Felicity handed the wine bottle around. The girls had decided on a quiet weekend, nibbles and wine, relaxing in their pyjamas, the usual banter – who did what to whom and how their romantic lives were. The subject of Kelly came up when Jodie asked why she wasn’t there.
Felicity laughed, ”Have you not heard? She has a new infatuation.”
Groans and laughter spread across the room. Jodie looked towards the heavens. ”Who is it this time? Thought she was still chasing Simon?”
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Well, why not? Seven tasty days and nights with her in that holiday camp, fifteen years ago. She’d said she lived in the Swansea valley, place beginning ‘Ys’, on an estate. Probably married now and moved. Probably wasting his time.
Atop Ystalyfera, a couple of streets clinging to a hillside, a deep valley dizzying below. A faded place: dogs, kids, toys on the pavement. Even the evening sun seemed grubby. He was getting in the car, about to go, when, standing by a front door, a blonde, thirties, curvy, nice.
say my name
She’s at it again, using her allure to get people to do things for her. I watch jealously from my bric-à-brac jumble sale stall. I had spent the last half an hour carrying heavy bags from my car. Now, she strolls in, followed by a team of eager pleasers hauling all her boxes. I really hate her sometimes.
Angela, five foot eight and with an effervescent personality and curly blond locks. I understand what the entire male population sees in her, but what I don’t get is why she is able to bewitch the female population as well. That doesn’t include me, of course. I’m immune to her charms.
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“Toby Metcalf!” thundered Mrs Thomas. “Are you insulting my intelligence with this effort!?”
It had been a simple request. Mrs Thomas, covering Mr Ellison’s art class, had tasked the students to colour in a black and white drawing of a king standing outside his castle. Whilst the kids scribbled on their printed copies with coloured pencils, she had marched between desks, sniffing out any miss-behavers.
“I want normal colours,” she boomed, “no purple grass or orange skies, realism is your goal!”
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Lewis and Jackie Mullens accommodated mother and son asylum seekers for six months. Their action surprised the neighbours who’d considered the childless pair to be the most boring couple on the estate, Jackie doing something with ledgers and her husband something similarly uninspiring with laminate flooring. Both had fewer interests than a sleeping tortoise.
Initially the visitors brought no change to their lives. Lewis tall, walking with the gait of a superannuated guardsman, had a face stamped in capital letters with silliness of the kind found in nineteenth century inbred, minor European royalty. Jackie was equally unemotional, her mouth usually clamped shut as though she’d swallowed a rat. Occasionally when nervous she uttered a loud laugh that could cause a stampede at a horse fair. They were expecting Greta and Volodymyr to fit in with their rigorous dullness.
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As Clare put her key in the lock, a sense of foreboding overcame her. She slowly turned it and pushed the door wide open. Her flat was in disarray. Everything she owned seemed to be scattered all over the floor. As her knees collapsed, she grasped the doorframe as her body slid down to the floor.
Without bothering to get back up, she phoned the police.
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The wind howls around the hospital towers. I squint through the rain, and for a moment the birds overhead look like tiny witches on broomsticks, swooping unpredictably in all directions.
‘Meadowside Child and Adolescent Mental Health Unit,’ a sign announces. Like everything else up here, it is wonky, madness seeping into any semblance of order.
I shudder. I need to get Emily out of here.
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Nestling deeper into her bedding Valentina sighed pleasantly tired. It had been a busy day but she was sure the end of her journey was at hand.
She remembered the stories her mother had captivated them with as babies. Ivan the terrible was a folk hero to them. Fighting for the territory around them, often returning bloodied from battle: that was her great grandfather. Romance of how he met his wife in the tunnels they inhabited, love at first sight – so her mother told them. How he fought for her hand, paying a heavy price, losing territory but Ivan was elated to have his beloved Sasha by his side.
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Julie: We always thought it was funny to dress the same and pretend to the guys that we were sisters. We used to have great times together, we were always in each other’s homes.
Now it just seems that she is stalking me. Since I’ve been going out with Brad I find her presence unsettling. I wish she would find someone special for herself and leave me alone.
Samantha: Julie always seems annoyed at me these days, I just don’t know what I’ve done. That Brad is a right creep, she deserves someone better, and she just can’t see it.
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On his haunches outside the toilet, whimpering. Of course his mistress would return. But what if she stayed there for ever, studying the face she saw reflected in the tiny pool fixed on the wall above the sink?
