buy a cocktail for any female willing to give them the slightest attention rather than their polyester outfits, receding hairlines or the scent of desperation oozing from their pores.
“We’re lucky that Rose was prepared to sell me these. She’s got plenty of regulars who’re going to go without tonight thanks to us.”
“Very lucky indeed;” I mumbled through a mouthful of beer.
I was about to get the next round in when two women grabbed our arms and forcefully dragged us towards the centre of the room.
“Your friends told us to fetch you for a dance.”
This was it, the moment I’d been dreading all night - I was going to have combat years of fear and dance in a public place. I suddenly felt a sense of gratitude for Barry’s pharmaceutical gift; hopefully the promised rush would kick in and I’d experience a magical metamorphosis into Sussex’s equivalent to Travolta.
Awkwardness gave way to a strangely pleasurable sensation as the bass-line vibrated through my body. The screeching music no longer seemed quite as offensive to my ears and I found myself nodding in time.
“Feeling good, mate?” Barry asked. “Told you it was first-rate.”
Barry and I were working on our best robot moves when the rest of the group interrupted our gyrations.
“Some of us aren’t feeling great, we’re going to go for some fresh air;” my colleague Jim announced.
“My guts are all over the place;” another of the guys muttered through clenched teeth.
We made our way to the smoking area and I too started to feel an uncomfortable stirring in my stomach.
“What the hell have you given us?” I asked Barry angrily. “It must be the pills, why else would we all be feeling rough?”
“Not quite all;” he said with a smile. “I feel fine. Mind you, I didn’t take any.”
“What?” the rest of us shouted in unison.
“Think of it as a leaving gift,” he replied. “A little something to remember me by. Do you know what I’ll remember about you guys? I’ll remember all those times that you went for a drink after work without inviting me, all those snide comments behind my back that you thought I couldn’t hear. Don’t act like you’re surprised; I knew all along what you thought of me. Anyway, in return for all those times that you treated me like crap, I thought I’d treat you to a truly crap night out.” He paused and laughed.
“I’d say ‘crap’s a given’ after a double dose of prescription strength laxatives...”
Thursday, 20 May 2010
'Condemned' - short story
Condemned
When it first sprung from the earth like some monstrous concrete giant back in 1963, Regan House was perceived to be a veritable temple of social housing with every contemporary convenience available to those lucky enough to be selected as tenants. By the time five long years later that the council had put the finishing touches on the neighbouring Goneril House, the initial shine had long worn off and the local community had taken to referring to the buildings as ‘The Ugly Sisters’. Almost fifty years down the line The Ugly Sisters were still towering over the town with decrepit menace and the estate that once been envied for its modernity was now considered by many to be a no-go area. The narrow litter-strewn alley between the two blocks was notorious for being the preferred hangout of drug dealers, alcoholics and criminals. Many of these individuals had had unblemished records before they moved into the estate; it was as if the wind that constantly rushed between the buildings mixed the grime of the earth into any soul unfortunate enough to have wandered there.
It was Housing Officer Juliet Kennedy’s first day on the job and as she parked her car against a wall adorned with some creatively scatological graffiti she was already questioning whether she was cut out for this. She’d been delighted when she was told that her application for the post had been successful – having spent three years studying hard at university it had felt like a huge anti-climax when as result of the crippled job market her first post-grad position turned out to be behind the counter at McDonalds. On the day that she shrugged off the polyester uniform and washed the stench of chip fat from her hair for the final time she felt like she was on top of the world; goodbye fast food nightmares, hello world of proper grown-up employment. When she’d been assigned her first task this morning however she had instantly got the feeling that she was being given this responsibility not because her new employers had great faith in her abilities but because no one else wanted to do it. As she walked between the buildings she kept her head down, trying to avoid making eye contact with any of the unsavoury-looking characters loitering there who were staring intently at her, making no efforts whatsoever to mask their collective suspicion for any outsider who dared to venture onto their patch, let alone one carrying a clipboard.
