Monday 29 December 2014

New Year Irresolution

We love the idea that we choose the way we live our lives. But did we choose the country we were born in? The family we joined? The time and technology, the fashions of clothing and cooking?
This is the time for maxing out on the illusion of choice, through the custom of New Year’s Resolutions. This is where we imagine ourselves, not as a completely different being, but as a person more or less like we are now but with some different habits. For resolutions to change ourselves are usually about habits, not about one-off events. We know we are not really changed by one trip to Japan, but we may be changed by the daily practice of Zen meditation.


Ah, but it is so difficult to change ourselves! We live the way we live now because of a dollop of necessities (people who need caring for, money that has to be earned) married to the customs of the social groups we inhabit. Just knowing that something would be good for us is not enough to make it happen. We have to get the mind on our side, to monitor our progress and to inject some resolve. Sadly, the mind is a slippery customer which comes up with all sorts of excuses. It has to be fooled into the required action.

This New Year I have been thinking about the goal I will not achieve, not even set; and the bad habit I plan to take up in January. Research shows that it is easier to achieve behaviour change if you feel part of a group, so I have been asking my writing friends for their reverse resolutions. Dave can’t remember the last time he made any New Year resolutions, so perhaps he’s been unwittingly irresolute for years. In 2015, he’s determined NOT to:
Join a gym, learn a language, create something on a potter’s wheel, take the lead role in a cutting edge drama – or any role in any drama, read more books than I would have read anyway, walk an uncomfortably long distance, climb an unfeasibly high mountain, go to a country I’ve never heard of, get up earlier in the morning, learn six new recipes, none of which I’ll ever put into practice, try and get more than one correct answer on University Challenge.
Dave says he would raise a glass to the above irresolutions, but he’s already (not?) given up drinking. Clair intends to head off in the other direction:
My New Year’s Irresolution is to drink more alcohol. I used to be quite proficient, but in recent years I have lost form. However, with some committed training I hope I will be able to beat my past performance and set a new personal best.
This irresolution certainly strikes a chord with me; I find it increasingly difficult to get drunk. But I admire Clair’s spirit. The point is, you have to keep trying. Annabel is also planning to party more:
To eat more (although also more healthily). To iron fewer clothes. I used to not iron anything, then I became obsessed with ironing pretty much everything. I need a healthy balance and folding well can help cut down. To go out and party more (my children are getting older and its time to have more grown up fun).
Annabel, thank you for that. The ironing thing has crept up on me, too. On the other hand, I like the smell and it can be good thinking time if a plot needs working on. Inez is clearly an expert in fooling her mind into achieving difficult things:
This year I'm not going to miss any deadlines because I'm not going to set any. Last year I resolved to keep a notebook in my handbag so that I could jot down ideas. This year I hope to remember to put a pen in my bag too.
Yes, every writer needs their notebook and pen, but many forget which pocket they are in at the crucial moment. I can just picture myself at some vibrant social gathering patting each of my pockets and saying, ‘Sorry, can you repeat that? It was really interesting.’ According to Hazel, the ‘s’ word is one that should be treated with extreme caution.
Well, for starters I'm not going to apologise for things that aren't my fault...

Virginia explains why this matters and why such habits die hard;
 I am going to stop saying ‘Sorry,’ when something is either not my fault or I am not sorry at all.  When out shopping, for example, if someone bumps into me, I automatically say ‘Sorry.’  Why do I do this?  They bumped into me, not the other way round. 
I am also going to refrain from saying the ‘S’ word when venturing an opinion or disagreeing with someone else’s view.  I often start by saying ‘I’m sorry, but…..’  Why do I feel the need to apologise for saying what I think, even if it does differ from someone else’s perspective?  So that is going to stop, too. I was at a till point in a shop the other day and the assistant gave me the wrong change.  I said, ‘I’m sorry but I gave you a £20 note……’  Well I was sorry that she didn’t give me enough money but that should not have necessitated an apology from me. 
So my New Year’s Irresolution is to cease that particular form of politeness.  Forever.  So there! Did I come across too strong there?  Sorry!



A very happy New Year to the readers and writers of the Yorkshire Writers’ Lunch blog, and you can add your own irresolutions in the comments section below.

Monday 22 December 2014

A GERMAN CHRISTMAS MARKET

Imagine this: a haze of red, blue and green fairy lights blurred by the rising steam from spicy, heady gluhwein.  The muted sound of a tasteful Christmas carol, sung in its native German.  Woollen clad shoppers huddled together like penguins.  The warm, sweet smell of hot doughnuts beckoning passers by, calling us over to sample them.

