Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

Elspeth was in the corner, tucked between the wall near the window, and her bedside table.   She was looking at the white lords and ladies on the base of her pink lamp, and talking to them, as she did at times like this.   They were dancing to an increasing crescendo, while she beat the bass drum in time, by flicking a round ball at the top of one of the tassels on the fringe of the lampshade.   She counted as she flicked, as she felt the sound of the orchestra play faster and louder, stomping along the hall and crashing through her bedroom door. Elspeth didn’t hear much of what he said.   From under water, sounds are muffled.   His lips moved, mouth wide, teeth, spittle, eyes large, face red, neck tight and stretched with rage.   Elspeth heard the odd word.   “Stupid” mostly, and “selfish”.   She saw the hand, raised her arms across her face and closed her eyes, as she felt her head jerked from side to side.   The blows were grey and pu...

Great Grandma’s house. I still think of it as hers, even though she’s been dead over forty years. My home now. Down the stone steps and into the front cellar, door slamming behind me. Screwdriver needed from the toolbox for a minor bit of DIY. Poking about in the dim light of a 40 watt bulb. Sudden darkness. We’ve had power cuts before. We’re told there’s a problem at the switching station – whatever that is. They don’t generally last long. Pitch black is a good description. No phone to light my way – it’s on the bedside table – not even the illuminated dial of my wristwatch. As for a torch or a match – forget it. Inch over to the doorway, arms outstretched to give forewarning of hidden obstacles. An unnecessary precaution as the cellar is empty apart from the tool box and two packing crates which I know I’m walking away from. I try the handle, but the door won’t budge. There is a knack to it but after several increasingly panicked attempts I realise it’s not the handle that...

“Get down!” Lisa flapped her arm urgently. I dropped to the ground behind the stalks at the edge of the field and shuffled closer on my haunches. Lisa was eleven, two school years above me.   James and Andrew, aged twelve and from the next road, knelt ahead of us, further into the field.  “What? What is it?” I whispered.  “It’s the Crow Man!” Lisa pointed. “Up there!” “Who?” I craned my neck towards the bridge across the motorway, which over-looked the field.   I couldn’t see anyone. “Who’s the Crow Man?” “Shush!! He’ll see us!” I crouched down lower. My legs started to prickle with pins and needles.  “But who is he? What will he do if he sees us?” The boys glanced back at Lisa, and she shook her head. She held her finger to her lips.   “We can’t tell you,” mouthed James.   “Sorry.”  I stared up at the bridge but I still couldn’t see anyone. The sun was harsh and my eyes smarted. The stalks scratched m...