Parallel Lines - Part 2 by Chris Lloyd

She was extremely cold and could not make her brain work, so instinct took over and made her seek shelter. At the end of the alleyway there were some railway arches so she made herself get there. She crumbled to the floor as soon as she was beneath them.

When she partially regained her senses, she realised that she was surrounded by people trying to make her warm by covering her with old clothes and sacks. They were close to and touching her. She screamed and climbed unsteadily to her feet ready to run, instead she fell straight back down.

“Ere, there ain’t ennyfin to be scared about, lady. We’re all in it togevver. Wotcha you doing wiv no proper clothes on anyway?”

“Help me up if you would be so kind. I am only lost.”

“If you would be so kind, that’s a bit la di da,” said a large smelly man. “What’s a posh bird like you hangin’ around ‘ere for. Are you a reporter or summink, nosin’ in our bizniss? Yeh I bet that’s what she is boyz, a sleazy nosy snitch. And you know what we do wiv them eh boyz?”

“No I am nothing of the sort, believe me. I would not come anywhere near you … people. I promise I am merely temporarily lost. Please tell me where I am.” 

Suddenly a woman’s voice rang out. “You touch her, Ronnie, and I’ll have your balls removed, right?”

“Sez who?”

“Says me, you piss head, and you know I would too. Now clear off.”

Ronnie looked round and squared his shoulders so as not to lose too much face.

“C’mon, boyz, leave ‘em to do what they do; dirty slags.” They walked away shouting obscenities as the female voice walked over to her.

“Thank you so much. I owe you my life, I’m sure.” Cordelia shivered as she spoke.

“Here have a sip of this; it’ll warm you a little.  So, what are you then, undercover cop?”

“No, nothing like that I assure you. I had too much to drink last night but I can’t remember what I did before that.”

“Well, you talk like a BBC news reader, if you don’t mind my saying, you should go and work for them.”

“Yes, well I have already done that, not too long ago either.”

“Wait, I know you, you’re that interviewer woman, aren’t you? You were good too until Jeff got on your gig.” She laughed as she said it. “Was he the reason you stopped the interviews?”

“Yes, it was. You sound like you know him, do you?”

“Yeah, he was one of us for a time but after that do with you, he went up in the world, I can tell you. He’s writing a book – well he ain’t actually writing it, he’s got a ghost writer to do it. He’s as dense as a thick piece of oak

“I was set up. I have a medical problem which causes me to lose my temper and only two people at the BBC knew about it. Where does he live now? I’m not going to harm him but need to know who set me up.”

“Oh, I might know where he’s at. If you come back ‘ere tomorrow I’ll give you give you his address, for a fee naturally. Business is business, like.”

“How much?”

“Thirty five for me trouble and a ton for my old mum.”

“Done. What time?”

“Six in the evening.”

“Where am I now?”

“Five minutes’ walk to King’s Cross.”

“I’ll be here,” said Cordelia. She felt a lot better but wondered what the chances were of meeting someone who knew where her interviewee lived. It felt odd.

Cordelia walked away wondering how the hell she had arrived near King’s Cross given that she lived in Teddington. She also had not recognized the clothing she was wearing – it certainly was not her own. She searched any pockets she could find and finally felt something in her underwear. It was her Underground card. She looked skywards and steepled her fingers, silently said her thanks, tapped in and boarded the first train that came in.

Upon her arrival home, she saw a police vehicle near her house and two officers standing on her driveway. Her front door was open. She walked straight up to them and demanded to know what was going on.

“Is this your house, madam?”

“Yes it is, why…..”

“Do you have any ID, madam?” He was looking her up and down, stepping back as he did.

“I have my tube card,” she handed it to her.

“Nothing else, madam?”

“Not with me, no. I can show you in my house.”

“Would you mind telling me why your door was left open, all night as far as we can make out.”

“I have a medical issue which makes me do odd things like leaving my door open, among others. I am happy for you to check with my doctor.”

“That will not be necessary, madam. I would like you to lead me inside if you would. You can then assure me or otherwise that all is as it should be. After you, madam.”

Cordelia led the officers in to the house, turning left into the living room.

On the sofa lay the body of herself. She was carefully dressed, clutching a grey leather handbag.

She promptly passed out as she looked into her own eyes.

She came round three hours later on the sofa and everything seemed normal, there were certainly no police officers in the house. She dashed to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. She looked normal. After looking in all other rooms, everything seemed to be in perfect order. She was not convinced. She had definitely seen herself on the sofa. This new experience was extremely worrying.