Imagine these things.  And yes, I was trying to imagine them as I sat in the back of a stationery taxicab, en route from Hamburg Airport to Lubeck.  The mist I saw was not that arising from gluhwein but that of the cars windows steaming up as the snowstorm began.  The lights were not fairy-like at all.  They were the tail lights of other cars, winking at me through the falling snow flakes of a surprise blizzard.  Not quite what I had envisioned.

The Lubeck of my imagination was a far cry from the reality of this white-hot traffic jam.  I was trapped on sheet ice, watching the silent dance of lorries jack-knifing and cars shimmying towards each other, bumpers kissing bumpers in unplanned and un-choreographed routines.

I eventually arrived safely in Lubeck and was welcomed in via the Holstentor, a twin towered medieval gate.  The gate was illuminated by the moonlight and appeared one moment as a magical form of transportation back over hundreds of years, yet fleetingly resembling a huge bouncy castle, minus its children, standing forlorn against the night sky.  A strange, memorable contrast.

As I wandered the narrow streets, the Lubeck Christmas Market revealed itself exactly as I had imagined it.   Row upon row of stalls selling tree decorations, advent stars, tree lights, candle holders; all gleaming like festive jewels of emerald, ruby and gold.  All designed to enhance the perfect Christmas interior.  All designed to create their own special memories for the future, with promises to adorn our homes for years of Christmases to come.

And then a stark contrast.  Surely that could not be the harsh sound of a tinny rendition of 'Jingle Bells' emerging from someone's hat?  The traditional sounds of the market seemed to recede as I looked at the cheap red felt hat, complete with reindeer antlers and bells.  The wearer stood motionless as the hat sang its little Christmas heart out.  As the climax of the song approached, so as not to be ignored,  the antlers started to flap in time to the music, quivering as the manufactured singing voice attempted a shaky vibrato.

It was impossible not to laugh - as the hat, as it began its unrequested encore - and at myself as I queued up to buy one!

The Lubeck Christmas market was certainly full of surprises.



Monday 15 December 2014

It's only a story...?

My 3 year old son loves stories.  I don’t just mean the weekly library trip and bedtime storybooks - he has a real love of spoken stories.  He asks me or my husband to tell them several times a day, often the same ones repeated.  It’s also a measure of closeness.  You know you’re in his most trusted circle when he asks you to tell him a story (Nan and Auntie Ria have recently been invited to join these inner echelons). 
When I start to think about the stories themselves, I realise they aren’t just something enjoyable and entertaining.  He really needs these stories.  One of his favourites at the moment goes something like this:
“Mum, you know that story about when Nan was a little girl and she was on her red bike and then she fell off and got an ouch on her knee and then her mummy put some cream on her knee and gave her a plaster?  Can you do that story please?”
He usually asks for it immediately after he’s hurt himself.  It functions to help him process the experience, as well as to understand that other people have painful experiences too, that they deal with them and then move on.  He also gets to relish the idea that his silver-haired Nan was once a fearless pigtailed girl zooming down a hill.
As well as working through real experiences, stories help him with to work through and diffuse imaginary fears.  The other evening he was quite alarmed by the tigers that were in the room.  When I asked for their specific location he whispered intently that they were in the top of his body.  So we made a story where we took turns to pull a tiger out of his mouth, count to three and blow each one out of the window.
Since moving house in July we’ve had lots of maintenance people coming to fix things and we’ve also had two car breakdowns.  So a major theme over the summer was mending and problem-solving.   This bred a whole miscellany of stories about boilers, screwdrivers, magic garden walls and breakdown trucks.  I also took it as a sneaky opportunity to subtly challenge gender stereotypes in job roles, as so many maintenance workers he had encountered were men.  So in our story repertoire we now have female characters such as Sarah the crane driver, who crops up whenever a vehicle gets stuck in mud, and Sue the car-loader driver who gets a fair bit of air-time during motorway journeys.
This Christmas, my son will become a big brother for the first time.  In the lead up to him having a sibling, we’ve done lots of stories and photos about when he/mum/dad/nan/granddad was a baby.  Songs have proved to be good for ‘new baby’ story inspiration too.  Stevie Wonder’s Isn’t She Lovely appears on one of our car compilation CDs and so we told him the story of the song’s inception.   Our embellished version has Stevie going to the hospital to meet his new baby daughter, giving her a name, counting her tiny fingers and toes and then going home to write a song for her on his piano.
Stories also provide a living connection to family memories and heritage.  My husband is from Kosovo, and he often tells our son tales about his childhood growing up in a mountain village with a smallholding.  He has endless material on the idylls and hardships of this kind of rural life, bordering into fairy-tale territory: falling out of cherry trees into bramble bushes, spotting an elusive wolf or bear on the mountainside, caring for and learning to ride horses or chopping logs in time for the bitterly cold winters.
When I’m asked for the seventh time that day to do the ‘road builders’ story and I sigh inside (it’s my own fault for making that one so boring), I forget how much all this storytelling has taught me about creativity. It’s helped me to reconcile that caring for my son full-time and wanting to write are not necessarily two endeavours in opposition to each other.  Creative writing isn’t only something I do sitting at a desk in solitude, undisturbed and under ideal solemn conditions.  It’s more messy than that.
Then there’s the joy of improvising and the unexpected.  Can I slip in a funny new detail and will he notice?  How can I interrupt the usual words of the story and make it silly and fresh?  E.g. How many orange-y things can I replace a traffic cone with?  ‘Was it a fox?  A squirrel? A tangerine? A tiger?’ (cue giggles from my son).  Or there’s the collaborative aspect, where my son slots in all kinds of weird and wonderful alternate endings.  In actual fact, he’s the one teaching me about stories and the art of story-telling.
Spinning these yarns has really underlined for me how intimate, even sacred, the act of storytelling is.  What could be more intimate than sharing an imaginary space with another person, with all that that entails emotionally along a narrative journey?  There’s a sense, especially with oral storytelling, that we're making something unique and unrepeatable.  Being entertained is almost secondary to sharing together something fundamental to being human and making sense of the world.


