Monday 27 July 2020

Discoveries at Dusk by Juliet Thomas


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Tall grasses glow in golden light
Nodding their allegiance to the sun,
A harmony of hues, brown sugar to pistachio
Dancing together as one,
Cheeks painted with soft breezes,
Breath slows, heartbeat eases

Overhead, the silent shadow of the last hunt
Flickering feathers in perfect hover
Below unseen, a field mouse freezes, then
Makes a last-dash for cover
‘Too late’, I whisper and sigh
Kez dives, slicing the sky

Urgent bleating raises my gaze
To the nursery on the hill
Weary mothers scold scamps to come closer
Still frolicking, despite the evening chill
I stroll on, eyes drawn to the sinking light
To secret stories of an early Summer’s night

As I head further up, curious cows say 'Hello'
Calves are skittish, mothers stood firm
Or bowed, chewing sweet long grass
The little ones look on and learn
 I talk to them softly, not wanting to scare
Yet the mothers still fix me, with a protective glare

Minute by minute, sky gods design
A prestigious work of art
Strokes of lemon, paprika, aubergine and olive
Stretching like dough pulled apart
I refuse to blink, transfixed I stare
Breath held, in the heady dusk air

At the end of the lane, I steal one last look
To the field on the right, at the top
Searching to confirm my friends are there,
I spot the hares’ form when they halt to a stop
Smiling, satisfied, I nod, the fabric of my walk complete
I turn, feet firm, revived by nature's daily retreat   


Note: In lock-down, a 15 minute walk up the lane has been a little slice of heaven and it's amazing what you get to see in a short space of time, and breathe....

Monday 20 July 2020

Harvest by Jo Cameron-Symes



It was a still day, but oh so hot. The heat was so fierce it made the air shimmer like water. A heat haze, is what Mother Superior would call it, I suppose. On days like these, there is nothing you want to do more than shelter indoors or under the giant oak at the bottom of the field, but we could not, for it was harvest time and there was work to be done. There was always work to be done, but as novitiates, we could not complain, for it was God's work, honest and pure and he would be grateful for our contribution. The whole acreage has to be hand scythed by the end of the week. Storms may arrive, the heat was certainly an indicator of that, so with limited time left, we had to begin.

The days were long, we woke at four, said our prayers, then got to work. Sister Agatha fainted in the field yesterday and had to be carried in by Jeb, one of the farmhands who helped us with the bales. It was a blessing that she was unaware of this, as she was always preaching about guarding our moral virtue and would have been mortified to think she'd been carried indoors by a strong muscular lad, such as Jeb. She was the eldest one of us here at seventy-seven years. She came to us when she was nineteen, so convent life is all she's ever known. I doubt she could face a life outside in the real world, a world I've nearly forgotten exists, yet I've only been here for two years.

I didn't plan on becoming a nun. When I was a little girl, I was barely religious at all. My Ma had to fight to get me into my communion dress. I would much rather climb trees and run wild in the woods with the O'Connell boys. It was local gossip, that put a stop to that, of course. When I was about thirteen, Mrs Donnelly would sit by her front window and wait till I sneaked out, then she'd bang fiercely on our front door shouting the whole street down, about how the O'Reilly family were shaming the area, raising a whore of a daughter that sullied the neighbourhood. Of course my Da would find me and drag me home then lock me up in my room as a punishment. The worst thing of it all, was that we were completely innocent, we just sat in the trees and talked about school and family life. We weren't getting up to even a fraction of what they imagined we were doing. It shames me to think of it now.

It was that time that changed me. I was determined to be different. I felt then, that it was all my fault, that I'd brought shame on the family somehow and wanted to prove Mrs Donnelly wrong. I started to read the Bible fervently, every night. I felt it contained all the answers to my world. I believed all my problems could be solved by the word of God. By the time I was sixteen, I was convinced. There was nothing more I wanted than to devote my life to God. I would become a Bride of Christ. To my surprise, my Ma cried when I told her. Da just looked at me and sighed. "So be it," was all he said.

I remember the day they drove me to the convent. It was raining and I'd forgotten my umbrella. The windows fogged up and it was like I was travelling inside a cloud. I only took one small battered suitcase with me. Sister Monica, the Mother Superior was there to greet me. I was surprised this younger-looking woman was in charge, as I'd always expected a Mother Superior to be elderly, but one thing I soon learnt was that Sister Monica was ambitious and determined and the most pious of us all. She wasn't exactly friendly, she was businesslike, and I remember hearing our car leave and I looked wistfully out of the window into the rain. Sister Monica drew the curtains fiercely and told me to forget my life before, that this was my life from now on, my duty was to be pure and serve God willingly, forevermore.

Sister Philomena brought me back from my reminiscing and asked me to fetch her a glass of water from the barn. I remembered Sister Agatha's collapse yesterday and hastily obliged. The shade of the barn was cool and inviting. I was about to walk inside when I heard voices and laughter. I stood outside, hidden in the shade and peered through the hole in the slats. It was Jeb and to my amazement, Sister Monica. They were wrapped in an embrace then broke away as he removed her veil, she shook out her long golden waves, then they kissed again. I couldn't believe my eyes. I gasped and took a step back, kicking a water pail that clanged loudly.

            "Who goes there?!," Sister Monica shouted, but I was too shocked to show my face. I ran back to the convent, fury burnt my heart and I was determined, I would not become a nun here, in this place of hypocrisy. Sister Monica's actions had sullied us all, the whole thing was a huge sham. I wanted to be free again, free to make my own choices and not live my life through rules prescribed by a Charlatan.

Monday 13 July 2020

Sunday Morning by Anna Kingston

8.30 on Sunday morning, the house is almost silent; just the odd creak of it settling, getting comfortable in the early morning sunshine. Hubby’s gone for a motorbike ride, grown-up playing out with his childhood friend, and the children aren’t up yet.