She spent the remaining hours of that day trying to work out where she had been. Since she had returned home, she had felt strange, not an uncommon state for her it must be said, but it simply did not feel as normal as it looked. All she could remember was that she had used her Tube card but no idea where she had been. Then she remembered her journeys were her online underground account.

After finding and checking her account she found nothing to indicate she’d used it the day before or early that day.  She decided to go to bed in order to ensure she would be rested and relaxed to face the morning.

She awoke with a start in bed. It was not her bed and there was a man snoring beside her. Both of them were unclothed. She had no idea where she was. The snoring reached fever pitch and she quietly turned her head towards her companion.

“Oh my God.” She put her hands to her face to avoid throwing up all over him. It was Jeffrey. She looked around for her clothes but they were not immediately visible. There were clothes that she vaguely remembered from somewhere.  She decided to get dressed in those quickly and as noiselessly as possible. It was going well, just her right shoe to go.

“Don’t think you’ll get out of here. You’re my wife now. We got married last night and, oh, what a wedding night.

“No there must be some mistake, I would…..”

“Never get in to bed with me? I know it’s f**king unbelievable. You’re a very lucky lady, I can tell you.”

Cordelia looked around the room for some kind of weapon but, except for a fountain pen, there was nothing. She decided to make conversation to distract him. She moved slowly and as he turned away, picked up the pen which thankfully was metal.

“I see it’s you, Jeffrey. I hear you are writing a book. All I want is to know the name of the person who told you about my medical issue. I promise I’ll walk away if ……”

“Walk away? Walk away? We’re married, didn’t you hear. You ain’t going anywhere,” he shouted.

Cordelia cowered as he came towards her. He was about to grab her when she plunged the fountain nib into his left eye. He jumped back in pain, both hands covering his inky eye. She realized that she had a very short time to run but the door was locked. She looked at Jeffrey who was starting to be less noisy and, in her mind, meant he was recovering. Therefore, seeing “The Complete Works of E.E. Cummings”, a very weighty collection of poetry; she grabbed it and “slammed” it down on his head. He did not utter another word.

She searched the sleeping Jeffrey and found a small set of keys. One of them would open the door, she reasoned. She turned to the door and was about to try the keys when she heard a key being inserted in the lock from the other side. She positioned herself behind it. The door slowly opened and she sensed a person enter the room, very warily. That person, upon seeing what she thought was a dead Jeffrey, rushed towards him and knelt beside him testing for a pulse, which she found. At that moment, Cordelia made her exit to freedom.

She ran down two flights of stairs and found herself on a pavement which as far she was concerned, could have been anywhere in the country. She simply could not understand what was happening. She leant against a parking meter, looked at it and saw Royal Borough of Kensington stamped on it.

“That’s a start, I suppose,” she said to herself.

Then, as if it was her common practice, she put her hand in her underwear and retrieved her Tube card. She had a flash in her brain but couldn’t catch it; it felt strange and as she stepped on the escalator. She knew something was seriously amiss. It felt as if she had to do something difficult.

She waited for her train for what seemed hours; everything was happening in slow motion. A woman appeared to be waving at her. Shouting something. She did not hear, could not hear. Cordelia turned slowly and watched her train coming in, knowing what she had to do ………

Cordelia McArthur was sitting at home reading The Guardian, eating toast, drinking tea, her mind clear, tablet taken. It would soon be time to find out how the latest young person handled the letters, comments and emails that she had thoughtfully sent to the Head of BBC Radio Four. 

“Hmmm,” she said, “that last email will make them think. How dare they use that language.”

©Christopher Lloyd

Parallel Lines - Part 1 by Chris Lloyd

Cordelia McArthur was the only child of Margaret and Henry Soames, both of whom worked in Government departments in the sprawling offices of Whitehall. They, like most other Whitehall-ers in their plain dress sense, travelled in from the suburbs every weekday along with thousands of others who seemed to walk quickly, as if they were in competition, to reach their respective departments first.

They had married in their late thirties six weeks after meeting at a seminar called “The Disappearing Commonwealth”. They were passionate about their work which they “took home” and were somewhat surprised when Margaret fell pregnant. As the pregnancy progressed, Margaret bloomed, became talkative and interested in things that she had never been. Towards the end of her term, having at that juncture left her job, she began suffering from bouts of fainting and sickness. Her doctor, a friend of the family, insisted she completed her time in hospital in order that medical staff could keep an eye on her.