Monday 8 December 2014

ORK (Part Three) by Richard Wells

(See July 21st for Ork Part 1, and 8th September for Part 2.)

The horses slip and slide down the wet hillside towards Ork’s house.
The two men dismount unhurriedly. Ork watches them carefully, uncertain of what he can do to save himself if they have harmful intent. They keep their distance and the taller man speaks in a strange accent which Ork fails to recognise. He has to ask the man to repeat his question.
 “I am Ork. I am the printer.” He sees no point in denying it. “How do you want me to help you?” He addresses the taller man, but it is the short squat man who answers.
 “You misunderstand. It is we who can help you.” His face twitches as he hears a shout from the shed and Ork quickly explains about the sins of his former apprentice. “Perhaps it would be better if your sinner doesn’t overhear our conversation. We shall leave now.”

+ + +

Riding two on a horse is never satisfactory – for men or horse. Digger runs between the two mounts, confused by Victor’s absence. Ork’s hunger hits him as they descend the wooded valley to the stone bridge. The cart is on its side, its precious cargo strewn across the river bank, no sign of Jonas or Victor.

The three men heave the cart back onto its wheels and laboriously load the pamphlets, bundle by bundle. Digger sniffs the churned mud, whines and pads slowly away to the trees.
The smaller man tells Ork he’s lucky. Had they been staunch loyalists, he would have been on a treason charge. But he and his comrade have no truck with such out of date thinking.

 “We must learn from the French. When we saw your over-turned wagon and stopped to read your handiwork, we knew we could count on you. You will of course want to come with us.”
Ork takes in the speaker’s subtle change of tone, an order not a request. He’s come across their views before, but they are not his. He wonders how they were able to track him down and worries about Jonas’ fate.

Digger’s sudden barking distracts him. Ork walks into the copse, feeling the eyes of both men on his back, as they follow. He discovers Victor tethered to a birch sapling.
“That was well found. Bring him, he can pull the cart.” Another order.
Ork guides the cart skilfully around the muddy morass and over the packhorse bridge. He follows his captors as they make their way east, smoking and jesting. Ork thinks of his wife’s letter. Is there a chance she’ll be freed shortly? He blames himself for her incarceration. If he hadn’t been away from home that day…

The men hide their muskets under the tarpaulin, well out of his reach and take on an air of normality as they reach the edge of the town. Ork has seldom visited this place, but the men seem to know it well and are greeted by some of the townsfolk as they ride by.
Horse and cart enter the stable. Ork jumps down and is immediately seized by the two men and led to a room at the rear, dominated by a printing press.

“We have work for you to do” the smaller man says in a low voice.
It’s only then Ork realises that Digger is missing.


(To be concluded in Part 4.)

Monday 1 December 2014

DOG GONE


Newspaper plops through locked front door
With news of great distress across the world.
No bark greets the intrusion of war and disaster.
First World problems rear their pretty heads;
Come here, go there, buy this, buy that, consume and sue.
Have something for nothing, it’s your due.

But here, right here, the world is colder by degrees.
No global heat in Grimescar Valley; the people stay indoors,
Their blood unwarmed by walking marathons.

Food once gusto gobbled, rots, bagged and binned.
Black cat emboldened sits composed in a bed
Of hardy perennials, studying the bird table. Rats encroach.
Mud dries hard on boots, the body stiffens.
The museum house lies cold, quiet and clean
The roaring turbo vacuum stowed silent in the dark.

