Monday 27 July 2015

Level Four : Part Two. 'Charlie' by Suzanne Hudson

“He was here a second ago…where’s he gone?” Julie seems mildly irritated and gulps from her water bottle.

“Was he?” asks Jemma. “I was talking to Seamus, I thought he was behind us.” We look up and down the road but there’s no sign of Clive.               

“Are you sure that he was here a second ago?” I challenge Julie.  I can’t stand vagueness. 

“Well I thought he was, but I was walking with Pam.”

“So you can’t be sure?”

“Well no…”

“Oh for goodness sake, who was the last person to see Clive?” I ask. God these people irritate me.  They speak slowly, they think slowly. No wonder none of them have achieved anything in their lives. Everyone looks at each other blankly. A mild look of panic crosses Jemma’s face. She reaches for her phone but can’t get a signal. We all check ours but to no avail.

“Someone must have seen him leave the path…he can’t have just vanished.” She tries to keep her voice steady, but I can tell she’s concerned. Blank faces again.  Natasha looks puzzled, but stays perfectly calm.

“Has he gone off to do a…you know?” she asks Jemma.

“A what?” Jemma replies, her voice rising now.

“A pee pee?”

Michael, the games designer, snorts with laughter. He sets me off. I have to stuff the collar of my polo top into my mouth.

“Well if he has, he’s been a long time,” chuckles Seamus. “Unless it was more than a pee pee!”

That sets us off again. Natasha doesn’t laugh. Her pretty face has hardened. Jemma grabs Natasha’s arm. 

“What about the hunters? Could he be in danger?”

“He should be okay, but we need to find him quickly,” Natasha says, pulling her rucksack on. The rest of us start to do the same.

“No, no…you must stay here,” she says.

“You’re not serious?” exclaims Diana.

“Yes, that is the correct procedure.  You stay, I look.”

“So this has happened before?” I ask incredulously. In my head I am already composing my email to the Managing Director of the company.

“Well, not to me, no,” Natasha admits starting to walk back the way we just came.

“Hang on a minute, I’ll come with you,” Michael says, going into hero mode.  I knew he fancied Natasha.

“Absolutely not. Please stay.” There’s a new firmness to her voice that we haven’t heard before. “This is the best way. You will all be safer here.”

“Without a guide?” Diana looks anxious.

“Clive might come back here, trust me, I know what I’m doing,” Natasha replies, and with a swish of her long blonde ponytail she is gone, heading back down the path and disappearing from view.

We retreat a little way into the wood to shelter from the hot sun.  Diana looks like she is about to have a panic attack. Jemma looks stricken. Seamus puts his arm around her.  

“This is crazy!” I say, mopping my sweating brow. “God knows when we’ll see her again!”

“Don’t say that!” gasps Jemma.

“Look, I’m sorry but you really need to keep a closer eye on your husband.”

“Excuse me?”

“You didn’t even know he was missing!  I wouldn’t call that paying attention to him, would you?”

“I told you I was talking to Seamus.”

“Yes well…”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Charlie!  Lay off her will you mate, will you?” Michael puts his arm around me and guides me away from the group as Jemma starts to sob in Seamus’ arms and Julie and Pam glare at me in disgust. I can feel my blood pressure rising. My doctor advised me to go on a walking holiday to help with the stress of running a multi-million pound company, not to give me a heart attack.

“This is bloody ridiculous!” I realise I’m pacing up and down. How the hell did I end up in the forty degree heat with this bunch of middle-aged no-hopers? And where on earth is that loser Clive?

“Look mate, we’ve just got to sit tight, okay?” Michael’s a nice guy but he’s as obedient as the rest of them.

“No way,” I say. “We can stay here and fry or we can do something constructive.”

“Like what?”

“We all need to retrace our steps until we find phone signals again. Then we can call for some proper help, get the emergency services involved.”

Michael looks unsure. “But Natasha said…”

“For God’s sake Michael, do you really think you’re going to sell that game to anyone if you don’t learn how to take charge of your own life?”

“Alright then mate, but on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re telling them.”



Monday 20 July 2015

Level Four: Part One: 'Michael' by Andrew Shephard

After breakfast on the third day, we gather around the metal tables and chairs outside of the hotel. Seven middle-aged walkers, one fit leader, and me. No one is sitting down. The chairs are spotted with raindrops from an early shower. My shorts and tee-shirt are still damp from yesterday’s twelve wet miles, but it’s my feet and shoes that bother me more. Natasha, our leader, makes the route sound interesting. She warns of lung-busting ascents, sharp rocks, and sections where there is no clear path. She tells us we will cope with the extra distance; we are a good group. Good in what way exactly?

