The Island School

The clock keeps the time moving slowly and the heavy book emits its sour leathery smell. Jesus stares at me accusingly from his crucifix; he died just for me, I should remember that.

‘The seventh commandment is … Jemima?’

‘Thou shalt not steal, miss.’

‘Very good, child.’

I watch Jemima surreptitiously rubbing her knuckles beneath the desk, and I try not to feel grateful that it was her and not me who faced Mrs. Dwyer’s cane today. The bitch knows that the poor girl suffers with her nerves, just like her mother who had to be shipped to the nuthouse on the mainland when Jemima was a baby. Officially, she went over to help her sisters run the farm that they inherited from their parents. But word travels easily in these places. The doctor in the next village, the one who delivered me because she was a woman and mother couldn’t bear to have Dr. Bryan see up her skirts, with the midwife herself sick with the flu; well, she told her husband, who told his mistress, who told her husband, who told his fishy bearded friends at the pub. So now everyone knows that Mrs. Jasper has gone mad and been locked up in the asylum. And poor Jemima either bursts into tears or fits of laughter with almost no provocation. My father says that she’ll probably end up on the mainland too, which seems particularly unforgiving for a man in his profession.

‘Felicity, sit still! If I see you fidget again you will be made to spend the rest of the lesson in the yard without a coat. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, miss. Sorry, miss.’

She doesn’t realise that I have bare legs beneath this skirt, and it’s the scratchy wool that’s making me uncomfortable. It’s just so hot in here. And Tom wants to go climbing after school, in those brief few minutes between being let out of class and my mother getting home. A sweet period of less than an hour each afternoon, when my parents think I’m reading the great book in the study. But if I snag my stockings on the rough bark and end up with a hole then the game will be up and I’ll be in trouble. So my legs itch and itch beneath this wool skirt, and all for nothing because the snow outside stops us climbing anyway.

Tom goes to the school next door. It’s crazy, really, with only two dozen children in the whole village, that we’re kept apart from the boys. It isn’t really any wonder, then, that when people here reach adulthood and are expected to marry, they pick altogether the wrong person and end up in all sorts of bother. I bet Jemima’s father didn’t know that his wife was batty until he married her and she started going for long walks through the village and across the fields, singing at the top of her lungs. He hadn’t known the first thing about her, just as Tom’s mother couldn’t have guessed that her future husband would need regular forays to the mainland in order to maintain the façade of being happily married, when really he preferred the company of men. She couldn’t have known that one day he wouldn’t return at all. To this day Mrs. Flannery swears that her husband was murdered whilst on a trip to the cattle market, although some of his peers equally swear that they knew it would always come to this. I have ways of knowing these details about peoples’ lives. It isn’t difficult, really. It’s all there.

‘Fiona, what were the names of Jesus’ disciples? I’d like them all in order of appearance in the good book, please.’

Poor Fiona won’t know this. She struggles in class and everyone knows her father’s a fisherman who likes a drink and never goes to church. Maybe that’s why Mrs. Dwyer picked her out. The sins of the father. It’s the belt for her, no doubt.

‘Felicity, take yourself outside. Immediately! Stay on the step until I come for you!’

I contemplate sitting on the snow-covered front step, beneath the arched doorway inscribed with St. Jude’s Girls’ School.  My legs are no longer hot and itchy, but cold and speckled with goosebumps. Mrs. Dwyer’s evil insistence that I leave my coat on the peg means that I may well end up sick, and no doubt I’ll be punished for that, too. So off I go, to the school gate, turn left and follow the brick wall around the school to the trees at the back. I kick the soft virgin snow out in front of me. Blobs of white fall from the branches above, onto my hatless head. The woods don’t have a smell today. The snow has smothered the fallen leaves, the rotting fruit and fragrant pine needles. The soft mulch underfoot has frozen and the woods have become a new place, silent and fresh. I know that Mrs. Dwyer could follow my footprints into the woods, but I don’t think she will. She’ll wait for me to return of my own free will, not that I’m allowed to have much of that, and save this misdeed for a punishment grander than any yet administered.

            As my snow angel takes shape, I wonder if I will become sick and have to be rescued, like Catherine out there on the desolate moors. My mother would be horrified if she knew that I read her books, more that she would know that I had discovered them, her dirty secret. Jude the Obscure, Vanity Fair, Tess of the D’Urbervilles. Hidden away from my father. I can’t imagine when and how she managed to read them. Most secret of all is the tiny key to the hidden bureau drawer resting inside the pages of Adam Bede, a story, I now know, concerning complicated love in a small religious community. After reading the letters, I realise the significance of the choice of hiding place for the key. It seems foolhardy for her to keep these documents, containing such passion and adoration as they do. Maybe one day I’ll have the courage to really consider the timing of the affair in relation to my own appearance in this world. For now, I’ll return to the classroom and face the wrath of my mother.

