Gran and I fly together after dark. Our sparkling wings streak through the skies like shooting stars, lighting up the night.
‘Girls have secret powers,’ Gran says with that twinkle in her eye. It makes my heart flutter and the magic flow through my veins so fast I tingle all over.
First, we fly to the grave of Gran’s Gran. It’s overgrown and we pluck daisies that have sprung from the earth.
‘This one’s wisdom.’ She drops a daisy into the open bag beside the grave. ‘And this, hope. Then we have love, happiness, bravery and ambition.’
Tourdor stole a secret recipe book from a brewer and set himself up as the kingdom’s best innkeeper. Without it, he could not enjoy the wealth to which he had become accustomed, so he stuck a notice on his door: “Wanted! Three stout fellows to guard my secret.”
An old man with a white beard approaches him.
“I will guard it.”
Tourdor says he wants a stronger man.
The man points a wand at a barrel and lifts it across the bar.
Will had always loved wood. He loved trees and sawdust and the curls of planed wood. The tools for wood working were endlessly fascinating; sharpened chisels, saws and delicate nails. Even the smells of wood were pleasurable, both timber being worked and wood rotting in country glades.
As his school reports, carefully preserved by his mother, attest Will was a student of broad abilities and his future was an open book that could fall open on a number of different pages. Will’s mother had her own set of expectations and was quietly confident that her son would attain well paid professional status in due course.
Joe had not meant to leave the seat up again. He had promised Mam to mend his ways but talking it over afterwards with Geraint in the railway sidings had spawned a flow of subversive mycelial thoughts that spread and advanced each time he used the bathroom.
The rails were a comforting backdrop for the boys to try on the fit and suitability of new ideas before integration into their developing adult identities. The clatter of rolling stock, honk of diesel horns and that special click as the point changes engaged oiled the process.
Do you remember when we made that promise, Dad? In the fading light of a summer’s evening, when you sat beside my bed and closed the book you’d been reading, leaning in to kiss me and wish me sweet dreams? Always that. Never goodnight. Definitely never goodbye.
You smelled of tea and biscuits. The beginnings of a beard peppered your chin, bristling against my cheek. Your beard was dark then. Not even a whisper of grey. Nothing like the creep of white that haunts your face now. Your skin in the glow of my bedside light was bright and flushed from a day’s work, and the comforting clatter of Mum washing up floated through the floorboards. I don’t remember how old I was, but I remember the book. The Tiger Who Came to Tea.
“In my life,” Becca said to the class, concluding her written homework, “I have worn the masks of a wife, a poet, a teacher and a lover, but none of these can disguise, the empty space inside, where once lived a mother.”
The class was silent until the new boy, Bill Transom, flicked a piece of spittle-soaked paper at Rebecca. “Well, that was shit.”
Laughter erupted, and Becca flushed. She turned to Miss Jackson, who stood with her back to the class, studying a jogger crossing the boundary between the school playing fields and the village green. She turned to face Becca.
Alice arrived late for the third time that week. Just my luck, she thought, as she saw the boss talking to the receptionist. She saw him glance at his watch, but to her surprise, he seemed to ignore her. She hurried on up to the office.
Dan heard the door opening and automatically looked at his watch and then towards the door. Noticing it was the new girl, a blush rose up. He quickly lowered his glance and continued his previous conversation.
The office was in pandemonium as everything was behind schedule for the Children’s Christmas Party. Alice redeemed herself by offering to stay late and help out with the colouring sheets packs.
Everything had to be right for tomorrow. It was the first year that Dan had been in charge since his Dad retired, he couldn’t let the firm down. He worked later than usual to make sure that there was nothing that could go wrong.
Alice would have been in tears if her anger hadn’t been so focussed on the Gestetner Duplicator. She swore at it as it gobbled up yet another one of the copies into its internal workings. It was all she could do to stop herself kicking the damn thing.
After the speeches, people drifted away from the demonstration, some still wearing outfits representing the main focus of their complaint.
Having responsibly abandoned their placards, a group of five in search of food and drink settled themselves in the Hog’s Head and placed their orders.
These were veteran activists. They had witnessed mounted police moving through the crowds at the poll tax rebellions; they had collective memories of the ‘not in my name’ protests; they had stood with the miners during the long strike; two could even look back to the anti-apartheid rugby protests in 1969. Between them they had been kettled, abused, arrested and beaten.
Mitzi nudged Helen’s leg, breaking her out of her reverie. Sighing, Helen collected the lead, her coat and the little booties they had bought the previous year to protect her little paws in the icy weather.
The front door opening, a shiver ran down her back as the cold wind hit her. As Helen looked down, Mitzi pulled her out of the door. Everything sparkled, little diamonds shone on trees and hedgerows, houses were all lit up. There were Christmas trees in windows, and families gathered together playing games, and laughing together.
Helen took their usual walk through the village, stopping to sit a moment on their usual bench. The pond glistened and ducks, all warm in their nest, murmured to each other. Mitzi started pulling, jumping excitedly, looking across Hubert who was sat there.
‘It’s day three hundred and sixty of the kids singing and the band playing, and I’m starting to wish it wasn’t Christmas every day,’ I said, my paper hat falling down over my eyes. ‘I’d feel rude sending my family home though.’
Sombre nods spread around the circle, everyone at the Christmas Song Support Group feeling my pain.
‘I hear you,’ said Bethan. ‘When the first partridge in a pear tree arrived, I thought, how romantic. But by day six, my neighbour with the bird phobia had called the police. It was the twelve drummers drumming that got me evicted. I didn’t have the heart to tell my true love that it was too much.’