I’m writing in my front room, the window’s open behind me and the world’s waking up.  There’s birdsong, the voice of a neighbour talking to his wife, a car faintly in the distance. I can still taste the luscious toasted fruit bread I’ve just eaten, and the faint breeze through the window is sending little wafts of my mint tea in my direction.

Our cat pops through the window, prowling and purring across the back of the sofa behind my head, her tail tickling my neck.  She slinks around the room, winding her way around chair legs before settling down, Sphinx-like, right in the middle of the room.  Why that particular spot? She often looks up at the ceiling from that viewpoint: is she simply hearing the children stirring, or is there something a bit otherworldly going on that I can’t fathom?

Sunday mornings are special, almost sacrosanct, with that unique feeling of stillness and slowness that doesn’t happen on other days.  It feels like the earth is taking a deep, slow breath, pausing for a bit of its own mindfulness, and we are gently swept along with it. 

In the wake of this earthly, Sunday morning mindfulness I take my cup of tea into the garden where I can feel the warmth of the sun contrasting with the hesitant little breeze. The apple tree is already laden, some of its branches nearly to the ground, and now I’m outside I can hear bees humming nearby, drifting gently between the bramble flowers in the dappled light.

I hear voices and sounds from inside, signalling the surfacing of the children getting breakfast. The spell is broken, that early morning silence of mind and world ended for today; it’s time to move into a different gear, but still at a gentler pace than other days.

Monday 6 July 2020

Suitcase by Judy Mitchell

The man from the house clearance company offered a price for the lot.  I’d stayed in the kitchen, trying to shut out the sound of doors closing, drawers opening, the creak of floorboards. Perhaps his offer of a tenner for the case was a sop to soften the impact of the deal he'd suggested.     

There were two small, brown cases but that was until the holiday to Franco’s Spain in 1966 when one was lost to the Spanish baggage handlers.  I remembered my father’s anger at the thieves who, according to him, were out of the same mould of pickpockets and criminals as the nation’s leader. ‘I lost two brand new corsets and a crimplene dress in that case’ my mother had added every time the loss was raised - usually when striking baggage handlers were in the news.  They didn’t go overseas again after that.  ‘We like it at Brid’ she had replied whenever there was talk of a holiday abroad.

I opened the wardrobe door and it was still there, its sturdy leather corners neatly crafted to provide protection against careless porters and narrow luggage racks in a bygone travel era.  I pulled it towards me and could hear the scratch of sand that must have spilt out of its seams on to the teak shelf.  The handle was worn where Dad’s strong hands had rubbed against the neat stitches on the leather.

‘I don’t think I’ll need a bathing costume, will I? I took it last year and never wore it.  Well it rained didn’t it?  Every day.  Only brightened up when we got back to Huddersfield.  Did we even go on the beach? Don’t think we did.  Anyway I’ll leave the costume.  I’ll take a sun top instead.  Just in case.’

I suppose that was the last time I’d been in this wardrobe, getting the case down.  Dad had died years before then.  We used to take her to the coast every year.  Same hotel. Same rooms. Trying to keep the tradition.

‘They always did a good breakfast.  None of that cheap chipolata sausage and watery bacon.  Mrs Pickersgill used to say people always commented on her English Breakfasts.  The sauce bottles were clean, no sticky tops or empty salt pots.  Good strong tea.  They cared you see.  They had lots of regular visitors. Not one of those one-night-fling, B and B places for a bit of how’s your father.  Family hotel.  They used to do a kipper for your Dad.  He used to look forward to those kippers.  Part of his holiday.  I didn’t like them.  Too fishy.  Couldn’t do with all those bones but he loved them.  I once got him some when we came home.  Not the same he said.  I didn’t bother after that.’

I slid the locks to the left and the clasps lifted sharply. Inside was a programme for the Max Jaffa Concert at the Floral Pavilion.  We’d taken her.  Before we had the children.  Just the three of us.  I could smell her face powder and the perfume she had saved from Christmas to take on holiday in her toilet bag.  The last time we went we pushed her in a chair.  The kids took their turns.  Think she was always a bit frightened when our Peter took charge of the handles. Too fast for her. 

‘Ask our Jane to push.  She’s not as reckless as you are.  I don’t want to go so fast.  I’m enjoying seeing the sights.  With you, if I blink we’ll have rushed past and I’ll be at Scarborough freewheeling down The Marine Drive.’

I was proud of how patient they’d been with her.  Teenagers then.  I wondered if they would be as good with me and their Dad.

‘Nay, you’re not going to throw it out?  It’s perfectly good.  Locks still work.  There’s a key somewhere. Better than those plastic things you have.  That’s real leather, you know.  It’s lined.   Won’t it do for our Jane when she goes to visit her friends? Too good for her foreign jaunts.  Look what happened to me and your Dad.’

I could feel the story about the new corsets and the dress was about to resurface and I snapped down the locks on the lid and took it downstairs to clean the leather and remove the luggage label. I stared at the writing showing the address in neat capital letters.  No postcode in those days. I put the label in my handbag.  

‘Moving on,’ she said quietly.  ‘It was always good to go away but it was even nicer to come back home.’

I locked the back door behind me and got in my car. For a moment she was sitting beside me, her hand gripping the arm rest, her face powder uneven across her nose and cheek. Then, in the rear view mirror I thought I saw the front door open and there she was bending to pick up the suitcase in the hall and wave at me to show she was ready as our car drew up to collect her, the back seat full of games, balls, fishing tackle, jackets, two children and my mum, her handbag on her knee, checking she had the house key.  ‘Did I lock the door?’ she asked.