Laura and Rose by Clair Wright

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 there, instead. “Oh, you’ve had a change again!” said Mandy, on one of her visits. “You’ll soon have it nice and cosy, once you’ve put a few of your own things in it.”

I nodded, and smiled, except I don’t have any “things”. Neither does Laura, yet. I’m not sure what Laura likes.

On one of my trips to town I went to Wilkos. It was Mandy’s suggestion. “They have lots of nice bits and bobs, and not too expensive,” she said. I looked at picture frames, and candles, and cushions. I bought a yellow towel, and hung it over the radiator in the bathroom.

I like to wander around the shops in the town centre.  Sometimes I play a game of “dressing Laura”. I pick up a few things, tops, and trousers, and skirts, and I take them into the changing room. I think Laura likes bright colours, but I’m not very good at putting them together so they look right. Even so, I’ve had enough grey and beige to last a lifetime.

They asked me to choose a new hairstyle for Laura. I sat in the chair, leafing through magazines.  So now my hair is short, cut into a neat bob. That’s the haircut Laura would have, I think.

Rose had long straggly hair, escaping from its pigtails,  and a crimplene dress and buckled sandals.  I can’t tell the colour of the dress, from the grainy black and white newspaper clippings. The same couple of pictures were used again and again, accompanying big black headlines - a picture of me, and a smaller one of my little brother, next to it.  

Laura doesn’t have a brother.

Laura is going to have to get a job. Mandy says it’s part of making a life for myself, and it will be good for me to have a routine. Mandy brings me information about jobs I could apply for.  Laura has qualifications. Actually, they’re mine, but the certificates all have Laura’s name on them now.  But even so, there are a lot of jobs that Laura isn’t allowed to do. Rose has seen to that.

There were many column inches devoted to why Rose did it – why I did it. I’ve read most of them. There were official reports too, thick piles of paper in beige cardboard covers.  There are copies in my file.  My file fills a whole stack of boxes. Mandy showed them to me. 

I tried to be helpful when they asked me questions. I wanted them to be pleased with me. It was a bit like being at school except I was the only child in the class, and I never got an answer wrong. Whatever I said, they listened carefully and wrote notes.

They asked about school, and about my mum and dad, and about my little brother.

And so I told them - I never wanted a little brother.  I didn’t want to look after him. I was no good at it. He wouldn’t stop crying. He just cried and cried, whatever I did. I just wanted him to stop crying. I just wanted him to be quiet.  That’s all.

It was a moment – just a fragment. But it seeped and spread and infected everything. It took over Rose’s life like a cancer – and then it killed her.  

They folded Rose up neatly and filed her away in a stack of boxes.

Now I’m Laura, with a new name and new hair and new clothes.  I hardly think about Rose at all.

War Monologues by John Emms

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 Jack about when I wrote to him. And, despite t’rationing, me Mam were a dab-hand at making good meals out of whatever we could get.

No – t’war weren’t that bad.

It were t’peace that got me.

You see, when my Jack were demobbed and came home, he weren’t my Jack any more. He’d changed. Totally. All right, I knew he’d been wounded by a shell on D-Day. But I thought he’d recovered from that. And so he had, physically. But it had left him, well, I suppose, mentally damaged. I don’t think it had shown up much while he were still in t’army, though I believe they’d noticed something and treated him a bit. But that had been useless and left him suspicious of doctors. So I had a right job trying to get him to t’doctor when he were back home.

I mean, it were obvious to me from t’start. He used to be full of fun and mischief and always wanting to go out and do things. That had all gone. He just used to sit at home and listen to music on the radio.. Or do nowt at all. Wouldn’t take me out. Wouldn’t even look for a job. Said he were no good at owt. And the nightmares. He used to shout and scream half the night sometimes. Even in t’day he’d get delusions and think he were in a battle. Never got any better. That Alice Jackson said I were lucky. At least my husband had come home. I telled her, ‘Aye, my husband came home. But I lost my Jack on D-Day’.