Upon entering the building Juliet could hear the sound of children’s laughter coming from the stairwell which made her feel a little less nervous – surely if the place really was as bad as its reputation no one would let their children out to play? At the first three flats Juliet’s knocks were not answered. She’d been advised by her line manager to not even bothering to try and ring the doorbells as 99% of them would have stopped working years ago. She’d also been told not to be surprised if residents who were clearly at home completely ignored her; the only suited visitors around these parts usually tended to be debt collectors or loan sharks. At the fourth flat Juliet rapped on the door with increasing impatience and was about to move on to the next one when she heard the sound of movement coming from inside. The door slowly creaked open and a frail elderly woman with a heavily lined face and thin grey hair shuffled out.
“Hello love, how can I help you?” she said in a raspy low voice that suggested a heavy long term smoking habit.
“Hello Mrs, um;” Juliet quickly glanced at her clipboard; “Mrs Tybalt. I’m here on behalf of Purfoot Housing Association. You may have noticed over the past few weeks that there have been some men here at Regan House and also over the way at Goneril House who have been performing some checks on the buildings. Unfortunately the results of these checks have come back and we have been informed that the towers do not comply with European health and safety regulations and can no longer be deemed fit for human habitation. As a result we will begin re-housing all residents with immediate effect.”
Much to Juliet’s surprise, the old woman burst out laughing.
“Oh my dear, I could have told you that forty five years ago. After the fire back in ’69 we all knew that this place was a death trap, but having spent so much building the Ugly Sisters they turned a blind eye to it, gave us all a nice new television and told us to keep quiet. I won’t be sad to go, no not at all. But mark my words there are some folks here who really won’t like it. Those girls – well this is the only home that they’ve ever known. They won’t go without a fight.”
“I’m afraid we really do have no other option, Mrs Tybalt;” Juliet replied. “These buildings are scheduled to be demolished by the end of the year. Everyone will be re-housed in the very best property that we have available; I’m sure once they see what we have to offer the residents will all be very happy with the arrangement.”
Mrs Tybalt said nothing but shook her head in disagreement.
“Well, thank you for talking to me today Mrs Tybalt;” Juliet continued. “You should expect to receive a letter through the post within the next two weeks which will provide details of when and where you will be moving to. If in the meantime you have any questions then please feel free to call me on this number.” Juliet rummaged in her pocket and pulled out a business card. “Goodbye”.
“Goodbye dear;” Mrs Tybalt replied. As she stepped back over the threshold of her flat and went to close the door she paused for a second and shouted at Juliet, who was by now on her way to the next flat, “Be careful how you go.”
As Juliet climbed the staircase to the next floor she again heard children’s voices. She couldn’t quite figure out where the noise was coming from but the shouting and screaming made it sound as if they were playing a riotous game. She smiled as she remembered the games that she had enjoyed as a child with her older sister. It was a pity that they had grown apart – when they were young they had been as thick as thieves.
After several hours Juliet had ascended 22 floors and knocked on the doors of all 138 flats in Regan House. Feeling somewhat tired from climbing so many flights of stairs and contending with many confrontational residents, she decided that she would get the lift back down, jump in her car and drive to a nearby cafe to grab a strong coffee and a bite to eat before returning to repeat the same exercise in Goneril House. She pressed the lift button and waited patiently at the top of the stairwell whilst the lift mechanics creakily came to life. As the lift moved up the shaft towards her she could again hear children; two young girls by the sound of things, getting nearer and nearer. When the lift ground to a halt she realised that the girls were inside the lift; so in anticipation of them running out she stepped back.
The doors opened and Juliet was confronted with the shadowy figures of a single girl aged roughly ten years old stood at the back of the badly lit lift. The girl appeared to be wearing what looked like an old fashioned school pinafore and had her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. As the girl stepped forward Juliet suddenly realised that something was very wrong. As the sunlight coming through the window hit the shadow girl’s face Juliet could see that her skin was completely charred and her eyes red with blood. Screaming, Juliet turned to run down the stairs but was confronted by a second, identical girl blocking her path.
“We heard that you are trying to take away our home;” the girl on the stairs said. “We don’t want that, do we Emily?”
The girl from the lift stepped down to stand beside her.
“No we don’t, Mary. My sister and I have been living here for forty years now and we don’t want to leave. They tried to take us away from our home before, back after the fire, but we wouldn’t let them. Do you know what we did?”
Terrified, Juliet shook her head.