She had three weeks to go when she suffered a seizure from which she did not recover. The medical team immediately performed a Caesarean Section and Cordelia was born healthy and well. Henry was delighted with his daughter but devastated by the loss of Margaret. He had no idea how he was going to look after or cope with his new darling girl. He took a three month leave of absence from his job and tried to settle into his new life but he missed his work and the buzz of interacting with colleagues. He considered his options and decided to employ a person to look after Cordelia.

Anabelle McArthur fitted his requirements perfectly. Her references were outstanding. He actually went so see two of her previous employers who confirmed that the references were correct. She settled in to Henry’s house and the two of them formed a good friendship. In some ways, even though he missed Margaret terribly, the arrangement worked like a marriage but without any entanglement. For Henry it was ideal and Anabelle looked after Cordelia with loving care. Life was happy and settled until fate silently spread her wicked hands.

Cordelia was three years old when Henry was killed crossing a road near Westminster tube station. He was five minutes from his office and had Cordelia’s birthday present tucked under his arm.

When a police officer knocked, Anabelle knew Henry would never walk through that door again. She was suddenly on her own with Cordelia, not knowing how she was going to carry on looking after her. However Henry, an only child, and being the meticulous Civil Servant he was, had provided for Annabelle and his daughter by leaving his entire estate in trust to Anabelle just three months before he met his end. This she found out when looking through papers in his desk. He had labeled an envelope with her name and the name of his solicitor.  She contacted the solicitor who arranged the formalities of setting up the Trust in her name which would transfer to Cordelia when she was eighteen. Anabelle would draw an income in her own right.

Anabelle brought Cordelia up as her own and the two of them had a warm, happy relationship and she officially adopted Cordelia and changed the child’s name to hers. However, there was one final hurdle to jump and Anabelle had put it off until she thought Cordelia was ready.

Cordelia was seventeen when Anabelle asked her to sit down. She had grown into a vivacious young woman and was hoping to go to university the following year.

They sat side by side, mother and daughter, as they had from the beginning. It was not a happy Cordelia who listened to her life story. Like most children, she thought it could not be true, but in her heart, she knew it must be. Her “Mum” would never tell lies. She had no idea what to do or say. She was shocked to her core and was feeling dizzy as she collapsed on to the floor. She had suffered a seizure and was, to all intents and purposes, dead.

For the next six months Anabelle sat at Cordelia’s bedside ten hours a day talking to her about Henry and Margret’s love for her, keeping her own story in the background. The doctors treating Cordelia were not hopeful for her recovery but they continuously monitored her because her vital signs were working as if she was normal. There was never a doubt in Anabelle’s mind that Cordelia would pull through.

One morning Anabelle was talking to Cordelia about Henry and Margaret when she heard her say: “Tell me about you, Mum.”

The doctors were at the bedside immediately. Anabelle was crying and Cordelia’s eyes were fluttering. It was a further six months before Cordelia was allowed to go home permanently.

As she settled back into home life, it became apparent that Cordelia was not her previous self. She had become less tolerant of small things like dust, imperfect creases in clothes, bread not cut perfectly. However, she was recovering and Anabelle forgave her complaints. Cordelia was still having to complete an exercise class each day which was given by a specialist, in order to regain her strength. It was something Cordelia did not enjoy but knew that it was vital to regain and build muscle strength.

It was 10:35, an hour into Cordelia’s exercise routine and both Anabelle and the specialist were encouraging her to push on for the last fifteen minutes. The next thing they witnessed was Cordelia falling to the floor, shouting at both of them. She got up, assaulted the specialist and turned on Anabelle.

“Leave me alone, you are not my mother, you can’t tell me what to do.” She curled into a ball and started thrashing her body around to the point of causing injury. After three minutes she was rigid, her eyes staring into space, breathing hard. The specialist grabbed his bag and injected Cordelia, who then slowly lost her rigidity and regained her normal breathing.

Anabelle was devastated but in the back of her mind she knew the tirade would happen, it simply needed a trigger. As Cordelia came back to reality, Anabelle knelt down and put her arms around her and hugged her and talked quietly about all the good times they’d had. She slowly came back and threw her arms around her mother, sobbing and apologizing. That episode and others like it taught Anabelle that if Cordelia became angry, there was a possibility that she would, one day harm herself and those around her. Just before she passed her A Levels, Cordelia was offered the chance of medication which would control her anger. Anabelle jumped at the chance to let Cordelia try it.