Rock Bottom

Rock Bottom

At the foot of the cliff sits an old pub that many folks roundabout say is haunted. Not by any ghost in particular, the murders and scandals being too many to recount. At one time fishing boats would stop short of the shingle beach and spill their crew ashore for a few drinks before they headed back to the harbour. Now, though, it is mainly accessed by a lift, if you’re brave enough to chance it. Otherwise, a set of steep wooden steps criss-cross their way down the birdshit-stained rockface, definitely not to be used after rain, which is most days.

            The pub’s only customers are old men. Many wear the white beard, stained yellow with nicotine, and some still sport fishermen’s hats in the Greek style, small and boxy on the top of the head with a shallow peak to keep out the sun. A souwester would be more appropriate here, though, even on a mild day.

            When two men enter the Rock Bottom shortly after lunchtime on a dull Thursday – no duller, however, than the other six days of the week – they are not greeted with a warm welcome, or even a smile. The other man at the bar, older than them by around half a century, stares at them beneath whiskery brows and gulps his dark brew. The three men clicking dominoes at a small table next to the defunct fruit machine pause their game to watch the proceedings. After all, things like this don’t happen very often in this establishment.

            ‘Two lemonades, please. No ice,’ says the elder of the two irregulars, who has a hint of grey at his smooth temples.

 ‘Ice? What do you think this is? The bleedin’ Ritz?’ The barmaid stoops to retrieve a glass bottle from beneath the bar counter, making the journey back to vertical in two stages. The expected hiss as the top is twisted doesn’t happen, and they watch as two flat drinks are dispensed.

‘Erm … do you serve food, sandwiches …?’

‘Pork scratchings.’

‘Fine. Just the one packet, please.’

‘Four pounds twenty,’ she announces, putting out her hand, which has crusty fake tan lodged in the deep lines of her palm. They watch her drop the five pound note into her wide tabard pocket then turn to talk to the bearded customer, who she knows as Reggie, failing to produce any change. The interlopers exchange a glance before retreating to a small copper-topped table next to the cold grate.

Reggie sits on his barstool, his Guernsey-clad elbow propped on the wet teak of the bar. Smoke from his pipe spirals upwards, dissipating on reaching the wooden beams.  Glass buoys in rotting nets hang precariously above him, the fraying ropes threatening to let loose their loads.

Edmund appears through the door of the mens’ toilet, shuffling awkwardly with his right shoulder drooping, the collar of the shabby anorak slipping steadily down his right arm. He thinks that most frequenters of the bar believe he suffered a horrific injury thirty years ago whilst rescuing a member of his crew who had become tangled in the trawl and was pulled over the stern and into the icy North Sea. He thinks that this is what people believe because it is the story that he tells to anyone who glances his way. However, it is well known through the process of small town gossip that Edmund Carson sustained his injury when his wife threw him out of their upstairs bedroom window one night when he came home drunk, again, and smelling of perfume, again. That was back in the days when she cared.

            ‘Alright Ed?’

            ‘Yeah, pal,’ he sighs, parking his oversized butt on the next stool along. ‘Aye, t’rific, Reg, as usual. What’s with the two suits over there?’ He flicks his head toward the table nearest the fireplace, unlit for months yet still containing black soot and semi-charred crisp packets. Reggie swivels on his stool to face the men, who pretend not to notice him. It’s obvious that they have, though, when they both shift in their seats so that they’re no longer facing the bar.

            ‘Marge,’ grunts Reggie, summoning the woman who is still screwing the lid on the lemonade bottle, which only now contains an inch or so of flat liquid. His brilliantly white teeth are still clamped around his pipe stem. ‘What do you know about them, then? Coppers or what?’

            ‘Aye, Reginald. Our Martin, my nephew, you know the Police Inspector one …’ They both nod, beards poking forwards eagerly, ‘Well he tells me there’s been some reports of vice type stuff going on. You know: drugs, prostitution. That sort of thing. They’re doing some in-vest-i-gating. Dunno what they think they’ll find, though. Good luck to ‘em!’

She hobbles out from behind the counter and heads over to the boys, taking a long time to wipe their clean table with her beery tea towel. They regard her silently, then resume their quiet chatter as she turns back to the bar.

            ‘Couldn’t tell what they were saying, Gents. One of them had a notepad, though. He’d written a few phrases in it, like “scruffy old shit-hole” and “no cause for suspicion”. I wonder what he’ll write in there about this place …’

            Marge plonks herself onto a wooden school chair behind the bar, holding a crinkled plastic shopping bag. She removes what appears to be a semi-knitted scarf of many colours and looks at the needles for a while, brow creased and lips puckered, producing an expression like a champion gurner.

            ‘S’that, Marge? Never took you for a knitter.’

            ‘Aye, well, Reggie, I’m keepin’ my eyes on them two chaps. This is my disguise. Been knitting this scarf for fourteen years. It was for Martin. Don’t s’pose he’ll still want it. Nevermind.’