“Come on Mary, tell the lady what we did;” Emily continued.
“We pushed her down the stairs;” Mary laughed. “She bounced down there like a ball until she reached the bottom. By then she had stopped bouncing.”
Juliet gasped, remembering the story she had been told about how a council worker had once had a tragic accident in this very building. The woman had apparently slipped on a wet floor, fell down the stairs and broke her neck.
“You’re not real. You can’t be. You must be in my imagination.”
“Oh, we’re real enough;” Emily replied. “Outsiders think that when people talk about the Ugly Sisters they are talking about these two buildings, but the truth is that that name came about because of us. We loved our new home in Regan House so much that when the fire broke out we did not want to leave. Our mother had hated the place so when the flames got her she willingly gave up her soul and moved on to another realm. We didn’t want to go though, which is why we’re still here today. And we still don’t want to leave.”
Juliet could feel her heart beating at breakneck speed and could not calm her shaking.
“Ok then, I’m sorry, I will go now.”
The girls crossed their arms defiantly.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. We know why you’re here. We know you want to knock down our home; we’ve been listening to you all morning. And we don’t like it one bit.”
Plucking up all her strength, Juliet ran towards the girls as quickly as she could manage, swinging her handbag at one and thrusting her clipboard into the face of the other. The girls laughed as Juliet’s flailing limbs went right through their ghostly bodies as she tumbled down the staircase.
From where she lay at the bottom of the stairs, Juliet looked up to see the real Ugly Sisters gliding down towards her.
“We might not be in your imagination, but we’re also not mortal, you dummy. We’re sorry we have to do this, but the council seem to have forgotten what we told them last time they tried to evict us. They need to get the message that we don’t care what those men with hard hats and nasty ideas say. Regan House is going to stand here for another forty years.”
The girls drew nearer until they were stood directly over Juliet’s crumpled body.
“Today, we’re afraid, it’s you that’s condemned.”
When it first sprung from the earth like some monstrous concrete giant back in 1963, Regan House was perceived to be a veritable temple of social housing with every contemporary convenience available to those lucky enough to be selected as tenants. By the time five long years later that the council had put the finishing touches on the neighbouring Goneril House, the initial shine had long worn off and the local community had taken to referring to the buildings as ‘The Ugly Sisters’. Almost fifty years down the line The Ugly Sisters were still towering over the town with decrepit menace and the estate that once been envied for its modernity was now considered by many to be a no-go area. The narrow litter-strewn alley between the two blocks was notorious for being the preferred hangout of drug dealers, alcoholics and criminals. Many of these individuals had had unblemished records before they moved into the estate; it was as if the wind that constantly rushed between the buildings mixed the grime of the earth into any soul unfortunate enough to have wandered there.
It was Housing Officer Juliet Kennedy’s first day on the job and as she parked her car against a wall adorned with some creatively scatological graffiti she was already questioning whether she was cut out for this. She’d been delighted when she was told that her application for the post had been successful – having spent three years studying hard at university it had felt like a huge anti-climax when as result of the crippled job market her first post-grad position turned out to be behind the counter at McDonalds. On the day that she shrugged off the polyester uniform and washed the stench of chip fat from her hair for the final time she felt like she was on top of the world; goodbye fast food nightmares, hello world of proper grown-up employment. When she’d been assigned her first task this morning however she had instantly got the feeling that she was being given this responsibility not because her new employers had great faith in her abilities but because no one else wanted to do it. As she walked between the buildings she kept her head down, trying to avoid making eye contact with any of the unsavoury-looking characters loitering there who were staring intently at her, making no efforts whatsoever to mask their collective suspicion for any outsider who dared to venture onto their patch, let alone one carrying a clipboard.
Upon entering the building Juliet could hear the sound of children’s laughter coming from the stairwell which made her feel a little less nervous – surely if the place really was as bad as its reputation no one would let their children out to play? At the first three flats Juliet’s knocks were not answered. She’d been advised by her line manager to not even bothering to try and ring the doorbells as 99% of them would have stopped working years ago. She’d also been told not to be surprised if residents who were clearly at home completely ignored her; the only suited visitors around these parts usually tended to be debt collectors or loan sharks. At the fourth flat Juliet rapped on the door with increasing impatience and was about to move on to the next one when she heard the sound of movement coming from inside. The door slowly creaked open and a frail elderly woman with a heavily lined face and thin grey hair shuffled out.