Cordelia went to university, had no further attacks and obtained a 2:1 in English and found a good employer in the BBC. She became, over a period of thirty-five years, Controller of Special Interest Programming.

Anabelle died from cancer aged 56 and, although Cordelia had been at the BBC for thirteen years when she died, she never knew the real Cordelia who had become recognized as a ‘no holds barred’ interviewer. Few people knew of her affliction which she still controlled by the same drug and a cast iron will but at 10.15 pm one Thursday night, she was interviewing a man about coping with mental health who was determined to tell all about his sexual urges.

           “…. yes I realise that is the case, Jeffrey, but tell me and everyone watching how you control those urges. It must be …..”

“The same way you control yours, with drugs. It’s alright for you with your big fat salary, fancy house. You have no idea what we, the people who pay your ……”

“I can take your questions offline, Jeffrey. Now to our next…”

“No, here and now you stuffed up bitch, why don’t you want people to know you’re a fucking head case?” The studio shut the programme down and went to a pre-recorded episode of “House or Apartment?”

Cordelia flew into a rage, leaped from her chair and tried to strangle Jeffrey who was saved by the quick thinking of the lead camera man.

The BBC were good enough to give her six months’ salary along with an explanation that was couched in words that were basically useless. Her BBC pension and her mother’s legacy were more than enough to live a decent life. The only ‘must do’ she had after the BBC incident was to remember to take her daily tablet; something she did not always want to do.

Cordelia, at age 63, was still a fan of the BBC and was listening interestedly to BBC Radio Four where a discussion revolved around the trials or otherwise of keeping a marriage together. Her decision not to be married was, in her mind, vindicated, when she listened to these “heart of the matter” programs. The presenter was someone she had not previously heard. She sounded very young. Cordelia wondered if she was yet another token young person brought in by the BBC to give young people a “voice”. In fairness, the young sounding presenter had not uttered the word “like” inappropriately which was an improvement on the young voice on last week’s discussion.

Cordelia kept copious notes on these sorts of programs just in case there was anything she needed to complain about, which she did religiously every week. Sometimes she would write to the Controller of Radio Four directly so as to get straight to the top man immediately rather than have his minions, who were probably just out of Oxford or Cambridge with no experience of life at all, answer in his stead.

“You idiot child, that would never happen in a good marriage. What a statement to make.” She was losing her temper with the presenter who had calmly implied that in sexual difficulties, one or both of the married couple might take a lover. “Imagine Joanna Clarke saying that! She would have been sacked,” Cordelia shouted. Miss Clarke was retired by the BBC when it started to modernize itself early in the 21^st century but unlike Cordelia, Miss Clarke was presenting virtually the same programme except there ad breaks every ten minutes.

She knew that she must not get overexcited or angry but it was difficult not to with that sort of language. And another thing that was making her veer off piste was that they would all go to the Green Room after the program had ended and congratulate themselves on a job well done. She took a tablet to calm herself but her heart was already racing. She was wringing her hands. Sweat was rolling down her back, tickling her skin. Her whole body was itching. She was lost to her inner paradox and needed supplication to get her back. On that occasion help was not at hand.

When Cordelia eventually came back without the help of drugs, she realised it was a different day; she did not know what day. Whatever and wherever, it was raining. She was wet and lost. She didn’t recognize where she was precisely but hoped she was somewhere in London. As she became wetter, coldness started creeping in. She looked at herself in a shop window and jumped back at the sight that reflected back at her. She scurried along a narrow alleyway and tried to remember where she had been.

Tunnel to the Wreck by Owen Townend

 

There is a tunnel beneath Birkby Hall Road connecting Norman Park to a place that locals know as ‘The Rec’ but I call ‘The Wreck’. Technically it is an extension of Norman Park, that was the original intention, but one side is considerably more neglected than the other and has been since the Millennium.

            I must have been about eight when my sister and I spent a sunny afternoon crawling through that tunnel. We leapt off the Norman Park swings onto the wood chip path, turned a sharp left and got down on our hands and knees. The stone structure was solid enough but I didn’t want to linger and admire it. Even so I could hear my sister close behind, quietly encouraging me to slow down and run my hands across the smooth curved texture.