            For perhaps an hour silence pervades the bar, save for the clicking of dominoes, knitting needles and the odd belch. The phone rings twice, which Marge eventually answers each time with a ‘No, not yet, love.’ Towards two o’clock, chairs scrape and the two younger men rise.

            ‘Thanks for the … um … hospitality. ‘Bye.’

Marge and her two bar friends watch the young men leave, with smug smiles and glances. Edmund even winks at Marge.

            ‘Now, can we please get back to normal?’

At that, both men turn to watch Isobel, the other barmaid on duty that day, appear from the little door at the end of the bar.

‘They gone then?’

‘Aye,’ all three respond.

‘Come on then, Pet. It’s Thursday. You comin’ upstairs? Miss Issy’s waiting.’

She turns back to the door, and Edmund quickly squashes through it behind her, grunting incoherently, Isobel cackling in response. Reggie turns away, rolling his eyes at Marge, who, he notes, has meanwhile returned to her usual standard of professional attire.

‘Fetch us another beer, love,’ he grunts. She bends beneath the counter to pull

out a pint pot, only her pathetic grey knot of hair and slight humpback visible. She groans as she straightens back up, then pulls the decanter one, two, three times, pausing to gather her strength. The slack skin on her arms wobbles with the effort of drawing the beer. As she places the glass on the sticky counter he notices her right nipple gently plunge into the cream froth. She doesn’t flinch, the puckered brown nib desensitised from years of hard suckling.

            ‘You think we’ll see any more of the polis round here, then?’ Reggie asks, idly wandering behind the bar and fiddling with the dusty cassette player. He selects a different tape and pulls it from its box, the broken plastic making a cracking noise. Seconds later, Thin Lizzy blasts from the speakers.

‘Nah, I don’t think it’s their kind of place, ‘ she grumbles, motioning to their table which still contains two almost-full glasses of lemonade and an unopened packet of pork scratchings.’

Two men appear from the lift, one pushing a zimmer frame and the other removing a Fisherman’s Friend tin from beneath his boxy cap.

            ‘We safe, Marge?’ the Tin Man hollers.

            ‘Aye, love. And are we glad to see you!’ She shuffles from behind the bar, revealing varicose veins and threadbare carpet slippers beneath the leopard print mini skirt. She pinches his bottom, and he responds by squeezing her breast flap.

            He holds the tin aloft, the bearded man on the lid bearing more than a passing resemblance to Reggie, right down to the pipe hanging from the right side of his mouth.

            ‘Got your goodies, come and get them!’

            The three men pause their game to wander over, as does Reggie and a man slowly rubbing his eyes that has perhaps been sitting under the Ship’s Wheel all day. Notes are exchanged for little yellow tablets, as refreshing as tiny hot mints.

            ‘Let’s get this party started!’ The twin guitar solo gives way to the familiar vocals, and all of the customers save the silent zimmer frame guy yell, ‘the boys are back in town!’

Party time!

I thought that updating my blog page would be a fairly simple task. Until it opened in Arabic. And where I might be able to muddle through any other language, that just isn’t an option in this case. So, I fiddled around for half an hour, randomly clicking on various links and making all sorts of hopefully temporary changes to my page, before finally managing to get back to English. So, here I am in Abu Dhabi, at possibly the worst time to take a holiday. Eid, that crazy form of bank holiday only possible in a country where complete lack of enjoyment is pleasurable.

            The first clue we had of an approaching fun ban was yesterday afternoon. Of course, they don’t advertise these occasions. Well, not to us Westerners, anyway, who need the odd frozen beer to get us through the tedium of an afternoon in the sunshine lying by the pool. So we immediately found the urgent need to down as many cocktails as we could. Coconut mojitos, yum. And Dave decided that it would be necessary to head straight on down to the off license (not sure of the technical term for a shop that sells alcohol, here. After all, there is no license – the sale of alcohol being totally banned – so ‘off license’ can’t apply). However, after joining the end of an enormous queue of frustrated westerners, all on edge at the sudden announcement on a 24 hour closure of the bars, he reappeared bearing an industrial strength, discrete thick black carrier bag of champagne and red wine. But, because of the binge on fizzy cocktails during the afternoon, indigestion prevented me from indulging. Still, I’m sure it’ll get drunk!

            The bank holidays here, in comparison to those around Europe, definitely don’t involve getting shit-faced and having lots of fun. No. Aside from the lack of alcohol, we’re also prohibited from listening to music. So, the restaurant last night was fun. As you can imagine, I’m sure! A silent meal. And hearing Paul Summerbell ask for a Sprite was an experience I don’t think I’ll have again. Glum-faced and silently we perused the menu, which was down to chicken pie, mussels or sausage (beef sausage, like chewing on plasticine!). No beer-battered cod, or steak and ale pie. We would have had a joke about the sheer glumness of the situation, except the show of enjoyment would have broken a law and put us at risk of jail. So we persevered and celebrated with the locals by showing no happiness, then hotfooted it back to our suite and downed a bottle of red.