“Hello love, how can I help you?” she said in a raspy low voice that suggested a heavy long term smoking habit.
“Hello Mrs, um;” Juliet quickly glanced at her clipboard; “Mrs Tybalt. I’m here on behalf of Purfoot Housing Association. You may have noticed over the past few weeks that there have been some men here at Regan House and also over the way at Goneril House who have been performing some checks on the buildings. Unfortunately the results of these checks have come back and we have been informed that the towers do not comply with European health and safety regulations and can no longer be deemed fit for human habitation. As a result we will begin re-housing all residents with immediate effect.”
Much to Juliet’s surprise, the old woman burst out laughing.
“Oh my dear, I could have told you that forty five years ago. After the fire back in ’69 we all knew that this place was a death trap, but having spent so much building the Ugly Sisters they turned a blind eye to it, gave us all a nice new television and told us to keep quiet. I won’t be sad to go, no not at all. But mark my words there are some folks here who really won’t like it. Those girls – well this is the only home that they’ve ever known. They won’t go without a fight.”
“I’m afraid we really do have no other option, Mrs Tybalt;” Juliet replied. “These buildings are scheduled to be demolished by the end of the year. Everyone will be re-housed in the very best property that we have available; I’m sure once they see what we have to offer the residents will all be very happy with the arrangement.”
Mrs Tybalt said nothing but shook her head in disagreement.
“Well, thank you for talking to me today Mrs Tybalt;” Juliet continued. “You should expect to receive a letter through the post within the next two weeks which will provide details of when and where you will be moving to. If in the meantime you have any questions then please feel free to call me on this number.” Juliet rummaged in her pocket and pulled out a business card. “Goodbye”.
“Goodbye dear;” Mrs Tybalt replied. As she stepped back over the threshold of her flat and went to close the door she paused for a second and shouted at Juliet, who was by now on her way to the next flat, “Be careful how you go.”
As Juliet climbed the staircase to the next floor she again heard children’s voices. She couldn’t quite figure out where the noise was coming from but the shouting and screaming made it sound as if they were playing a riotous game. She smiled as she remembered the games that she had enjoyed as a child with her older sister. It was a pity that they had grown apart – when they were young they had been as thick as thieves.
After several hours Juliet had ascended 22 floors and knocked on the doors of all 138 flats in Regan House. Feeling somewhat tired from climbing so many flights of stairs and contending with many confrontational residents, she decided that she would get the lift back down, jump in her car and drive to a nearby cafe to grab a strong coffee and a bite to eat before returning to repeat the same exercise in Goneril House. She pressed the lift button and waited patiently at the top of the stairwell whilst the lift mechanics creakily came to life. As the lift moved up the shaft towards her she could again hear children; two young girls by the sound of things, getting nearer and nearer. When the lift ground to a halt she realised that the girls were inside the lift; so in anticipation of them running out she stepped back.
The doors opened and Juliet was confronted with the shadowy figures of a single girl aged roughly ten years old stood at the back of the badly lit lift. The girl appeared to be wearing what looked like an old fashioned school pinafore and had her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. As the girl stepped forward Juliet suddenly realised that something was very wrong. As the sunlight coming through the window hit the shadow girl’s face Juliet could see that her skin was completely charred and her eyes red with blood. Screaming, Juliet turned to run down the stairs but was confronted by a second, identical girl blocking her path.
“We heard that you are trying to take away our home;” the girl on the stairs said. “We don’t want that, do we Emily?”
The girl from the lift stepped down to stand beside her.
“No we don’t, Mary. My sister and I have been living here for forty years now and we don’t want to leave. They tried to take us away from our home before, back after the fire, but we wouldn’t let them. Do you know what we did?”
Terrified, Juliet shook her head.
“Come on Mary, tell the lady what we did;” Emily continued.
“We pushed her down the stairs;” Mary laughed. “She bounced down there like a ball until she reached the bottom. By then she had stopped bouncing.”