Ahead of us, the circle of hazy light was steadily widening, flecks of barely visible grass boosting my resolve. My palms slapped cold stone faster, hoisting me the final couple of feet through the interior darkness. As I reached the end, fresh air tickling my cheek, I had this outrageous panic about the tunnel collapsing at the very last moment, rubble crushing our backs like cruel, heavy teeth. I feared being swallowed by the earth above.

            Of course, we came out the other side, no trouble. Unfortunately, the grass didn’t look quite so verdant up close. One of the distinguishing features of The Wreck is its abundance of weeds among tufts of yellow blades. Even so, I was glad to step outside and feel sunshine prickling the bare skin above my ankle. I stood up and helped my sister out of the echoey darkness.

            As we dusted ourselves down and lightly coughed, we saw that there was a large gathering of adults around the bushes nearby. There must have been more than twenty of them, all peering into the back garden of one of the houses beyond the low park fence. Spying our parents in the centre of the throng, I dragged my sister over to join with them. We had to make our way through the crowd of friendly neighbours, all wearing a look of wordless concern. One opened and closed her mouth, glancing between us and the empty back garden. She sighed and called our parent’s attention.

            Mum grabbed me close and Dad held my sister’s hand. I heard Dad grumble that we should be back at the Norman Park play area but Mum didn’t respond. Normally this led to argument but they were too preoccupied by the garden and the man that had just stepped out into it, closing the maroon back door behind him.

            He was a tall, skinny man in a slightly stained white shirt and black shades. This stranger threw down a cigarette on his back porch and crushed it with his boot heel. He swept a red hand through his frizzy black hair and breathed in deeply. Then he began to sing.

            His voice was croaky at first but smoothed out as it grew in volume. I recall that he sang a few songs but the one that remains vivid in my thoughts is Knocking on Heaven’s Door by Bob Dylan. The man’s voice resonated out of his garden to all of us standing in The Wreck. We were his captive audience. When he hit the chorus, I could imagine his voice adding new ripples to the stream on our left and reverberating through the tunnel to our right. Perhaps the people in Norman Park could hear it too.

After a couple of minutes in my Mum’s arms, I wanted to go back to the play area, to the swings. I thought about other kids using them and was instantly furious. I would much rather have been rattling the chains and flying high than stood still, listening to some singer in a tumbledown park. It had never happened before and didn’t make any sense to me. Nevertheless, I knew that this was an important moment, dreadfully important. That is to say, I could feel the crowd’s building dread of what might happen next.

I never did find out why everyone was gathered in The Wreck to watch a stranger singing Dylan in his garden. Usually that kind of congregation happens when someone is standing on a high window ledge, gazing down. Nobody died that day, as far as I know.

Before we left, I managed to free my head from Mum’s grasp and turned back towards the tunnel. Though I was outside and a safe distance from it, I felt this awful distrust for that underpass. That perfect black mouth would close someday, hard and sudden. Something would happen on the road above, perhaps a heavy goods vehicle bouncing too hard, sending down shockwaves that would weaken the stone and crush whoever might be shuffling through to the other side. I was an anxious child and the song in my ears wasn’t the cheeriest.

Of course, since that time, metal bars have been secured over both tunnel ends, blocking off entry from either Norman Park or The Wreck. I also came to truly understand the bereft meaning behind Knocking on Heaven’s Door. The passage of one thing to another.

These days when I go out for a walk, I avoid The Wreck with its overgrown trees hiding cracked paths and illicit deals. As for the tunnel, I doubt I could even fit into it anymore. I certainly wouldn’t like to try.

January by Vivien Teasdale

 

January is my cat, gentle as snow just falling,

    laying soft against my cheek.

January is my cat, needle sharp claws

    scratching, ripping my skin.

January is mutable, skittery, burning ice,

    a coal black, silvered wonderland.

January sparkles in sunshine, freezing the night,

    clothing the world with wintry, warm snow.

 

 

 

Photo by Sandra Kapella on Unsplash

 

 

Four Haiku for the New Year by Virginia Hainsworth

 

Year turns.  Face forwards.

Predictions abound.  Hopes rise.

Work hard.  Be kind.  Love.

 

Accept.  Reflect.  Learn.

Huge smile.  Or fake it.  Move on.

Be grateful.  Live now.

 

Once upon a time,

you wished for what you now have.

Appreciate it.

Happy New Year, all.

Write something every day.

Edit it the next!!