            Today is another dry one, until 7pm. Not that I’m counting down. Of course not. The local ladies around the pool are donning their best party attire – full-on black gowns with eye slits. And the men have swapped their keffiyes (headscarves) for baseball caps. The usual display of disgustingly bad manners by the local kids, who are off school, reminds me that strong beliefs don’t lead to respect for others.

            Roll on tonight. Fun times ahead!

The Tale of Brown Bear

There are eighty million of us in the United Kingdom, most of us largely left to our own devices. However from time to time one will appear that deserves some notoriety, like the one we nicknamed the Brown Bear. He, using the kind of wily behaviour many of us don’t possess the nous to use, became a hero.

            Some of you may remember when he made his first tentative steps towards infamy, making appearances on television whenever an important political story broke. This caused much embarrassment at the time, forcing those in charge of the country to recognise us, eventually reintroducing an ancient civil service post dedicated to attending to our kind.

            Brown Bear was forced to further his political career elsewhere, eventually finding himself at the domicile of an ancient and craggy decorated fellow. His cottage, known by the name that it had been given hundreds of years ago, already consisted of a well-established family. But Brown Bear, the charming traveller, managed to convince the group that he would be a worthy guest who would rid them of their troubles once and for all.

            His plan consisted largely of the hope that the old codger would stick to his strict daily routine, of which he knew through the lore that had managed to reach him during his time in London. His beastly deeds had decimated communities for decades, ensuring that no group could settle in his vicinity, or even trespass anywhere on his land for fear of death. His shotgun could be heard blasting nightly, his blood-thirsty craving for solace reaching out beyond the realms of our own kind.

            This behaviour hadn’t been ignored by a collection of do-gooders, who were all scratching their heads trying to find a way to put a stop to this selfish destruction. The leader of the gang had also been on the television on a number of occasions, proving himself a hero or a nuisance depending on your point of view.

            Night after night Brown Bear performed noisy tactical manoeuvres with military precision, forcing the retired Lt. Col. out of his cosy cottage, shotgun in hand. The nightly war raging across that quiet end of Amsley Worton, a village with a pub, but no shop and a village hall, but no school, soon attracted the return of the protectors, and of Matty Smith-Henderson with his even bigger shotgun. And in a mid-evening last September, he knocked on the door and shot him dead.

            Today, thanks to Matty, now incarcerated for twenty-two years, we have been able to live in peace. Brown Bear’s offspring number in their thousands, considerably more if you count the patchy offspring of his sisters and his mother that are said to have that same Brown Bear twinkle in their eye. With this army now gathering here at the end of the overgown garden beyond the little empty cottage we are creating a force to be reckoned with; unstoppable.

Sunday habits are hard to break ...

What started off as a Sunday treat has now become a Sunday habit.

            When I was growing up my Sundays consisted of sitting around the house with the smell of meat roasting. The kitchen was always steamy hot, and my mam, it was silently understood, should be left alone as she raced around the kitchen with a tea towel across one shoulder and a utensil in each hand. Sometimes a sharp knife, so it really was best to stick to watching TV in the living room. It was usually either Lost In Space, or University Challenge (do you remember when that was shown on a Sunday lunchtime?). Or Countryfile, when it was dull and mainly meant for farmers and people who lived in the countryside. Given those choices my kids would be going mad. But we used to accept it, because there was no chance of ever having a choice in the matter. Of course, my dad was usually in the pub, with the other dads. And not just any pub. Porters. A working man’s club with middle-aged saggy-breasted strippers. This may sound awful, but was an absolute must in the North East during the 70s and 80s. The working class North East, anyway. Is there any other? Maybe Ponteland, or Dinnington. They tend to class themselves as a cut above, but those towns are mainly overrun with working class Geordies who can now afford an enormous mock tudor mansion with a swimming pool, decorated in a completely unironic council house style. I’m talking about footballers, tax-avoiding owners of building companies and lottery winners.

            So, what started as a rebellion against the idea of reinforcing the stereotypes of bygone days and adding a bit of spontaneity into our weekends has now become a habit that is as hard to break.

            ‘So are we going to the Chinese buffet after swimming then, Mam?’

            It isn’t a question, merely a statement of fact. That clearly isn’t quite enough now, so it has become:

            ‘Can we go for a look around the shops before we go the Chinese buffet, Mam?’ Of course, the subtext being will you buy us something?

