Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

James made his way back to the table and Martuska fumbled with the paper bag. It slipped from her grasp and upended all of the contents by James's feet.     He let out a weary sigh.   Full of pure rage she stood up and slapped him hard across the face.   "I have no time for womanisers, Henry. No time at all," she said then turned to leave but he grabbed her arm.   "They're for my niece," he said.    Martuska stared at him hard as if to see whether he was lying. He didn't blink once.    She sat down and James let his arm slide down hers till he held her hand which he brought to his mouth to kiss.    "I'd never betray you like that. You must believe me," he said, letting go of her hand.    Martuska looked pensive, and clutched her handbag firmly to her chest. She waited, unsure of what to believe. He continued to openly stare at her, willing her to trust him.    "Alright, Henry. I believe you," she said th...

June 1987. The Grand Hotel, Margitsziget, Budapest.   James Fincham strode into the lobby and walked straight to the reception desk, mopping his brow with his handkerchief.   He set his brown leather holdall on the floor beside him.   The desk clerk looked up.    “Szervusz, Mr Leadbetter.   Good to see you. How can I help you?”   James replied in flawless Hungarian.    “Good morning, Ambrus.   Please can you tell me if Miss Fodor is in her room.”    “No, I believe she is in the lounge, sir.”    “Thank you, Ambrus.”   James ran his hand through his hair and walked over to the lounge area, towards a woman seated on an oversized sofa.   As soon as she saw him walking towards her, she leapt up and moved towards him.    “Henry, you’re late, darling. I feel as though I’ve been waiting for hours.”    “I’m only five minutes late, Martuska.   Come here.”   H...

His death had come so suddenly. Not an old man at all.   She’d ended up with the job of clearing her father’s house. None of her three brothers was ever to be seen if there was practical work to be done.   Sorry sis, just about to fly to LA. Business you know.   Not that they were all in the States, but they were all busy, busy men.   It was partly guilt though. She’d seen little of her father over recent months. They’d frequently not seen eye to eye. Was she trying to make up in some way for that lack of contact?   Order had always been her thing. Even as a girl, her bedroom had been so neat and tidy, everything in its place. The contents of her father’s house had succumbed to the same order, felt-tip ticks in relevant columns on her checklist, a testimony to her skills.   Category one. The rubbish – junk as her mother would have called it. A cluster of king-size supermarket bags were lined up in the back porch, waiting patiently to be carted a...

“It’s time for me to move on – again - Dad!” I remove the dying flowers from the vase and replace them with a fresh, petrol-station bunch. The display looks a bit thin so I pinch one or two extra blooms from nearby graves. “That looks better. They’ll never miss them.” I reach for a ready-made roll-up. I know as a regular smoker, Dad won’t mind. And like me it wasn’t just tobacco he inhaled. “I went down to see Sarah, to sort of say goodbye. Had my old clothes on – well she wouldn’t be used to seeing me in a suit. She hasn’t changed, offered me a spliff and was surprised when I refused. To be honest we didn’t really have much to talk about. I can’t believe we spent a whole year together –till I moved back north. Still she was good for me. I’d just been released and she helped me get things back together. So different from the saintly Rebecca – mum’s favourite, although I’m not sure you ever really liked her.” I take a sip of water. “Talking of mum – which I’d rather not – I...