It was my companion who made the introductions
To the horses, the magpies, the jays, the acorns,
Our daily forensic examination of Blake’s Promised Land.
But now no ear is cocked to listen to my poem,
No dark brown eye to monitor my mood.
I come and go unnoticed, encased in steel.

The world is changed by great events and even more by small.
“Do you miss the dog?” they ask.
Yes, naturally; and more, I miss myself.

Monday 24 November 2014

THE DISAPPEARANCE CONCLUDES: 'Steven' by Richard Wells

“It’s time for me to move on – again - Dad!” I remove the dying flowers from the vase and replace them with a fresh, petrol-station bunch. The display looks a bit thin so I pinch one or two extra blooms from nearby graves.

“That looks better. They’ll never miss them.” I reach for a ready-made roll-up. I know as a regular smoker, Dad won’t mind. And like me it wasn’t just tobacco he inhaled.

“I went down to see Sarah, to sort of say goodbye. Had my old clothes on – well she wouldn’t be used to seeing me in a suit. She hasn’t changed, offered me a spliff and was surprised when I refused. To be honest we didn’t really have much to talk about. I can’t believe we spent a whole year together –till I moved back north. Still she was good for me. I’d just been released and she helped me get things back together. So different from the saintly Rebecca – mum’s favourite, although I’m not sure you ever really liked her.” I take a sip of water.

“Talking of mum – which I’d rather not – I can’t forgive her for what she did to you. I only found out recently. Well I won’t be seeing her again. She was the start of most of my problems. I never knew why she wanted me to be a medic – me! I just wanted to make money, which I did once I’d dropped out, selling dope, easy money until I got caught.”
I unzip my bag just to check the cash is there. Passport’s in my pocket – Ellie thought I’d lost it, but it was just a ploy.

“It’s Ellie I feel sorry for. I’d always fancied her even when she was still married to Danny. Anyway, Dad, I’ve written this letter to her. I hope you don’t mind if I read it to you. I kept a copy.
Dear Ellie
I’ve never been any good at telling you personal stuff – face to face I mean.
It was all great when we started, an instant family – me, who couldn’t have kids.
But we lost our way didn’t we and I’m not really cut out to be a dad. And I couldn’t handle all that stuff about your past.
No doubt mum will be round, bothering you. My advice is to stay away from her – but you probably don’t need me to tell you that.
Oh, and the same goes for Jim. You must realise he’s had his eye on you – he’s so bloody obvious. Steer clear of him. I mean he’s a good drinking partner – he’s the reason I’ve put so much weight on - but beyond that there’s nothing there. And he still owes me money.  
As for the business – I’ve had to wind it up. I’ve put some money in your account to tide you over.
That’s about it really. As you’ve probably guessed, I won’t be coming back.
Thanks for the good times
Steven

“Do you think that sounds OK Dad? I was never any good with words. Frankie said she’d post it for me, once I’m out of the country. You always had a soft spot for Frankie. Well I did ask her to come with me, but she turned me down. It was a bit of a shock. She said I shouldn’t confuse liking with loving.”

I notice the headstone is flaking, pick out a sliver and put it in my pocket, something I can hang on to when I think of Dad.

“I’ve kept it to myself, but the business did really well, although you won’t be surprised to hear that I sailed too close to the wind. I can do with figures what I can’t do with words and there are plenty of people who want their books sorted out – creatively - if I can put it that way. I got rid of the evidence, paperwork shredded, laptop wiped, hard drive destroyed. Bit of a job that.

“So this is it Dad. I’ve got my usual train to catch and then a plane. Not sure where yet. I won’t forget you, I promise.”


Monday 17 November 2014

THE DISAPPEARANCE: Part Four. ‘Sarah’ by Clair Wright

I didn’t think I would ever see you again. Not after all this time. I thought you’d left me, and all this, behind you. What made you come? Why now? Funny that you knew I would still be at the flat, our flat. Did you know I wouldn’t move on? Not like you, Steven. You, with your nice job, nice home, nice life – all very settled, all very safe. Is that why you came? Is it all getting a bit boring for you?

Did you want a reminder of the old life, the old you? Was it strange to be sitting in our old flat, on our old sofa? It hasn’t changed much; there’s still a bit of damp in the corner of the bedroom, the tap still drips in the bathroom. I keep it tidier now, of course. But then, I’m not smoking as much as we were then.

It was nice to see you. You looked different - fatter, comfortable in your cord trousers and your chain store jumper. You look like a father, a family man. Are you a father Steven? You didn’t say, and I didn’t want to ask.