            Shopping today was a rare treat. Not rare because we don’t do it very often. Rare, because town was desserted. I thought I must have stepped into a film location, or a scene from the Walking Dead. I was listening out for a deathly groan, or some shuffling footsteps, when instead there was a huge cheer that had erupted from either the Scotia or the Ship and Royal. Or both. A few weeks ago the Criterion crowd would have joined the chorus, but now it’s another betting shop. Of course, derby day. Someone had mentioned it earlier in the week. And somebody else had been wittering on on Facebook about ‘drinking with the lads’ at eleven o’clock this morning, and posting pictures of themselves in football shirts and funny wigs. That godawful noise that came from the pub after the cheer was another reminder of the childhood traditions that I had chosen to break free of. The continuous monotone of a football match is enough to drive me to violence. Anyone who hates football and was forced to endure that noise in a small car for hours on the way home from some visit or other will understand. It only upset me slightly less than the teatime pools. So we quickly hotfooted it to the buffet, which was delightfully empty.

            Clearly, there were only eight people in the whole of South Tyneside who were ‘out there’ enough to break free from the restraints of the Sunday Roast and / or the football. And we were four of them. Of the other two middle-aged couples, the men looked as if they had been dragged there under sufferance.

            The couple that arrived seconds after we did made it clear to the waitress that they’d rather sit anywhere rather than next to a tattooed woman and her three kids. So they sat a few tables away and started off by giving us a few unsubtle looks. A few minutes in I started to think that they had asked to sit elsewhere so that we didn’t have to endure their manners. Or his. He sucked his fingers noisily after every Spare Rib, slurped his beer unashamedly and spoke to his wife with a full mouth of food. Not that I was staring, but it was hard not to notice when he was making such a foul racket.

            So we tried to distract ourselves by reminiscing about our summer road trip. We compared roller coaster experiences and laughed about how Sonny had cried on the log flume. Then we had a good giggle about the restaurant’s music. It’s usually ‘Dave’s most hated number 1s’ on repeat, with such classics as ‘I Will Always Love You’, ‘My Heart Will Go on’ and something by Mariah Carey. But today they were playing recent hits including ‘Country Roads’, Lady In Red’ and ‘Holding Back the Years’ (who doesn’t think of Rodney’s wedding when they hear that?). I always imagine that the owners of the restaurant asked the wrong person where to buy English music from when they first arrived in England (they’re all definitely authentic Chinese, with only a tentative grasp of the English language between them) and were told to head to the nearest Little Chef. There they could buy a variety of popular music CDs for the bargain price of £1.99 each, or 3 for a fiver.

            Aftwerwards, as I was paying the bill, the middle-aged woman of the unsubtle glances came over. Oh no, what was it? Was she going to accuse me of ruining her meal with my giggling, three-visits-to-the-dessert-table children?

            ‘We’ve been talking about you,’ she started. ‘We were saying that your children are the best behaved that we’ve ever seen. They just sit there and talk to each other and never fight. It’s lovely to see.’

            At that very moment Sonny decided to give Clara a shove, who screeched in response and high-kicked him in the back.

            ‘Mam, Clara’s kicking us.’

‘No, you started it, Sonny!’

Excellent timing.

‘See you next Sunday?’ asked the now-chatty Chinese lady. You have to go there quite a lot for them to attempt conversation.

‘Yes, I suppose you will.’

Why do I write?

I wonder what it is that makes people want to write? For me it’s the fact that it’s the only thing that I can do confidently. I think I’m quite good at it, and I don’t care if the rest of the world doesn’t agree. The things at which I excel are few and far between. I’m an OK cook, my speciality being Turkey Dinosaurs and waffles; I do Ok at the gym, as long as I don’t have to look at myself in the mirror either during or immediately afterwards; my kids are reasonably happy so I can’t be too bad at being a mother, except when I’ve got PMT, and I don’t shout or moan at Dave too much, mainly because he spends most of his time in different countries (no reflection on my wifely skills, I can assure you). But at writing I’m the best. Or typing, actually. My keyboard skills are far superior to those with a pen and paper, so I can subsequently get my ideas down on my laptop before they evaporate, which I struggle to do using the old fashioned notebook method. No, I could never have been a writer in the olden days, or even before I got this laptop for my birthday in June.

Yes, I’m the best. And I truly believe that, until I read a novel so good that I realise that not only am I lacking when it comes to vocabulary and sentence structure, but also characterisation and plot. And willpower, primarily the ability to stick with a story beyond two and half thousand words. So the answer is possibly to either stop reading completely, or stick to chick-lit, which I hate, but can confirm is written with very little skill or passion. Discuss.