Daniel was the longest-standing member. Every year without fail, he gave away his heart only to have it cruelly given away on Boxing Day. Despite his resolutions to give it to someone special next time, it inevitably happened again.
The orange-acned teenager read part of the letter to me: ‘Fit to go back to work.’
Fit? Twelve months of depression after being passed over for the headship at Ysgol Milton Friedman. That went to a kid with a face on him like a lamb sucking on its mother’s teat. Not to the school’s deputy head, with proven management skills garnered from thirty years teaching. ‘The successful candidate has more energy,’ I was told. Meaning obvious: Phillips, you’re too old at fifty-four.
Shortly after came melancholy and lethargy. The GP prescribed anti-depressants. She was a kid too, fresh out of doctors’ college.
It got worse. My wife, Sandra, left. Told me my moodiness would try the patience of an angel, plus she’d met a nice, younger man. That word was like a knife in my heart. Soon after, an overdose of paracetamol. They pumped out my stomach and I’m in the bin, sectioned. Four blurred weeks.
Michael Noach was lighting a candle on his hanukkiah in the window of his small terrace when he heard a crash and someone crying out. Instinctively, he reached for the phone next to his window but stilled his hand when he heard a second cry, this time clearly coming from the back. He stood still, stroking his beard, pondering his actions. Another yell. He could not ignore a human in pain, so he picked up the torch he kept by the back door and peered outside.
“Is anyone there?”
“Oh shit,” said a voice. He shone the beam in that direction. There, on the ground, was a teenage boy, his foot at an oblique angle to his leg.
“Hold still,” urged Noach as he hurried across the yard, “I’ll help you up.”
As the children tumbled onto the coach chattering to each other, boys headed to the rear, jostling each other for the best seats. Off on a school trip to a zoo, most had never been before, each wanting to see the large animals they had only seen in books.
Singing all the way hymns and nursery rhymes, what a day it turned out to be. Billy and the boys had to stay with Mr. Jenkins, the headmaster, mouths agog at the size of the bears, and the temple monkeys racing around. Riding on the elephant, pretending to be hunting lions, what great fun; so too taking rides on the camels, for the younger children.
Lunch was on the lawn at the centre of the zoo, then off again to see the lions
“I’m not giving up Hope!” Liz screamed into the phone at her ex-husband, before slamming it down.
Floods of tears drenched her face. She slowly lifted herself up off the floor, his words ringing in her ears. “Unfit mother, child neglect, no prospects.” How could he have said those things? He hadn’t had been that interested in Hope when he lived with them, why would he suddenly want custody?
After she had calmed down, she tried to reason it out. He’d never spent much time with them when he was at home. She doubted if he had even had the slightest idea of when Hope’s birthday was. He’d missed the fact that his daughter was besotted with him. It just didn’t make any sense.
The three hopeful finalists sat in the front row, -a young woman wringing her hands, a guy with pronounced musculature escaping a skinny vest and the staid, 50-something, balding Phil. They had been informed the elimination exercise would follow briefing presentations.
Phil surveyed the cavernous, somehow claustrophobic lecture hall. Wood panelled ceiling and walls reminded him of horror films that in an earlier career-phase he had scoured, researching replicable facial expressions to convey being entombed alive.
Work opportunities as a character actor were becoming sporadic; it was the right time to diversify, to move on. The once familiar minimalist sets of The Grand, – a laden bookcase stage right. a chair centre stage, French Doors with greenery and birdsong stage left, were distant memories since the Catastrophe. How he missed the multiple curtain-calls, the whooping and whistling of an appreciative audience, the after-play drinkies with sound and lighting crews, the informal advice sessions to aspiring drama school students! Commercial Crisis Acting had never been on the radar but what could he do? The mortgage had to be paid, and in order of priority, the dog, 3 children and a wife fed and clothed. That ranking was correct. Phil prided himself in being particularly self- aware.
In the olden days, libraries were quiet places policed by tut tutting librarians with long-distance, laser stares. These days Gwen (who is researching images of disability in nineteenth century fiction) is able to create her own biblio-oasis merely by removing her hearing aids and descending to tranquil and solitary pools of silence. It’s a gift, one of few afforded to those with partial hearing.
A similarly gifted woman, Suzanne, sits nearby (researching the interface of technology and the partially hearing, and currently scouring disability studies journals for references). Time for a coffee. Suzanne engages her chunky NHS hearing aids and makes for the exit noticing, en route, the similar artefacts of hearing loss lying idle on Gwen’s table.
A kindred spirit, perhaps? Suzanne gently taps Gwen’s shoulder, points to her own ears and to Gwen’s idle machines. Then the international sign language for ‘fancy a drink?’
Seated behind their large cappuccinos, the topic of deafness is an obvious starter. Both are considered moderately to severely hearing impaired, (although neither embraces the term impaired, preferring the Disability Rights position that it is society that does the disabling and impairing).
The wind hurried through the village as if on its way to somewhere more important. It blew sand over the squatting men and silent women. The lane, where children peeked at the visitors, was of sand. The buildings were of sandstone. The distant mountains seemed to be towers of sand.
A woman holding a baby approached them. Despair was the lonely inhabitant of her eyes, misery the permanent resident in her exhausted face. She might have been any age between fifteen and fifty. She said something to them.
Hope Appleton has a mind of her own. There’s nothing remarkable about that sentence, until I tell you that Hope is a character in the novel I’m writing.
You could say I only have myself to blame. In a way, you’d be right. But in my defence, you should always create well-rounded, authentic characters with clear motivations. I’ve certainly achieved that.
My agent isn’t very sympathetic to my plight. You see, the deadline for delivering this manuscript has been and gone. Twice. If this novel is not on her desk by Monday, my contract, and therefore my career, is over.
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