You seemed sad though, Steven. Are you sad? Is that why you came? I wanted to reach out, to touch you, to kiss you again, but I was too afraid that you would push me away. You seemed to be on the edge of something, and I didn’t want to push you, one way or the other.

You didn’t tell me anything about your life now. I think you’re with someone, maybe you’re even married. Why didn’t you want to tell me?  Do you talk about your old life, with her? Do you talk about me? Or do you want to pretend you’ve always lived like you do now, a neat and tidy life, without chaos round every corner?

I bet your Mum’s proud of you now. You always wanted to put on a show for her. You never let her visit the flat, kept her away from the overflowing ashtrays, and the empty wine bottles.  You would go home for the weekend, in your one shirt, and come back angry and silent, to roll another joint and fall into bed, with me. She must be pleased that you’ve settled down, that you’re living the kind of life she approves of.

But we used to laugh at those people, didn’t we Steven? Those dull-eyed zombies getting on the same train every day, to their dull jobs, then home again to their dull lives.  It wasn’t what we wanted for us. We wanted to do it differently. 

Don’t get me wrong. I admire you. You did well, straightening yourself out. I sometimes wish I could have done the same. Maybe then there would have been a future for us, together.

We were happy, weren’t we? Looking back at that year, it’s all a blur, a haze of smoke and red wine and sharing a line on my birthday, a fog of fighting and crying and making up again.  We couldn’t have carried on forever like that; we would have ended up as middle-aged dope-heads, or worse. It always had to end, one way or the other. Maybe the two of us together were like the stuff we were experimenting with; always on the edge of being toxic.

I wanted to tell you how much I’ve missed you, even now, after so long. I wanted to tell you how much I loved you. I still think about you, Steven. Is that why you came?

I always thought we would be together, in the end. I never thought you would leave me. I couldn’t believe it when you’d gone. I waited for you to come back, for days. I just sat in the flat, and smoked and waited.

And then, after all this time, you came back. And you said you would come again, that you’d call me, but you haven’t, yet.  Did you have second thoughts? Did it scare you, seeing me again?


I hope you’re okay, that you’re happy, where ever you are. 

Monday 10 November 2014

THE DISAPPEARANCE: Part Three. ‘Mrs Fielding’ by Emma Harding


So you’ve left. I can’t say I’m all that surprised. You never seemed able to fully commit to life. To all its responsibilities. To all its difficulties. To everything you owed to people.

Eleanor called to let me know. Yes, I know. Ellie called to tell me you’d gone. She can’t even use her actual name, that one. What do . . . did . . . you see in her? With her dodgy ex-husband and her scruffy children. She can’t even give them proper names. What sort of name is ‘Cassie’ for goodness sake? Cassandra is such a beautiful name. A Greek goddess, I think. Was she the one who could predict the future but no one ever believed her?

Did you tell her? Ellie? She didn’t say anything about it on the phone but I think I should go and see her. Look her in the eyes. Only then will I know if she knows.
I visited your father yesterday. To tell him the news. There were signs you had been there recently. Was that before you left or after? I talked to him about you but he was no more help than he had been when he was alive. Always one for retreating into silence at the first sign of trouble. Then, as now, I suppose.

He’d know what to say to you though. You always had your heads together you two. Plotting some scheme or trip together. You never shared any of that with me. I used to hate it, you know, being left out like that. Now I miss it. Now I’d give anything to be able to walk into the room and find you both there smirking guiltily at each other. Anything.

My head is full of ‘if onlys’. Regrets that I can’t shake off. If only you’d finished your degree. You were intelligent enough. You could have been anything you wanted. I worked so hard to get you there, made so many sacrifices. But you frittered it away, shrugged it off as if it meant nothing to you. I had such dreams for you. Where did all that promise go? I used to watch you as a child, envying your energy, your delight in new things, new experiences. The way you would drink in life. But somewhere along the line you got scared. You refused to push yourself. If you had you could be a doctor by now, earning a good salary, living in a big house. That’s what I wanted for you. But instead you’re in a dead-end job, with a dead-end ‘wife’.

If only you’d stayed with Rebecca. Not Becky, never Becky. Beautiful, refined Rebecca. She had enough drive for both of you. She’d have made you what you should have been. She’d have given you children of your own. You would have been happy then. Settled.

If only your father was still alive. Yes I know what you said. That I was glad to be rid of him. I haven’t seen you since the day you said those awful things. I swore I’d wait for you to apologise. But you haven’t been back and now maybe you never will.

If only you hadn’t found those things. I’m sorry about that. You weren’t meant to. I meant to throw them out but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to do it. But it’s not what you thought. I tried to explain but you wouldn’t listen. You said such horrible things to me. I thought I’d let you stew for a bit and then I’d explain. Now, maybe I won’t get the chance. I loved your father you know. I couldn’t bear seeing him in so much pain.