Contrary to the opinion of my non-writing and largely non-reading friends, my desire to write has nothing to do with the fact that my kids are now at school and I’d like to make my fortune like JK Rowling, or EL James. As far as the latter goes, I’d rather chop my hands off than write anything as dreadful as that, despite the popularity of her books. No, I don’t think that writing is an industry you enter for the money. Maybe it’s for the telling of a story, which is obviously preceded by the creation of said tale. Yes, that’s fun. I love to sit with a blank Word document and just see what happens. It usually ends up totally different than what I intended when I started out. And that’s the fun part – when the story takes over and you become the conduit for what needs to be told. I don’t even care if other people don’t understand or like what I’ve written, as the joy is in the creation itself. I’m sure that many writers are driven to entertain others, as in the other arts. There must be a pleasure in seeing others absorbed by what you have written. There’s also pleasure to be had in discovering the myriad ways of telling a story. There are ways of creating an atmosphere just in the choice of words. But as long as I get that warm satisfaction from a piece of writing, then I don’t really care whether or not it gets lauded by the rest of the universe, or maybe even just the handful of souls who might happen to accidently find my blog (thirteen last month!), or who are forced to come up with some tactful response in one of my writing group forums. Of course, praise is lovely. But I can praise myself far better than anyone else can, and also fend off constructive criticism. Because I know that my superior intelligence makes me able to understand and appreciate literature that is just way beyond them.

So, in summary, I write because I am fantastic at it and it makes me feel good. Is there any better reason than that?

A Dirty Weekend

My brain's gone mushy after a day of study, housework and working out. So, instead of putting any effort into today's blog post I think I'll just share one of the stories I wrote a while ago.

A Dirty Weekend

            ‘That’s the last of the vodka. And the gin. Only brandy left. And one can of lager.’ And all blood warm, she imagined, since the power had gone off.

            ‘We should stop drinking, Darryl. We need to think about what to do.’

            ‘No we don’t, Penny. We need to drink this wonderful hotel dry and blot all this fucked up stuff out. Sit tight and see what happens. How does that sound for a plan?’

            Darryl sank into the desk chair. He had picked her up two days ago at Charing Cross Station, where she had been heading for the train back to Dartford. She had been racing down the packed platform, shoving through dawdlers, heading for the guard waving the paddle when everything had stopped. She had awoken to see Darryl, a regular on her daily commute, shaking the shoulders of still people, looking for a response. He had found one in her. They had quickly decided to head for The Savoy, it being somewhere nearby that they were both familiar with, for one reason or another. The opulence of their surroundings should have made their stay comfortable.

            ‘See if you can find anything on the TV,’ she sighed.

            He raised an eyebrow at her, before turning back to the desk and tipping the amber liquid into his glass. Penny closed her eyes and heard the sounds of the barman preparing Manhattans in the Roosevelt Hotel in New York, whilst a pianist played jazz somewhere nearby. She had barely registered the music at the time, so involved had she been in her happiness, yet the music was integral to her memory of the place.

            ‘This was a mistake,’ she said as she pulled the robe tightly around her shoulders. ‘Why are we sitting here like this?’

            ‘What do you want to do, Penny?’ Darryl asked, a note of agitation detectable in his voice. ‘Go shopping? Catch a show? I’d rather drink and fuck, if it’s all the same to you.’

            Penny felt the sandpaper soreness of her vagina; the sex had served it’s purpose, blotting out the futility of their situation for a few hours. Darryl liked it rough. She wondered if sex had been like that with his wife, but knew that she wouldn’t ask him. The situation was still too new, the emotions not yet pinned down. He had laughed when he had hit her, and she had enjoyed it. Then he had kissed her softly, his tongue filling her mouth with tenderness as well as passion. They had held each other afterwards, or they had held onto the present. To themselves. She wasn’t sure. But she was glad that she wouldn’t have to explain the red welts to her husband. Then she felt guilty for that relief.

            ‘I’d like to get something new to wear. Nothing flash, just comfortable and clean. I couldn’t face putting those things back on,’ she said, nodding towards her ripped skirt and stockings strewn across the patterned carpet.

            He watched her pulling both sides of the thick robe around her body, seeming to realise that there were practical aspects of their situation to be considered.

            ‘Selfridges isn’t far from here. You can have anything you like. On me. But get your sexy arse over here first.’ He looked at her tentatively. She thought he was wondering if she was going to tell him to fuck off.

            Afterwards, he pushed her off him and headed to the bathroom. Above the noise of his violent pissing she heard him ask, ‘What were you doing this time last week?’

            ‘Darryl, no. Talk about something else.’

            ‘Like what? Come on. Think. Last Sunday. Were you in church, praying that something like this wouldn’t happen?’

            She picked at the scab on her elbow, grateful that she hadn’t broken her arm when she’d hit the platform. That would have been a disaster.

            ‘I never go to church. Those places give me the creeps.’

            ‘OK, so what were you doing? Fucking your husband? What?’

            ‘Why do you want to know? Why does it matter?’

Darryl reappeared, slumping on the doorframe and stared at her with bloodshot eyes. Even hungover and with an untidy stubble he was an attractive man, with his heavy hair and strong eyebrows turning to grey. The unflushed toilet bothered her more than it should have done, though.