“It’s a harder walk today, Level Four. Make sure you have plenty of water. It will get hot. I mean hot. There will be no willages until the end. We won’t see single person, unless hunting or collecting honey. The locals don’t walk unless car is broken.”
“Hunting? Not with guns?” One of the vegetarians, Diana I think.
“Shotguns, yes.”
“How horrible. What do they kill?”
“Anything. Wild boar, snakes, small birds. They can shoot whatever they like, it’s private land. But don’t worry; they don’t mind you walking through the estate. Everyone very friendly. But don’t run away if you hear gunshots. He might think you’re a deer.” Everyone laughs. But you could mistake Diana for a deer. If she’s a deer, what animal are the others? I will decide while I walk. I have found walking all day gives me ideas for my game.

I haven’t asked Natasha where she’s from. Greece, Romania? Somewhere with hills but no jobs, obviously. She’s Lycra fit and a good listener, too, but tells us nothing about herself. Everyone wants their turn talking to teacher while we walk. There’s one couple who spend more time talking to Natasha than they do to each other.

Jemma and Clive. The couple. I know their names because they’re in the room next to mine. Nightmare, literally. They’re polite to each other during the day but three glasses into the free wine at dinner they start arguing. Their rows wake me up. I hear them swearing, fighting, crying. Some holiday they’re having.

I ask our leader and carrier of the first-aid kit to take a look at my blisters. I wipe a seat dry with my hand and take off my trainers. She squats down and stares at my toes. She raises one foot to look at the sole. She shakes her head, swishing her mane over my feet.
“Oh, my poor boy. Bad. You should read the brochure. It says everywhere, Level Four, experienced only. Boots. Trainers not good.”  Who reads brochures? I booked on-line, a last minute thing. I was in danger of disappearing into cyberspace and had to step back into a real world. It was sunny and flat on the tour company website. Natasha says I should spend the day in the village and take care of my blisters when the pharmacy opens at ten or eleven.

No way! I don’t give in that easily. I know about Level Four. The game I’m working on goes up to Seven. The coding gets well complex after level three. I’ve shown the game to the others on my phone, but they’re not interested, only Natasha. She got it right away.

The rain stops and the sun comes out. It’s hot, like Natasha said. It’s steep, like Natasha said. Every step for the first two hours is agony, but then I’m past feeling pain. We have lunch on a ridge blasted by a hot wind. We start to descend, winding slowly through a wood. Diana catches up with Natasha and me. She’s red in the face and breathing heavily.

“How much further is it?”
“Depends how fast you walk. One hour, two probably.”
“Did you see the sign, Natasha? The one in the tree. It doesn’t mean hunting, does it?”
“Show me.”

We walk back fifty yards where the rest of the group are in a circle debating the sign. Natasha puts down her rucksack and announces a drinks break. She rummages through her bag and pulls out her walking notes. I point my camera at the sign. It doesn’t translate. I try Wikipedia, but there’s no wi-fi, 3G, or phone signal. Natasha finds the place in the notes and starts to laugh.

“Oh yes, bees. We must divert to avoid the hives. We can rejoin the path further down.” Natasha points a teacher’s finger counting the group.
“Why only seven?” We look at each other to compute the missing walker.
Even Jemma hasn’t noticed, but then she does. “Has anyone seen Clive?”


Monday 13 July 2015

The Luncheon Party (concluding part) by Suzanne Hudson

        
He asked her to go to the States with him. Practically begged her.  He said he wouldn’t be coming back.  Broadway was calling him. They lay in bed in his apartment as the sun came up over the river and he described the Art Scene in New York and how wonderful it would be for her career.  He said that they could get married first if it made her feel better and she laughed and told him that was an appalling way to propose and she wasn’t the marrying kind.  She said that she couldn’t leave France, her family, her friends.  Her grandmother had always said that a woman should never follow a man anywhere, that it should always be the other way around.  He said he loved her, that he couldn’t bear to be apart from her and if that was the case then he wouldn’t leave, there was plenty of acting work for him here in Paris.

         She knew that he must really love her to give up his dreams. So when they met for dinner that evening she’d made up her mind to move to America with him. She thought she’d burst with excitement while the waiter took their order and Phillippe deliberated between fish and steak.  As the waiter walked away, she grabbed both his hands.

         “I’ve got something to tell you,” she said, her eyes sparkling with happiness.  His face looked grave.

         “Before you say anything, I’ve got something I must tell you,” he said.  She opened her mouth to protest and then saw in his eyes that he was about to break her heart. 

         “I’m sorry my darling, I’ve been thinking about it all day.  I know I said this morning that I would stay here, but I can’t.  I have to leave, I really believe that great things are going to happen for me in New York.  Please forgive me but I cannot give up this chance to live my dream.  Perhaps one day you will change your mind and join me there?"

