Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

It is May, and I am filled with the spirit of childhood freedom, as I watch my children run under cascading pink blossom.   I am transported to a safe place and you are alive once more. The street where you lived is once again fully lined with tall trees raining pink fairies.   The uneven pavement slabs and cracks on the curbs join us anew, to serve as ramps to ride our bikes up and down, or to challenge my balance as I glide in my adored blue and yellow roller boots.   You are there again, holding the handle on the back of my Blazer bike, and secretly letting go.    It is May, and on a wet walk, while I impatiently coax my son to walk faster, I suddenly stop. As I watch his excited face, fascinated by the water pouring down the steep hill into the gutter, trying to stop it with his wellies, I can hear the distant xylophone notes of a faraway stream catching on the stones.   And I sense you, patiently holding our hands to steady us on those stepping stones over that babbling brook

                          Who do you love and who loves you? Repeat this to yourself in times of stress. Who do you love and who loves you? Nothing else matters, when all is said and done. We get so strung up about the little things, Irate about minor injustices suffered, We like to moan to anyone who will listen And we look for someone to blame. Who do you love and who loves you? Stop the noise in your head and breathe for a minute, Who do you love and who loves you? Nothing else matters, when you consider it. The rushing, the must do’s, the will do’s, the should do’s,           The endless need to improve and perform, But someone somewhere is doing it better, Already succeeding, all their plates in the air. Who do you love and who loves you? Focus your mind on these simple questions, Who do you love and who loves you? Nothing else matters, at the end of the day. The regrets, the failures, th

Unexpected technology, once despised facilitates the congregation. Same town, same house, same kitchen - we lounge around like nothing ever happened. New arrivals hug and kiss, wine is poured, no smoking like we’d live forever. Scratched records play too loud, a freedom dance remembered by our limbs. We still have fun despite the dead and missing. Is she coming, once empress to the men? The one I tried hard to bed, but never said. Who knows where she lives, who she married? Later, when the cups are smeared with dregs, she breezes in, grey locks flowing, dog following. She smiles the smile that wounded long ago - I’m stabbed afresh by a ghost made flesh. Dare I ask out loud? Is there a chance you smile for me? Did you once notice, in that fast and noisy time how I in silence slowly pined? The love that’s saved in bones, is it in yours or was it only pain? Big eyes look sad and dog tail wags  as we exchange our metadata.

We sit facing each other on the train. My mum and me. The conductor marches purposefully along the platform, clanging all the doors shut. A man sitting across the aisle from us pulls down the window to let air into the stuffy carriage. The train groans, shudders, then lurches forward and starts to move. As it builds up speed we can hear the rhythmic rattle and clank of its wheels over the track. I look at my mum expectantly. She looks back and smiles. She knows the role she is to play.     ‘So, what takes you to Guildford today?’ she says.    ‘I have an important meeting,’ I reply, looking important.     ‘Oh, I see,’ Mum says. ‘What is it that you do?’    I pause for a beat. Then, ‘I’m an architect.’    I am eight. It’s October half-term and we’re on our way to buy me some new school shoes. I’m wearing my favourite corduroy trousers and a red wool coat. In my imagination though, I’m in a smart pin-striped suit, my leather briefcase by my side. I sit, business-l

(See the posts of 18 th January and 14 th March for parts one and two of ‘Gilou’) Sleep was hard to come by. Although he was fatigued from the harsh conditions he’d been subjected to in Paris and the weeks of flight that had followed, Gilou’s eyes refused to close. Or so he’d thought until he woke with a start. Coyle’s pocket watch was difficult to see in the half-light. He stared repeatedly at it before realising that he had only ten minutes to reach the lock-up. His two companions, from the previous night – Coyle’s men - were nowhere to be seen, but there was no time to search for them. Keeping close to the house walls, Gilou made his way as quickly as his worn boots and tired limbs would allow. Rounding a corner, he stopped suddenly. Through the early morning river mist, he could just pick out Coyle being marched away from the lock-up by armed men. Gilou was on his own. Had the drunks been released and what had happened to Ork and Tawse? A familiar, reassuring,