Saving Gran

Of course everyone round us had Anderson shelters. Dad installed ours. Four feet underground and two feet above, then covered with soil. Mam grew vegetables on it. Cabbage and lettuce and beetroot and all sorts. Digging for victory, she called it. Dad called it our camouflage system.

At first we didn’t need it, but then the air raids started and we were often down there. Mam would wake me and Johnny up, all in a bit of a panic with the siren going in the background, rushing us into our dressing gowns – or coats in winter. The siren seemed to induce panic, wailing away like a banshee. Or it did in our house. We were half asleep and usually a bit dopey. I remember  Mam once shouting at  Johnny to bend his arms so she could get his dressing gown on, then giving up, picking him up and carting us downstairs and out to the shelter. Then she found she’d been trying to put the dressing gown on back to front or upside down or something.

Dad had the most difficult job – trying to persuade Gran to come to the shelter. She always wanted to stay inside under the table.

“I’m not going outside,” she’d say. “Soon as I poke me head out, them jerries’ll drop a bomb on me. If I’m under the table they won’t see me.”

If she’d ever stayed, I think Dad would have stayed with her. But he always managed to persuade her by pretending she’d be left by herself. I liked to watch her coming to the shelter, if I got the chance, as she ran in a funny way, with her legs all over the place. It was the only time she ever ran. And she used to shout, “Get me if you can, Adolf.” Made me and Johnny laugh, but Mam wasn’t amused. She was worried what the neighbours would think.

It was a real tight squeeze with five of us, but quite cosy with blankets and all sorts. Dad had solved the damp problems that a lot had. Some had inches of water on the floor.

We were a long way from the industrial area, and it was rare that a bomb dropped anywhere near. So it was ironic that the one time our street got a bomb it very nearly did for Gran. They said it was probably a damaged plane heading for home and jettisoning its bombs. The siren had gone off very late. Dad said he heard the aircraft before it sounded. And then it had taken ages to get Gran out from under the table. So they were still on their way to the shelter when one bomb landed in the road a little way off. It was too far to be a real danger, but a piece of shrapnel at its last gasp hit Gran’s handbag and scratched it quite badly. For the rest of her life she kept the bag and the shrapnel, ready to tell anyone who would listen the tale of “The day Hitler tried to kill me”.

Memories of an Encounter with a Very Large Animal by Sara Burgess

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 air.

     I can feel something pressing against my leg as a wall of grey, wrinkled flesh obliterates my small horizon. A beady, amber coloured eye set in layers of charcoal ruches, sweeps across my vista. The stench of mud and off hay and a rough grunting sound. The flash of an ivory cutlass, and a rubbery snake like a gnarled limb torn from the trees, pushes against my thigh, snuffles my stomach, tries to nip my chest with its two-fingered tip. Screams rent the air. I am locked in a breathless paroxysm of fear. I am a stiff doll as Pappa wrenches me free of the invading monster, and men appear as if from nowhere to beat it away with sticks. An enraged trumpeting slashes the hysterical cacophony of women, followed by a low trilling, a rumbling, as the outraged animal lumbers off and picks up to a canter with another great roar, as it charges for the canopy of the arboretum.

     Dorothy, my Nanny, is a quivering wreck needing comfort herself, not least for the summary and public dismissal that swiftly follows this shock to her usually sturdy constitution, and Mamma, a spitting hydra, lobs balls of venom at anyone within earshot. As the veritable victim of the piece I am thankfully lauded for still being alive, although now a blubbering, slippery concoction of mucous and salt water, barely able to snatch a breath between my piteous wails. I am stroked and comforted, crushed and cuddled, then snatched away to nuzzle in Mamma’s unfamiliar breast as my beloved Nanny is taken away never to be spoken of again. 

                     

     My father’s singular desire was to own one of every animal that walked the Earth. As a self-styled naturalist, one of a growing number in England at the turn of the century, I often wondered if he valued them more than his own family. Surely we wouldn’t have been pursued to shame and penury, nor Mamma to an early grave, had he been driven by a less indulgent pursuit. But driven he was, and the story of that fateful day, whose details were supplied to me regularly for some time thereafter, remains imprinted on my memory as cleanly as the copperplate enclosure plaque bearing the name of its proboscidean protagonist; Kim.

