Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

I shed her like a skin. I left her on the floor, shrivelled and empty. I left her behind – her clothes, her hair, her name. Rose. Poor Rose. I imagine her, all alone in that room, curled up on the bed, staring at the wall. I want to reach out and comfort her. And then I remember that she is me. They let me choose my new name. I gave it a lot of thought. I rolled different names around my mouth, tasting them, testing how they felt on my tongue. I chose ‘Laura’.   I don’t know anyone called Laura. Laura felt like a blank, new page. They got me a flat. Mandy, my probation officer, drove me there and showed me round – one bedroom, a tiny kitchen an even tinier bathroom.   She made tea and we sat drinking it in awkward silence.   I was glad when she left. The flat came complete with furniture, like a dolls house.   To begin with, I moved the furniture around every day.   Sometimes I’d put the table and chair near the window, and sometimes I’d move the sofa

Jack I suppose compared to a lot I had what you might call a ‘good war’. All right, Jack went off to t’army day after our wedding, but lots of lasses had that. And then there were rationing, t’blackout, occasional air-raids, shortages and what-not that everybody had to put up with. But I had good stuff that lots of folk didn’t. For a start I had my job at t’mill, and it were a good ‘un an’ all. Before t’war they might have made me leave once I were wed. But there were no question of that. They needed as many as they could get. And t’boss knew how good I were. He made me an overseer, so the money were quite good – and wi’ a lot of hours, too. Well, we had more work than we could cope with. War work, of course, making cloth for uniforms. And when I weren’t working I could always go to t’pictures with me best pal, Elsie. She were in love wi’ Cary Grant, but I preferred Bogey. Sometimes we went dancing. We danced with each other unless a dishy man asked. But nothing I couldn’t tell my

The creamy, lace-edged parasol sways in time with Nanny’s languid gait. The gentle creak of the perambulator springs beneath my nest of cotton summer blankets, lulls me to a state resembling a coma. Overhead, the occasional puff of cloud or cluster of leaves on a branch glitters in the sunlight against the aventurine blue sky. This is all that marks our slow passage along some promenade in the Zoological and Botanic Gardens of the town Pappa had set us in that year.         I am at that age where the extensions of my own body amuse me. A pink, dimpled foot poking out from the froth of my dress extracts a charming chuckle, my leg kicking at the air creates merry mirth, and my pudgy arms collaborating in some melodramatic minuet before my face, invite hales of laughter.   Then in an instant, my world goes dark. As unease lightly treads my skin, I can hear Pappa’s voice somewhere off, and the chocolate brown aroma of pipe tobacco, that evermore induces me to sickness, tints the

Carlisle. 61 minutes by bus to Silloth, over the flatlands, No line to follow. Closed in ‘64. Fine buildings, wide streets, docks and a promenade, A morning coffee, early, they’ve just started serving. A cheese scone from the bakers to fuel the morning walk, That and the breakfast porridge. No footpath signs! No line to follow. Follow my nose, passing golf course and convalescent home To the dunes. Follow the shoreline. Sea to my right, wind in my face, sand underfoot. Oyster catchers in packs calling noisily, keeping their distance From the gulls. The slap of waves on the shore, grey skies, no rain. Follow the shoreline. Solway Firth to the right, Criffel beyond, Lakeland fells to the left, Fields, farms and open skies. A coffee shop, unexpected, in the middle of nowhere. Well, perhaps not nowhere. Fried egg in a sour dough roll, more coffee. An overheard conversation. A landslip, road and path closed. Best divert along here , he says, poi

Amy was so startled by the door to the Ladies’ toilets as it swung shut, that she almost smudged her eyeliner. ‘You won’t believe who’s just walked in,’ said Katie to Amy’s mirror image, as she approached her.  Katie looked back at her, smiling quizzically and shook her head.  ‘Only Sophie flippin’ Pearson!’ Amy’s face fell.  She and Katie looked at each other through the glass, shoulders hunched.  ‘Did she see you?’ asked Amy.  She turned from the mirror and studied the area from where she stood.  She spotted an open window above one of the toilets.  ‘Do you think you could climb through that?’ she said. ‘What?  Are you kidding?  In this skirt?’ Suddenly they both froze and then turned to each other, as they heard the outer door to the toilet area slam and the inner door handle squeak.  Katie quickly grabbed Amy’s arm and yanked her into the cubicle with the open window.  She locked the door, and they both stood on the toilet seat, balanced awkwardly.  They held their bre