Juliet gasped, remembering the story she had been told about how a council worker had once had a tragic accident in this very building. The woman had apparently slipped on a wet floor, fell down the stairs and broke her neck.
“You’re not real. You can’t be. You must be in my imagination.”
“Oh, we’re real enough;” Emily replied. “Outsiders think that when people talk about the Ugly Sisters they are talking about these two buildings, but the truth is that that name came about because of us. We loved our new home in Regan House so much that when the fire broke out we did not want to leave. Our mother had hated the place so when the flames got her she willingly gave up her soul and moved on to another realm. We didn’t want to go though, which is why we’re still here today. And we still don’t want to leave.”
Juliet could feel her heart beating at breakneck speed and could not calm her shaking.
“Ok then, I’m sorry, I will go now.”
The girls crossed their arms defiantly.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. We know why you’re here. We know you want to knock down our home; we’ve been listening to you all morning. And we don’t like it one bit.”
Plucking up all her strength, Juliet ran towards the girls as quickly as she could manage, swinging her handbag at one and thrusting her clipboard into the face of the other. The girls laughed as Juliet’s flailing limbs went right through their ghostly bodies as she tumbled down the staircase.
From where she lay at the bottom of the stairs, Juliet looked up to see the real Ugly Sisters gliding down towards her.
“We might not be in your imagination, but we’re also not mortal, you dummy. We’re sorry we have to do this, but the council seem to have forgotten what we told them last time they tried to evict us. They need to get the message that we don’t care what those men with hard hats and nasty ideas say. Regan House is going to stand here for another forty years.”
The girls drew nearer until they were stood directly over Juliet’s crumpled body.
“Today, we’re afraid, it’s you that’s condemned.”
Sunday, 16 May 2010
A Very Savage Affair
Today is an exciting day as it marks the publication of the first Leeds Savages e-book, 'A Very Savage Affair'. The Leeds Savages are a modern day reincarnation of a group of writers, artists, musicians and 'kindred Bohemian spirits' first formed in 1898 and since their re-launch in early 2010 have been coming together to produce and share all kinds of creative works.
The e-book contains....
55 Pages
59 Fabulous pictures
17 Great stories
6 Stupendous Poems
1 Fiendishly hard crossword
and is completely free of charge! I urge anyone and everyone to download it and check out the diverse and original works by some very talented people (plus a couple that I threw together).
Download the e-book NOW at http://leedssavage.com/publications/ - you won't regret it!
The e-book contains....
55 Pages
59 Fabulous pictures
17 Great stories
6 Stupendous Poems
1 Fiendishly hard crossword
and is completely free of charge! I urge anyone and everyone to download it and check out the diverse and original works by some very talented people (plus a couple that I threw together).
Download the e-book NOW at http://leedssavage.com/publications/ - you won't regret it!
Thursday, 13 May 2010
Home #fridayflash
An attempt at something a bit different from me - a story of love and loss...
HOME
Although the sign outside the entrance read ‘Sunningvale Retirement Home’, there was, in my opinion, nothing homely about the place. Home, to me, is a place where you feel comfortable and welcome; where you lay down roots, where history is written. Sunningvale on the other hand seemed not so much a home as a waiting room for those awaiting a vacancy in that eternal abode in the sky. The residents seemed happy enough, content with the sub-school dinner meals and seemingly oblivious to the pervasive smell – an unpalatable combination of over-cooked vegetables, industrial cleaning products and decay. Fellow visitors on the other hand seemed to share my agitation. Although I feel bad for admitting as much, every second I was there was usually spent thinking about how much I wanted to leave.
Some days she would just lie in bed, not even acknowledging I was there. On this day however she was sat upright, chatting animatedly with one of the carers. Although the carer turned and greeted me, she did not stop talking – probably recounting some random story to the poor girl for the thousandth time. If I had a pound for each time I had heard the one about the time she met the Duke of Edinburgh then I’d be able to take early retirement. Not that I’d want to if, as the tagline says, Sunningvale is the best that retirement living has to offer.
I took a seat and started to mentally prepare a shopping list for my weekly shop. Beef, pasta...
"I remember it as if it were yesterday, although these wrinkled hands tell me that it must have been long ago as I was just a girl then.”