There’s something I want you to know, wherever you are. I want you to know that your dad smiled at the end. He knew. And I knew. It was the right thing to do.

Monday 3 November 2014

THE DISAPPEARANCE: Part Two. ‘Jim’ by Andrew Shephard


Every time my mind races ahead I pinch myself hard. Stay calm, Jimmy Boy, stay calm. The important thing is to act normal, do nothing unusual. They know that in the films, but then they do something stupid that gives them away.

She rang me, Ellie did. She’s never rung me before. That’s how good she is at hiding her feelings. I was half way down the High Street on my morning trip to look at the runners and riders in Ladbrokes. Ellie said she needed to talk to me.
“Sure, Babe. Talk away.” I bobbed into a coffee shop and mouthed espresso to the barista. My heart was thumping. It was the call I’d been waiting for.
“It’s Steven. I’m worried sick, Jim. Have you seen him?” She really did sound worried. She didn’t even bother to tell me not to call her Babe.
“Seen him? When d’you mean?”
“I mean he left for work yesterday morning and hasn’t been home. I told the police and they asked if I’d checked with all his friends.” She sounded really stressed. The police; was that a warning?
“Hold on, I need to pay for the coffee.” I needed a minute to work out the right answer. Had I seen Steve? Did she want me to say I’d seen him?
“No. I waited for him in the Head of Steam last night but he didn’t show.”
“Is he in trouble, Jim? You must tell me. Does he owe someone money?” I had to stifle a laugh. Owe money? I was the one who owed Steve money. He was always helping me out, like a good old friend should.
“Jim, promise me. I mean this. If he contacts you let me know, right away. You must.”
“I will, I promise. You know I will. I’d do anything for you.”
I’d do anything for you. Was that giving too much away? What if the police were actually listening? Be cool, Jimmy Boy. I think she started to cry.
“Don’t worry, love. He’s probably got some business to attend to. He’ll turn up in a day or two. I’ll ask around if anyone’s seen him. Are you all right on your own with the kids? Do you want me to come round?”
“No, Jim. I’m fine. I just want to know where he is.”

I took my coffee outside and rolled a cigarette. I wondered how long I’d have to wait before it wouldn’t look suspicious. A month? Six months? I’d already been waiting two years. Two years of hiding our feelings for each other. Two years of hanging around with Steve so I would have an excuse to see Ellie every few days. She played her part, never betraying the buzz we both felt when we were in the same room. She even blamed me for Steve’s gambling and I went along with it, persuading Steve to lend me money so I had another reason to go round to their house.

Another six months of waiting would be hard. I will leave it to Ellie. She seems to have handled everything good enough up to now. She’ll give me a sign. How will she let me know it’s time? A kiss, as long and full on as all those kisses I’ve imagined? Or will she fall sobbing with relief into my arms? Or will it be that smouldering look she gave me the first time we met? I had just moved back into town and bumped into Steve when he was coming out of the station. He invited me home for a meal and to catch up on the last five years. It was late, and we were talking about people Ellie didn’t know.  She yawned, said she was going to bed, and smiled over her shoulder at me as she was climbing the stairs. A look that said it all.

Monday 27 October 2014

THE DISAPPEARANCE: Part One. 'Ellie' by Virginia Hainsworth



It’s three o’clock in the morning.  I am awake.  Again.  I gaze through the open curtains at the bare-faced moon.  It is a delicate, dreamy blue and it stares back, unblinkingly, at me.  I wish it could tell me where you are.

I turn to your empty pillow and hug it pathetically.  Where are you?  I know you are out there, somewhere, alive.  I would sense it if you weren’t.

I’ve told the children that you have gone away for a few days with work.  I hate lying to them, but what can I do?  Cassie asked if you had gone to stay with her dad.

For what must be the hundredth time, I trawl every quadrant of my brain for anything unusual in the days leading up to Tuesday morning when you left for work, as normal.  I’ve been over this so many times in my head and with the police.  You left, as you always do, in a rush.  You didn’t take your wallet and bank cards.  You never do.  Just enough money for the day.  I can never understand why you do that.

I’m afraid I’ve looked through all your papers, in your desk drawer, to see if there is anything out of the ordinary.  I’m sorry, but I just felt that I had to and, anyway, the police told me to search.  I felt like a snoop.  I couldn’t find anything odd.  Your passport wasn’t there, of course, but we couldn’t find it when we got back from holiday a couple of weeks ago.  We thought you must have lost it coming out of the airport on the way home.  Did you remember to report it missing?  I bet you’ve forgotten.  That’s so like you.