Anxious? Indeed. He hadn’t forgotten his first eight years, had he? Living in a shed, Mr Phillips cursorily leaving him food, then ignoring him. Occasionally the house dogs, big as buses, would come out and get angry with him. ‘Outsider!’ they would snarl. ‘Stay out of our house. Not welcome!’ One of them, an Alsatian called Farage, the head on him the size of his shed, bit him once him on top of his skull. Mr Phillips had put a bit of rag over the cut, muttering, ‘Now what’ve you been up to? Flipping nuisance!’
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The syringe went in. As small wisps of raw power arced between her fingertips, she let out an involuntary gasp. She’d been expecting something of course, just not… this. Her entire life she’d been told she was special. “One in seven billion,” said the very serious looking people in white coats, who’d crowded round her prodding, poking, and doing all sorts of other tests, then shaking their heads.
Now, those same men stood back, as awestruck as she was, before turning to shake each other’s hands.
“We’ve done it!” one of them whispered reverently. “We’ve tamed Clarke’s Third Law.”
She didn’t know what that meant, and then… she did. Information was there for her instantly; every electron that had ever passed through any electronic storage device available for her to access at will. Some of it was fascinating, some too disturbing to contemplate, but suddenly she understood what she was. Who they were. What they’d done to her. Her brain and body felt truly alive… electric.
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The credits rolled over the screen as he stood to turn off the television after their normal Saturday night animated film, as if it was a routine action.
“Do you think we need fairies?” she asked jokingly as she stretched after lying awkwardly for the past half an hour.
“No of course not,” he smiled as he started tickling her feet. “Our fairy tale consists of takeaways, laughter, cuddles and adventure.”
She giggled uncontrollably as she tried to wiggle away from her tickle monster.
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With the use of her nail file, Fiona finally pried open the bureau drawer. It had been out of bounds for all of her childhood. Even now, she felt that she was defying her mother. She slid the drawer open with reverence and found the key to the glass cabinet.
Even at this sad time, she felt a smile creep across her face. The long felt desire of handling her mother’s favourite possession made her body shake. She picked up the old lamp and held it close to her chest.
To her astonishment, a genie materialised before her. It stretched and yawned, and finally opened it’s eyes.
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She comes once a month with her weeny plug-in keyboard. A pair of legs are attached to them, taken from a long solid case. Then she sits on a borrowed chair, as battered as her audience, and holds her hands above the three octaves, poised like a concert player, as if the large room were the Albert Hall, as if the old dears with food stains on their mouths and tops were aristocracy in tiaras and gowns.
Ta-ra-ta-tum! The opening notes of I Do Like To Be Beside The Seaside, in an electronic tinkle, and she is singing in a pleasant tenor, smiling at the half-ring of armchairs and wheelchairs. Slumped heads lift, minds which exist in a fog have moments of clarity, return to childhood holidays, recall sandcastles, brylcreemed fathers in turned up trousers with braces, and shirts with ties, mothers with fat red legs spread in deckchairs, the sun roasting them stealthily.
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The house was like nothing she’d seen before. It smelled of biscuits and old tea; and looked like a half-buried cottage with just the top floor sticking out. This, it turned out, was an accurate description.
She’d been dropped at the end of the lane by a taciturn bus driver, who simply nodded at the lane when she asked for directions.
After walking for a mile, the lane ended, and the bramble shrouded garden began. At first her aunt’s cottage wasn’t visible, just a curl of wood-smoke from a chimney poking above the treetops. She headed towards it and arrived at the two up, three down-down-down to find her aunt leaning out of a window, shaking a large quilt covered in esoteric patterns.
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Pushing through the door laden down with her weekly shop, Mavis waddled across to the nearest alcove. Time for a cuppa and teacake. The waitress looked across smiling, ”Your usual Mavis,” then nodded as she settled into the corner.
With her tea and teacake, she listened to the chatter from the other alcoves. Over the years she had heard so much local gossip which she shared with her close friends. Today would change everything.
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A bell rang.
‘It’s Linda, Mum,’ her son said. ‘With her husband, Jeff. They’re driving you to your brother’s.’
‘Linda?’
‘Hello, Aunt Violet.’ A woman at the door was kissing her.
‘She’s not been there in decades,’ her son said. ‘Good of Ronnie to deign to see her again, isn’t it?’
He was chuckling but the woman kept a straight face.
In the car the woman said, ‘It’s Uncle Ronnie’s sixtieth wedding anniversary.’
‘Anniversary? Is he married?’
‘To Betty. Remember Betty?’
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“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.
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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.
Continue reading“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.
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