....eggs, milk, bread. My train of thought broke as I realised that this wasn’t one of the usual yarns.
“The boy in the graveyard - oh, he was the most perfect thing I had ever seen in my seventeen years! I had noticed boys before, of course, but I'd never experienced such a sensation. When he nodded to me it was as if I was frozen to the spot; I wanted so much to speak to him but I had been struck dumb. I wanted to give myself to him; I had never felt more certain of anything, but before we had the chance to meet again the war came and that boy and the rest of his generation went away. All the time he was gone I thought about him and wondered if he had a girl back home. I wrote dozen of letters that were never mailed; I didn't even know his name, just that he had the most wonderful blue eyes and dark hair, and had been placing lilies on the grave of Mrs Lucille Portman, devoted wife and mother, 1887-1938.
The war ended and the village threw a huge celebration for the lads returning, all bunting, singing and tears. There were tears of joy for the men who had returned, though I dare say that on the inside many of them were very different to the boys they had been when they left. Tears of sorrow too, for those who had not come back and never would. I however didn’t cry at all - how could I possibly explain mourning someone to whom I had never spoken?
Months passed and life continued as usual. Although I was not a regular churchgoer, at Christmas my mother begged me to accompany her to mass. Afterwards, whilst mother was milling around with friends in the congregation, I slipped outside for some air. It was then that I noticed a new marble headstone next to Mrs Lucille Portman, devoted wife and mother, 1887-1938. I moved closer until I could trace with my fingertips the engraved text that read ‘Samuel Portman, beloved son of Edward and Lucille Portman, 1922-1944’. In that instant the dreams that had occupied my every thought for the past five years died. I was a woman now, and had to put my girlish fantasies behind me and get on with my life in much the same way as the thousands of grieving war widows. In a way it was even worse for me though - at least they had known the love of their men; I was left with nothing except the memory of him here, in my heart.”
She leaned closer towards the carer, as if to impart a secret.
“But do you know what? I carry him with me to this day.”
Choked, I rose from the chair. She looked at me with confusion.
“Who are you?”
She hadn’t recognised me for months but the clarity with which she had recounted the story she had kept locked inside for over sixty years had made me hope that today would somehow be different. As tears flooded from me the carer gently took my shaking hand and steered me back to the seat. The old memories, so I’m told, last the longest; it was time to accept that the fifty years that we had shared was probably irretrievably erased from her mind.
“Now, Emily, this is Lucy. Your daughter.”
Her face showed nothing, not a flicker of recognition. I continued regardless.
“Mum, its me. Lucy. I was just thinking, would you like to come home with me tonight? The bed is made up ready.”
She shook her head.
“But it must be lonely, here by yourself;" I persisted. "If you come with me I’ll be there to keep you company, and your grandchildren might even pop by?”
“I’m not by myself, love.” She paused and touched her chest. “Did you not hear me? I’ve got Samuel here. “
At the time I had no inkling that that would be the final time that I would see my mother alive, yet in retrospect its seems as if, having spent her entire life teaching and guiding me, the story she shared that day was actually meant as a final lesson. Before then I’d always dismissed the expression ‘Home is where the heart is’ as nothing more than a mawkish sentiment reserved for tea towels or cushion covers. But home, I now understand, is not four walls, a garden, a picket fence, but the destination towards which my mother’s whole life was headed, when her heart would finally be fulfilled. Under the sycamore tree barely one hundred yards from where Samuel Portman has waited for her for all these years, my mother now sleeps in peace, and I myself find peace knowing that she is home at last.
HOME
Although the sign outside the entrance read ‘Sunningvale Retirement Home’, there was, in my opinion, nothing homely about the place. Home, to me, is a place where you feel comfortable and welcome; where you lay down roots, where history is written. Sunningvale on the other hand seemed not so much a home as a waiting room for those awaiting a vacancy in that eternal abode in the sky. The residents seemed happy enough, content with the sub-school dinner meals and seemingly oblivious to the pervasive smell – an unpalatable combination of over-cooked vegetables, industrial cleaning products and decay. Fellow visitors on the other hand seemed to share my agitation. Although I feel bad for admitting as much, every second I was there was usually spent thinking about how much I wanted to leave.