     Animals fill my earliest memories, many of them stuffed and set in extravagant mahogany boxes with dreamy scenarios painted inside to give the illusion of an airy outdoors. In any of our houses there are always layers of shiny, carapaced insects and jewel-coloured butterflies pinned to boards, which slide into large mahogany chests of drawers. Outside, there are outhouses filled with cawing tropical birds, that never survive our dour winters, only to provide feathers for ladies’ hats or macabre trophies for Pappa’s cronies.

     When I first met Kim, we lived in a house on the Great Western Terrace not far from Kibble Crystal Art Palace in Glasgow. She was kept by a Negro gentleman called John Aaron. I was under the illusion that the great glass houses belonged to my father, at least that’s what he told me, his dreams of grandeur being so effluent. Until that day my young life was sheltered under its huge glass parasol and my dreams were peopled by alabaster statues against a backdrop of huge exotic ferns and rubber leafed flora.

     It was many years later that I learnt that my father was no good with money, and it was that which inspired our many moves in his pursuit of his zoological dream alongside flight from his creditors. We removed to Thorner near Leeds not long after my first encounter with Kim, to a lovely house called Ashfield Lodge, this time kept thankfully free of stuffed and pinned creatures as Mamma finally put her expensively shod foot down about the interior decor. Pappa would still hold forth to any who would listen on such topics as The Plight of the Invertebrate in Industrial Britain, or How to Cultivate an Effective Herbarium, although I was beginning to feel a little sorry for the animals, never more beautiful in stapled and pinned decay than in life. It must have been some ten years between the heated discussions with Mamma and the many flights to diverse hostelries in the area that the idea was borne for his own Zoological gardens in nearby Halifax...

Follow the Line by Dave Rigby

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, pointing to my map.

Along the beach, waves toing and froing. Around the headland,

Costa Allonby, tea and biscuits in the Surf Bar.

Follow the shoreline.

A Roman fortlet. Unexpected? But then Hadrian’s not far away.

Mist down, the first drops of rain, overtrousers on, an hour to go

Along the shoreline.

Last leg, along the prom, Maryport harbour greeting

My arrival.

Hotel, a rest for weary legs, a Loweswater Gold in the bar.

Down to the harbour in evening gloom.

The biggest fish, chips (and mushy peas) I’ve ever seen.

Despite the long walk, I fail to do them justice.

Quiet, dark, harbourside stroll, over the new bridge, fishing boats moored, a dog barking, a good night’s sleep.

In the morning, more porridge.

Back to the harbour to find…the English Coastal Path

And not far beyond…the West Cumbria line.

Follow the line.

Flimby station, Flimby Pie Shop beyond.

Wind turbines, sentinels coming and going in low cloud and smoke from factory chimneys.

Workington ahead, across the Derwent, past Borough Park, home of the Reds,

Supermarket café for coffee and toast. A cheese and tomato roll,

From Sandwich Heaven, eaten on the hoof.

Follow the line.

New housing springs up from old steelworks,

Harrington station, complete with its hump, minding the gap.

Suddenly, on the wrong side of the line, dead-end ahead.

Half a mile back, a missed left-hand turn

Takes me up and over the sea-fretted tops,

More ghostly turbines,

A descent into Parton, clearing skies.

Hugging shoreline and rail line to Whitehaven.

A phone call to friends, a lift to their home, a meal, good conversation, a bed.

After breakfast, a train ride to St Bees.

A seat on the cliff tops, postcards to write.

Back to the station to follow the line

To Sellafield, Millom, Barrow, Ulverston, Grange and Lancaster

A fine Cumbrian coastal ride,

As long as you have the time.

Which I do.

Caught Out by Annabel Howarth

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 breath for what seemed like an eternity, and tried not to look at each other for fear they would burst into a fit of giggles.  

Finally came the sounds of a toilet flush, running water, the hand dryer, and once more the squeak and slam of the doors.

The girls relaxed and stood down from the toilet seat, a little stiffly.