            ‘Do you want to go and raid the bar downstairs? We could check out what’s on tonight’s menu. I’m sick of mini bar snacks and fruit.’ He pulled two grapes from the wilting bunch and pushed them into his mouth.

            ‘God, I’d rather not. All those people …’ She dreaded the time, very soon, when she’d have to burst their bubble and face the rest of the world.

            ‘Is there any more of that brandy, Darryl?’

            Some time later Penny found herself sitting in the armchair, which she had pulled up to the bed so that she could stretch out her legs. She reached across to the silver fruit bowl on the side table and took an apple.

            ‘I’m glad we met, Darryl.’ She had been watching him walk in front of the mirrored inset wardrobe doors, back and forth, heel to toe, toe to heel. He was daydreaming, and she wondered whether his thoughts were on the past or the future.

            ‘Me too,’ he responded, without looking up. ‘We should stay together, no matter what.’ He continued his pacing as she ate the apple.

                       

            The scene beyond the heavy curtains would be unpleasant. Penny stroked the edge, feeling the concealed weights that kept them completely still. She wondered whether it had been as silent in the last hotel she had stayed in. Her world was on this patterned side of the curtains, reality on the other. They had entered the hotel under a dark sky, the shock of their meeting and their adrenaline-fuelled rush to the hotel eliminating the clear details of their arrival in her mind. They had removed the key for their room from the unattended reception desk and ran up the stairs to the third floor collection of suites. She was glad that they had chosen one of the smaller ones; Darryl’s constant nearness was comforting. She turned to see him applying himself to an article in the pink Financial Times. From upside down it appeared to be about Lehman Brothers, the infamous bankrupt American bank. ‘I used to deal with these bastards. Ruthless. I was glad to get out of the City, in the end. It nearly gave me a nervous breakdown. Look at this guy!’ He held it up for her to see. ‘A fifty million dollar bonus. For what?’

            ‘Hey, don’t sweat it, Darryl. What use is it to them now?’ He shrugged and turned the page. She noticed the line on his wedding finger, where the skin was smooth and pale.

            ‘Did you bring many women here then?’

            He closed the newspaper and dropped it onto the floor.

            ‘A few. I wasn’t always what you’d call a … loyal husband. But that’s in the past. You can trust me now.’

Trust was something that she was reevaluating at the age of twenty-eight. It had occurred naturally during her first relationship that had lasted through University. But his betrayal had made it difficult for her to trust other men, resulting in a string of asphyxiated relationships. Then Davey had proved to be her restorative. He had won her over with his obvious adoration of her. She hadn’t wanted to believe it was love; she was too afraid of being hurt. But the eventual pain was something she was trying hard not to deal with. She turned back to the hyacinth design on the Italian linen drapes.

            ‘Open them, Penny. Let some light in.’

            ‘I’d rather not. I’d like to stay in our little bubble for a bit longer.’

            She turned from the window and sat down on the bed, making a nest of the fat pillow collection. Her brow creased as she concentrated on the print of the Empire State Building above the headboard.

            ‘Davey and me went to New York for our honeymoon.’ Darryl was sitting on the floor, ankles crossed loosely. His hands were folded in his lap. He looked up at her.

            ‘We had a list. The Empire State, Times Square, The Statue of Liberty, Central Park. Ice skating at the Rockerfeller Centre. We ticked them all off one by one. On the last day, when we’d finished the list, we decided to stay in the hotel room. Just the two of us and two bottles of cheap champagne. It was perfect.’

            Darryl watched liquid pearls slide down her cheeks. She sank down and let herself fall sideways, pulling her knees into her chest and holding them tightly to her with her arms. She felt the mattress give as Darryl crawled towards her. He settled behind her and wrapped his palms around her fists.

            ‘Shhh, it’s OK. Everything will be OK. We’ll make things work. One day at a time.’

            Instinctively she turned around into his body and cried. He cried too. They lay like that until daylight.

            ‘Jesus, Penny, you only had peanuts and chocolate yesterday. What’s making you so bloody sick?’

            The heat from his palm eased her convulsions until she felt able to lift her head from the toilet bowl. She replaced the lid and wiped her mouth on a towel.

            ‘Maybe stress. I’m strung out,’ she mumbled.

            ‘I know, baby. We need to make our move today before we both go mad. We need to face the world, be brave. Do you think you can?’

            ‘No. Oh God, no. I don’t want to. I don’t.’ She gripped the edge of the bath, breathing deeply as fresh waves of nausea approached.

            ‘Come on, let’s get our stuff together. I’ll be brave for both of us.’ He positioned his shoulder under her armpit and hauled her to her feet for the second time since they’d met. He lay her on the bed and moved around the room, gathering up their possessions. He removed the computer from his laptop bag and left it by the waste paper bin beneath the desk, squashing their items inside instead.