Some days she would just lie in bed, not even acknowledging I was there. On this day however she was sat upright, chatting animatedly with one of the carers. Although the carer turned and greeted me, she did not stop talking – probably recounting some random story to the poor girl for the thousandth time. If I had a pound for each time I had heard the one about the time she met the Duke of Edinburgh then I’d be able to take early retirement. Not that I’d want to if, as the tagline says, Sunningvale is the best that retirement living has to offer.
I took a seat and started to mentally prepare a shopping list for my weekly shop. Beef, pasta...
"I remember it as if it were yesterday, although these wrinkled hands tell me that it must have been long ago as I was just a girl then.”
....eggs, milk, bread. My train of thought broke as I realised that this wasn’t one of the usual yarns.
“The boy in the graveyard - oh, he was the most perfect thing I had ever seen in my seventeen years! I had noticed boys before, of course, but I'd never experienced such a sensation. When he nodded to me it was as if I was frozen to the spot; I wanted so much to speak to him but I had been struck dumb. I wanted to give myself to him; I had never felt more certain of anything, but before we had the chance to meet again the war came and that boy and the rest of his generation went away. All the time he was gone I thought about him and wondered if he had a girl back home. I wrote dozen of letters that were never mailed; I didn't even know his name, just that he had the most wonderful blue eyes and dark hair, and had been placing lilies on the grave of Mrs Lucille Portman, devoted wife and mother, 1887-1938.
The war ended and the village threw a huge celebration for the lads returning, all bunting, singing and tears. There were tears of joy for the men who had returned, though I dare say that on the inside many of them were very different to the boys they had been when they left. Tears of sorrow too, for those who had not come back and never would. I however didn’t cry at all - how could I possibly explain mourning someone to whom I had never spoken?
Months passed and life continued as usual. Although I was not a regular churchgoer, at Christmas my mother begged me to accompany her to mass. Afterwards, whilst mother was milling around with friends in the congregation, I slipped outside for some air. It was then that I noticed a new marble headstone next to Mrs Lucille Portman, devoted wife and mother, 1887-1938. I moved closer until I could trace with my fingertips the engraved text that read ‘Samuel Portman, beloved son of Edward and Lucille Portman, 1922-1944’. In that instant the dreams that had occupied my every thought for the past five years died. I was a woman now, and had to put my girlish fantasies behind me and get on with my life in much the same way as the thousands of grieving war widows. In a way it was even worse for me though - at least they had known the love of their men; I was left with nothing except the memory of him here, in my heart.”
She leaned closer towards the carer, as if to impart a secret.
“But do you know what? I carry him with me to this day.”
Choked, I rose from the chair. She looked at me with confusion.
“Who are you?”
She hadn’t recognised me for months but the clarity with which she had recounted the story she had kept locked inside for over sixty years had made me hope that today would somehow be different. As tears flooded from me the carer gently took my shaking hand and steered me back to the seat. The old memories, so I’m told, last the longest; it was time to accept that the fifty years that we had shared was probably irretrievably erased from her mind.
“Now, Emily, this is Lucy. Your daughter.”
Her face showed nothing, not a flicker of recognition. I continued regardless.
“Mum, its me. Lucy. I was just thinking, would you like to come home with me tonight? The bed is made up ready.”
She shook her head.
“But it must be lonely, here by yourself;" I persisted. "If you come with me I’ll be there to keep you company, and your grandchildren might even pop by?”
“I’m not by myself, love.” She paused and touched her chest. “Did you not hear me? I’ve got Samuel here. “
At the time I had no inkling that that would be the final time that I would see my mother alive, yet in retrospect its seems as if, having spent her entire life teaching and guiding me, the story she shared that day was actually meant as a final lesson. Before then I’d always dismissed the expression ‘Home is where the heart is’ as nothing more than a mawkish sentiment reserved for tea towels or cushion covers. But home, I now understand, is not four walls, a garden, a picket fence, but the destination towards which my mother’s whole life was headed, when her heart would finally be fulfilled. Under the sycamore tree barely one hundred yards from where Samuel Portman has waited for her for all these years, my mother now sleeps in peace, and I myself find peace knowing that she is home at last.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)