Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

A boy studies the live rail at Tooting Broadway picturing death and electricity.                 Mind the gap, doors closing. Sits opposite a straggly beard riding the world’s longest tunnel to keep warm. Headlines shout on seats, a bottle rolls across the floor impeded by cigarette ends. A beige mouse occupies the seat beside the boy, rattling round a metal wheel in time with the train. The tramp stares past the boy and noise to the dark mirror doubling his soul. Crescendo subsides for Colliers Wood. Speeding through blackness to South Wimbledon, brakes squeak loud as a million mice. Tramp exits, crosses to the Northbound. Coasting to Morden town soft bulbs flicker across points. The carriage flips from tunnel night to instant dawn.                   All change. This service terminates here. Clutching ticket and cage, the boy count...

In the night, grief falls like rain. It is the gentle patter of tears, Or the cold drizzle of sadness Or a sudden, heavy downpour That drenches completely.  It seeps through the cracks of a parched heart,  Swells the seed of memory, and stirs A reluctant, fragile unfurling,  That, tender, turns towards the light To blossom and bleed afresh.

The quayside at Vlissingen was slick with fish waste, the stench almost unbearable. Away from the shelter of the warehouses, the cobbles were ice-covered. The two of them threaded a way through huddles of fishermen. Even the swirling tobacco smoke from their pipes failed to mask the smell of fish remains. Ork’s mission to rescue his friend Gilou from the blood-soaked streets of Paris, avoid the revolutionary guards and make the long journey to the relative safety of the Low Countries had been successful. A sea crossing lay ahead of them. As soon as they boarded the boat, the skipper demanded payment. Arrangements for their voyage across the North Sea had been negotiated in a dark corner of Het Waterhuis the previous evening. They’d paid the agent his commission and now it was time to hand over a much bigger sum to the long-haired, bearded fisherman. Ork tried not to think about the tales he’d heard of desperate folk who’d fled France and handed over hard-earned cash, only to b...

I was asked recently by Kirklees College students doing a film project “What Windrush means to  you?”.  I had not thought much about the question before I started speaking, and found myself surprised that my memories were all infused with family gatherings of relatives and family friends who we called aunty and uncle out of respect. A time when Jamaicans identified strongly as part of the British Empire and the Queen held as much significance in Jamaica as she did here. A time when as children born in the UK, we were encouraged to inculcate and practice British values, speaking any Jamaican dialect was frowned upon and we were encouraged to read. Back in Jamaica during the same period, children sat British exams and studied for Cambridge GCEs.  I observed my cousins in their teens and they dressed modestly as our parents would chastise us otherwise, and found the mini-skirts of the time quite revealing. Any interest in boys had to be declared and approved by the fami...

    Tomorrow, I shall paint my room red. At the moment, my bedroom is a drab beige colour. It wasn’t my original choice, it was my husband’s. He always preferred colours to be discrete and bland. I always preferred a sense of the dramatic in my decor. But now, he wasn’t here, he had left me all alone, so I could make these decisions for myself. The prospect excited me, I finally felt free.     I walked around the DIY store this afternoon unsure of what I was looking for. I found a paint chart and decided on the most vivid shade of crimson red with a hint of burgundy.     “Wow, that colour is quite something!” the shop assistant said. “Are you painting a chimney breast or something? It seems a bit strong for a feature wall!”     “I’m painting my bedroom in it,” I replied, sniffily.     “Wow! Ok, you must really like strong colours then! My husband would throw a fit if I decorated a room in that colour!”  ...