            ‘I was part of the team that redeveloped this place, you know. I know the place intimately, yet I’ve never stayed here. We both prefer country breaks, working in the city all week. Or foreign city breaks. Madrid, Verona, Singapore, New York …’

            Darryl paused to look at her again, his face angled slightly.

            ‘What did you do? Here, I mean.’

            ‘Staircases and lifts. They all had to be resized or repositioned to meet modern building regulations. A lot’s changed since this place opened at the end of the nineteenth century.’

            ‘You can say that again,’ he sighed.

           

            Pushing through the revolving art deco doors and out onto The Strand, the bright sunshine reflected off crushed and upended cars and buses, some of which had burned out. People lay strewn on the pavements as if asleep, handbags and silent mobiles still clutched in their stiff fists. A chorus of burglar alarms replaced the usual melee of engine noise and the hum of chatter. Smoke whispered skywards from the direction of Covent Garden and she wondered whether it was a fire lit by people, or just a result of the chaos. With one hand Penny clutched her belly, and in the other she took Darryl’s fingers.

            ‘Let’s find somewhere to go, away from here.’

            They stepped into the road and began their journey.

Evil Creatures

We miss her dearly, all of her children. So it’s comforting to know that she stands at my shoulder, gently persuading me to push the pockets flat before I run over them with the iron, reminding me to unbutton the shirts first and tutting as trousers emerge from the basket with flakes of white powdery paper clinging to the grey fabric. That really isn’t my fault, mother! Out of my remit. When the basket is finally approaching empty she wills me to sit down with a nice cup of tea. I prefer her to chat on in this way, willing her to imagine me in my little flat. Or better still, in her safe bungalow surrounded by china figuerines of the past forty years. In my mind I hear the three, four, five clicks of the gas ignition before the whoosh of the flame. I prefer narrow china cups that keep the liquid hot and stop the milk from forming its own pattern on the drink’s surface. My soul satisfied, I swirl cool water around the cup and upend it on the drainer ready for next time.

            In the room three doors away from the laundry area sits my computer. Next to it is the flat mesh tray containing a list of projects that I need to finish before the end of the week. The first one is a commission to create an image for a child’s bedroom wall. I’m a Graphic Artist in my real life, once I get past the banality of the everyday drudgery. My talents have been identified and are used to raise funds. I also make a living of sorts from the income it generates.

            ‘Any particular theme, Helen?’ I ask my supervisor. ‘Super-heroes, monsters, or what?’

            ‘It’s a girl. She’s only four, so maybe a fairy or something. Use your imagination. I’ve been told you’ve got one!’

            And indeed I have, especially when it comes to subjects of a mystical nature. Although they’re not mysterious to me. Or children. They believe; you can see it in their eyes. I choose the computer programme most suited to this type of image, preferring the sharp realistic lines of the vector software. I want this child to see the urgency of the situation, the death contained in the yellow teeth, the poisoned saliva running onto the chin and downwards to the mulch beneath its feet. This is what the forest creatures look like.

Sarah, my youngest sister, born prematurely and mollycoddled in the twenty-odd years since her birth, knows what I mean. Her eyes, as she watched me from the viewing area, communicated what she now understood. That I had tried to protect her, all of them. But I had failed. I watched them leave: Sarah, her husband, one of my other siblings and my recently widowed father. The creature had decimated the family, spilling their blood and poisoning their minds. Only I know the truth, and here it is in shades of ochre and sienna, forest green and blood red. 

Mastermind

Someone has asked me what my specialist subject would be if I were a Mastermind contestant. Initially I thought, ‘Oo that’s a good one.’ Then it depressingly dawned on me that I don’t have one. There isn’t a single thing that I could claim to know about in detail enough to confidently face an inquisition. I know well why this is so, as I sit on my bed with my current read spreadeagled on the duvet next to me. I’m typing this between checking my various forums and facebook pages, making sure that the kids are occupied and conversing with the other half on Skype. In the back of my mind I’m working on convincing myself that I should get in the shower, as I’m expecting a furniture delivery at any time. When I finally do get ready, I’ll be throwing clothes downstairs for the kids at the same time, and making beds and opening curtains. I’ll probably then take my laptop downstairs so that I can periodically check it or type up new ideas, whilst ironing and catching up on some of the recorded dramas on my V+ box (this queue of unwatched programmes is a constant source of stress, which reaches a crescendo after a holiday. You can only imagine the military precision of the catch-up regime after our three-week summer break!). Then I’ll be no doubt texting around various mothers, trying to organize a cinema excursion for this afternoon, whilst attempting to put together what will no doubt turn out to be a flat-packed dining table. Meals will have to be inserted somewhere into the schedule, and there’s always the possibility of mowing the lawn if the weather stays dry and the grass has dried out from yesterday’s deluge. My husband’s specialist subject would be ‘show control in entertainment environments’, as this is what he does all day every day. But mine? How to keep as many balls in the air as possible. And I’d lose.