         She let go of his hands.

         "So what was it you wanted to tell me?"

         “Oh, it’s nothing.’ she murmured, as the waiter poured her wine.

         She cried for two days straight when he left.  And she didn’t paint for three weeks.  When she did pick up her brush her paintings were red and black and angry.  But time healed her wounds.  Other men flitted in and out of her life, but none of them seemed quite right. She gradually forgave him and she never forgot him.  He was true to his word, he never came home.  Until now.

                                                               *               *               *

         After Simone’s invitation that day at the cafĂ©, she found she couldn’t stop thinking about Phillippe.  She abandoned her landcapes and began painting him.  The back of his head.  A side profile.  In the distance coming towards her.  She felt like she’d lost her mind.  She thought she saw him on the street buying a newspaper, on the metro, at the cinema.  She ran behind him for half a block to grab the shoulder of a complete stranger, who looked at her with horror.  She dreamt that they were in New York, that she had married him, that she was heavily pregnant.  I’m going to France for a holiday, he was saying, and she was hanging onto his leg, screaming hysterically, don’t go, don’t go.  She awoke in a cold sweat and felt her flat stomach beneath her nightgown and for a horrifying split second thought she’d lost his baby. 

         The day of the luncheon party arrived.  Claudette dressed with shaking hands.  A fantasy was running through her head. He was divorcing his wife.  He’d found out the baby wasn’t his.  He wasn’t really home for a holiday.  He had realised that he had made the greatest mistake of his life five years ago and he wanted a second chance.  As she applied her make-up, she rehearsed her responses.  No, he couldn’t just snap his fingers and expect her to take him back.  It was too late.  She’d moved on.   She didn’t love him anymore.  But her fantasy always ended in him grabbing her and kissing her and her falling under his spell all over again.
     
         Simone’s butler opened the front door and took Claudette’s wrap.  Simone greeted her in the hallway, exclaiming over her silver dress and beaded headband.  She swept her off through the house to the terrace.  Claudette’s eyes scanned the room, her heart pounding.  Simone squeezed her hand.
        
         “He’s over there,” she said, nodding towards the corner of the terrace where a tall dark-haired man had his back to them and was holding court to a gaggle of beautiful young women. 

         “He’s not changed,” Simone whispered.  “Always an eye for the ladies.”

         “Really?” Claudette asked, wondering what her friend meant. 

         “You’re not under the illusion that you were the only one, are you?" Simone asked, gently. 

         Claudette laughed, ‘Of course not,’ and steadied herself by holding the back of a chair.

         “He’s slept with half the women in this room.  Including me.”

         “I see.” She felt herself gasping for air.

Peals of laughter emanated from the group in the corner.

         “Henri doesn’t know of course. He likes to kid himself that I was a virgin when we married.”

         “Simone, I’m sorry, this was a mistake.  I think it might be best if I go.”

         “Are you sure?”

         “I’m certain.  Thank you my darling, but you know I hate this kind of thing.”

         Simone’s butler hailed her a cab and as Claudette sank into the back of it, the tears came.  Tears of anger, tears of regret.  She’d always imagined him pining for her, kicking himself for leaving her behind five years ago.  And a tiny part of her always thought he’d come back for her one day. 

         Later that month she packed up to leave for London.  She realised that one of the reasons she’d never left Paris was so that Phillippe would always know where to find her.  As she stored away her paintings she came across the one of the back of his head.  She decided to take it with her.  To remind her to always let go of the ones who walk away.

Monday 6 July 2015

Chalk by Clair Wright




Pleats swinging, square heels pick across the school hall

She lifts the needle, the music stops.

Ageless, yet ever-middle-aged

Face pink, scrubbed, brisk,

Hair neat from its weekly set

She surveys us in our cross-legged rows.

The conductor of an orchestra, she opens

With an overture of “good mornings”

Chorused in unison.

She directs, with an eyebrow,

The teacher at the piano stool

A cheery hymn to sunshine and obedience.

One hundred faces raised to hers -

Deliverer of stern words, gold stars, boiled sweets,

The epitome of school.



But then

For two summer weeks, a revelation:

Marooned in the hall, a single table, set for one,

With ceremony, the television set

Resplendent on its trolley

Is wheeled in place.

Unmindful of two hundred wondering eyes,

Of clatter and chatter, spills and splatter,

Dining alone on shepherd’s pie and treacle sponge

But tasting strawberries and champagne

She is absorbed

In the drama on the grassy stage

Of white-clad gladiators of racket and ball

And we glimpse the unimagined

Life beyond.