It’s past four o’clock now.  The moon is dipping down behind the houses at the back.  Just peeping over the chimney pots.  It’s teasing me.  It’s taunting me with the thought that you may have left me for someone else.  I know you haven’t, but the police referred to the possibility.  As did your mother.  She asked if everything was alright ‘between the two of you, if you know what I mean.’  As if I would tell her if there was anything wrong.  She wants to come and stay but I just couldn’t cope with that.  Part of me feels bad about saying no because she must be feeling pretty wretched.  The sliding moon has another disquieting thought for me as it slinks down even lower.  Your mother seemed a bit evasive when we spoke today.  Hesitant.  I try to cancel that thought.  She always sounds cagey with me.

And your closest friend, Jim.  Have you confided anything in him?  He said not.  No, you wouldn’t, would you?  You wouldn’t tell Jim anything you hadn’t told me.  Not Jim, of all people.

It’s five a.m now and the guilty moon has disappeared completely, leaving me feeling even more alone.  I must have slept a little, because remnants of a dream claw at my mind.  You in a dark place.  You’re calling my name, but it’s not my name you’re calling.  It’s my old name.  The one you don’t know about, the one you can’t possibly know, can never know.  I’m back in the children’s home, where I grew up.  The one I told you about.  Then I can hear my mother calling me, the mother I never knew.  But I can’t hear what name she’s using.  Her voice turns into yours.  You’re in a sunless place.  Your voice grows fainter and more fragile.  It disappears completely as I become fully awake. 

Six a.m now and the sun is well over the horizon, sweeping into the corners of my mind and casting away all shadowy thoughts.  For the time being at least.

I am left with the certain knowledge that you must be ill.  Certain, that is, until the next thought.  You’re ill.  That can be the only explanation.  I’m sorry I didn’t realise.  Can you forgive me for not noticing?  I’ll come and find you.  I’ll bring you home and look after you.  I’ll help you to get better.  No-one need know you’re ill.  I feel as though I should know where you are. 

I suddenly notice the faint outline of the moon.  It hasn’t gone after all.

Monday 20 October 2014

It's the love that lasts




What was more shocking - the fact that my 50 year old second cousin had died, or that I found out on Facebook?  Or, was it the fact that I cried?  I cried like I loved him, really loved him, yet I hadn’t seen him in at least three years, and following that occasion I had decided I really wouldn’t mind if I never saw him again.  

He barely acknowledged me, and I was appalled at the person he had become.  It was at my brother’s house.  I had travelled a long way to see my brother, and Terry was there.  He had become a frequent visitor.  He was a mess, and was looking to my brother for support, but it was too much for him.  It wasn’t the fact that Terry needed help which bothered me though.  It was the fact that he seemed so utterly self centred, that his needs and his suffering was so much more important than the needs of anyone else; that he seemed so oblivious to others.  I had an hour to spend with my brother, and he’d told Terry he couldn’t see him when he called, but he turned up anyway.  He’d met a girl, and he had to tell my brother all about it there and then.  And the way he talked about her appalled me so much, that I couldn’t stay there to listen to it any longer, and so I left.  In the six months or so that my brother and Terry were close, my brother had rescued Terry after a suicide attempt at least twice.  He tried to help him face up to his alcoholism, but he was in denial.  My brother had had problems of his own, so was sympathetic and wanted to help, but he wasn’t equipped to help him.  Terry wanted to become my brother’s lodger, and when my brother refused, he lost interest and moved on.  

But when I cried, I wasn’t only crying for his family: his long suffering parents; his sister; his children; and his grandchildren left behind, or my brother who I knew would carry some guilt that he couldn’t help him.  When I was crying, my head was filled with memories.  Memories of when we were younger.  Memories from before it all seemed to go wrong.  There were 10 years between us, and he had been the cool older cousin admired from afar.  He was handsome, friendly and funny.  He reminded me of my first childhood crush, a young John Travolta.   When I was a teenager, he would sometimes give me a lift home from school if he was passing.  As a self-conscious fifteen year old, he took me for a ride on the back of his motorbike - the first and last ever time - it was exhilarating and I loved every second of it.  I can still picture the moment, with my arms wrapped around his leather jacket as we leant into the corners;  feel and hear the crunch of the leather, the roar of the engine, the wind catching the ends of my long hair and the heaviness of the helmet; and that feeling that I wanted the moment to last forever.  And it has.  And it will.  Another treasured memory was an evening in my early twenties, when we shared a few drinks and the family secrets - slightly embellished, but very amusing.