‘I thought you said nobody came here,’ said Amy.

‘I know.  I was sure of it.  I’ve been here a few times before and not seen any of that lot from school.’

‘Well, I’m for it, if she sees me like this.  You know she makes my life hell at school.  She’ll eat me for breakfast.’

Katie nodded.  ‘I guess we’re just going to have to wait it out a bit and hope she goes.’

‘So much for a good Friday night out,‘  said Amy, as she started to pace the floor.  ‘Did you see who she was with?  Are they all there?  What about Lucy Robertson?  Is she with her?’

‘I didn’t see,’ said Katie.  ‘She’s usually not far behind though.  I certainly wouldn’t mess with her.  Did you know she has a black belt?’

‘It’s not that I’m worried about.  Did you hear about Sophie being done for cyber bullying?’

‘Oh, yes, I did.  What happened to that poor girl?’

Another interruption as a door slammed, and the pair ran into the cubicle again, giggling this time.  They sat on the ledge just above the toilet.  Katie pulled a hip flask from out of her bag.

‘What on earth are you doing with that?’ laughed Amy.  ‘That’s desperate, but...give it here.’  She took a swig and handed it back.  ‘Just what I need, a bit of Dutch courage.‘  Katie drank some down too.

‘What do you mean, Dutch courage?’

‘Come on,’ said Amy as she stood up on the ledge, ‘I’m not staying here all freaking night.’

Amy felt a blast of cold air as she poked, first her head and then her arms and shoulders, through the window.  Her hair flew about over her face.  She leant her arms down to touch the flat roof just below the window and managed to pull the rest of her body and legs through the gap, walking her hands across the roof.  There was a slight thud as she landed.  She crouched and looked at her wet, slightly muddied hands, rubbed them together, then stood and called, in a loud whisper, to Katie through the window.

‘It’s alright.  I did it.  Come on.  Your turn now.’  She helped Katie through the window and they tottered across to the edge of the flat roof.  Amy could see the dimly lit main road to her right.   The side road they were in was all in darkness. 

Amy sat herself on the edge of the roof, then swung herself round.  She could feel from the draught between her legs that her skirt had ridden up, and as she reached down to touch the ground, she heard a voice out of the darkness.

‘Is that you Miss Jenkins?‘  Amy froze.  She knew that voice.  ‘Oh, please! No!’ she thought, ‘Sophie blummin’ Pearson!’  Her mind raced ahead.  She pictured Sophie’s mocking face behind her.  ‘What an opportunity for her!’ she thought.  ‘My bottom will be exposed on Facebook and Instagram throughout the school by midnight tonight.  My P45 will be on my desk by Tuesday morning.  Hold it together Amy.’

Amy slowly turned to face her executioner in the eyes, only to find two pairs of wide surprised eyes staring back at her.  The other pair of eyes did not belong to Sophie’s usual side kick, Lucy Robertson.  A smile grew on Amy’s face as she took in the  slightly disheveled couple stood before her: the unbuttoned blouse; the messy hair; the untucked shirt.  Amy quickly composed herself, pulled her mobile phone from her pocket and held it up to her captive audience.  It flashed as she took a photo.  ‘Oh, hello, Sophie,’ she said. ‘Fancy seeing you here.  Isn’t this Jack? Lucy’s boyfriend?  Lovely to see you Jack.  Does Lucy know you are here?’  Sophie and Jack shuffled their feet and looked at the ground intently.

‘Sophie, I wonder if you are thinking what I am thinking?  How about we all pretend that this encounter never happened?‘  Amy said as she waved her phone in front of her.

‘OK, Miss,’ came the meek reply.

‘Come on, Mrs Dixon,‘  Amy called up to Katie, who was dangling her legs over the edge of the flat roof.  ‘I think it’s time for us to go.’

Katie jumped down, and the two of them slowly walked to the end of the dark path. As they rounded the corner, Katie whispered, ‘Did you really get a picture of them?’

‘I seriously doubt it, but they don’t need to know that.   Come on, let’s run. I need a drink!’