Interestingly, the day before I heard the news, I was having lunch with friends, when one of the ladies said how moved she had been by the media reports following the brutal stabbing of Ann Maguire by one of her pupils.  Ann was reported to have been such a loving person who did so much for so many people, and there was a huge outpouring of love for her.  One of the men in our group said that, though he didn’t know Ann and had no reason to think anything that was said about her wasn’t true, it always surprised him how people are exalted when they die and held up to be saints.  He used the example of his own headmaster’s funeral, where he was said to be the saviour of his school, when he was anything but.  We are none of us so perfect as we might appear to be at our funerals.

Isn’t that they way it should be?  There are some lost souls devoid of love and conscience, take Jimmy Savile as an example, but for the rest of us, we are perfectly imperfect in our own way.  We all have a darker side and have done things we are less proud of, but in the end, its the love that lasts, as love never dies, and that is how we should and will be remembered.  So hopefully, I will be able to go to my second cousin’s funeral, and if I do, although the last moments we shared together were not the best, I will be there with the rest of them, celebrating and remembering the love in his life, and the loving ways in which he touched mine.

Monday 13 October 2014

The Day my Husband Left for Mars



The day my husband left for Mars, we had beans on toast for tea. We sat around the table, the children and I, stabbing beans with our forks, and looking out of the window at the dusky sky, wondering if one of the little silvery dots was him.


 I cried, of course, when he told me.


 ‘You might as well be dead,’ I said.


 Tom said it wasn’t like that. He said we would stay in touch, with video messages and emails.     


 He said, ‘Just think how proud the kids will be, when their Dad is one of the first humans on Mars.’ 


 I said, ‘They won’t have a Dad anymore.’


 He said, ‘This is a once in a lifetime chance.’


 I said, ‘What about your life with us? What about our life together?’


 He said, ‘This has always been my dream – to be an explorer, to be a hero.’


 I said, ‘I dreamed of growing old with you.’


 He said, ‘Please don’t try to stop me.'



Tom bought the new Lego Mars set for the children, and James spent hours constructing the model habitation pods and rover vehicles, moving the little astronauts in their Mars suits around the encampment.



‘Look, maybe this one is Daddy!’ he said, and I had to look away.



I didn’t go to the launch. I stayed at home, and washed the kitchen floor, tile by tile. James and Catherine went with Tom’s sister. James took the little Lego astronaut with him, clutched tightly in his fist. I don’t think they really understood that he wasn’t coming back. How could they?



After he’d gone, I grieved. It was a strange sort of grief – angry, despairing, lonely, disbelieving, - but interrupted with emails and messages from Tom, from ‘the other side’.  He wrote about space-sickness and dehydrated food. He said he missed us.



Mum and Dad brought round pies and hot-pots to make sure we were all eating properly, and I pushed the food around my plate, trying to hide bits under my cutlery like a naughty child. Tom’s parents came too, but I could hardly bear to look at their stricken faces, the mirror of my own.



My friends were divided. There were those in the ‘forget him!’ camp who talked as if Tom had left me – I suppose he had. This camp urged me to get out, start having fun, start dating. Unthinkable – in my head I was still married -a Mars widow.



The other camp didn’t know what to say to me. They averted their eyes, crossed the street to avoid an awkward meeting. I didn’t blame them.



It’s been a month since Tom left.  He wanted to be a hero, but it turns out that the world soon gets bored of grainy pictures of people floating around a space-ship. He’s old news now, until something more exciting happens - they blow up, they crash land, they kill each other – something like that. After all, it will be eight months until they even reach Mars.



I am, however, much more news-worthy.  The week after the launch, I was on TV. I sat on the daytime chat show sofa, opposite the sympathetic host with a tear in her eye.

 ‘And how are you feeling now?’ she asked, her head on one side, to emphasise her concern. ‘Do you worry about him?’



And it was then that I realised that I barely thought about Tom, hour by hour, day by day. I didn’t wonder what he was doing, or worry whether he was safe. I was too busy dealing with his absence.



I didn’t say any of this, of course. I smiled, bravely, and I said, ‘I am so proud of my husband. He is fulfilling his dream, and that is enough for me.’ The audience erupted into spontaneous applause. The Twitter feed went into overdrive.  The show went into a feature on hair-care in zero gravity, but, at that moment, I became a worldwide icon for the brave, selfless wife. 



Now our daily life is consumed greedily, examined and discussed, scrutinised and shared.  We are followed, we are photographed; there is talk of a movie.  Everyone knows who we are, and there is no escape, no possibility of return to our old lives.



Tom hurtles on in his claustrophobic capsule, into forever. He has left us, but by an equal and opposite reaction, we are leaving him, too.



At night, I dream of space. I am hanging, lightly tethered to a bit of rock, cocooned in a cumbersome suit and helmet. I am surrounded by a deep blackness, scattered with tiny points of light. I cannot touch anything, I reach out with my gloved hand and there is nothing, and more nothing. I am adrift.