Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

“You look really pretty, Mummy.”     Mummy gives me a big squeeze. “Well, thank you darling,” she says. “I wanted to look nice for your birthday.” She leans back and smiles at me. “How does it feel to be ten?”     I think about this for a bit. To be honest I don’t really feel any different to how I felt yesterday but I know that I am, somehow. “I feel very grown-up, I think.”     Mummy laughs. “My little man,” she says. “It’s good to know I have you to look after me.”     “Just while Daddy’s away,” I say. She stops laughing and looks at me for a long time.     “Yes, dear,” she says after a bit. “Just while Daddy’s away.”       “Tell me what he’s doing again.”     “Oh Gilly, I’ve told you so many times.” She turns away from me.     “But Mummy, it’s my birthday and I want to hear about Daddy.”     Without looking at me, she says, “Ok then, just this one time and no more ok?” ...

You hope that after seven years inside, people might forget, but not around here. I was barely out when the taunting started.  People staring in the street, fingers pointing, whispers and jeers. Mothers holding their children to them, as I passed, as though I might harm them just by looking at them. Shopkeepers ignoring me, until I stopped going in and had to drive two miles just to get bread and milk.     The people at AA understood.  Barry had been through it and Dervla. They said keep your head down, keep sober, time is a great healer and people will see that you’ve changed. Bernie has always served me at the chip shop though. I don’t usually go in on a Friday night, but it’s my 30th birthday today and even though no one knows or cares, I want to mark the occasion somehow. Just as Bernie is about to take my order, the local kingpin Jez and three of his cronies stumble in, beer cans in their hands, push me to one side and begin shouting their orders at Bernie. ...

Lizzie and her husband step out of the church and I just manage to hide from view by crouching behind a hedge. She looks just like her mum did on our wedding day.  She giggles as friends and family throw confetti and her husband leads her by the hand to their car. He brushes some stray confetti out of her hair and I sense that she hasn’t done badly at all. Before I can suppress it, a smile creeps onto my face.  Their car moves off and my hand grips the Polaroid in my pocket. At least I got one photo – one memory to keep. That’s more than I deserve.       Family and friends make their way out of the churchyard. Joanna turns around and I can’t tell whether she’s looking at me or the church doors. I remain still and try to read her expression but she turns again and hurries to join the others. She was never one to linger. Once her mind was set about the car accident, she made sure I lost everything and everyone. Who could blame her, the way I behaved in the ...

Knock, knock, knock. “Gilbert......Gilbert, it’s Annie. Are you there?”     I am there - lying in bed, eyes tightly shut, hoping that Annie will give up and go away for a while. It’s my birthday - one of those milestone ones, which someone always wants to mark, but not me. I need time to prepare, to face the day. I can sense Annie is still there. I picture her head leaning against the door, listening. So I stay still, holding my breath, my heart pounding in my head. She is whispering, probably to Molly. I can hear them shuffle away. I can breathe.     Today I am 80. I tried to hide it, but there’s no hiding anything at The Elms Residential Home. I don’t mind being 80. I just don’t want the questions from others, and the memories creeping in, reminding me of my regrets. You can’t hide from your memories though, and by letting anyone in, even a little, you can’t avoid the questions either.     I am happy, here, at The Elms. We are lucky...

Love Me, Love My Books   This week has been my birthday, and my husband Richard gave me ‘Ex Libris – Confessions of a Common Reader’ by Anne Fadiman. This collection of essays about the love of books made me reflect on my own attachment to my book collection. Why don’t other objects – CDs, or clothes, for example – have the same emotional significance? When I moved in with Richard, I brought my goods and chattels with me: half a set of cast-iron pans (the other half stayed with my ex), a dinner service (a twenty-first birthday present), and books – lots and lots of books. Over the months that followed, as we decided that this was to be a permanent arrangement, I parted with my duplicate colander (his was nicer) and my grater (ditto) and my sofa (too uncomfortable).   The books, however, stayed. All of them. My books are old friends, they are travelling companions. There are the books I have studied, laboriously; identifiable by the worn spine, th...

“Turn over your papers now.” My palms are sweaty as I reach for the bundle of pages in front of me. The butterflies in my stomach seemed to have turned into dragons, breathing fire. I stare at the text but it could be written in Egyptian for all the sense it makes. I squeeze my eyes tight shut hoping that when I open them all will become clear. A deep breath, then open. For a moment I’m blinded by light, then as my eyes adjust I can see the exam paper but it’s moving away from me. I stretch out but the papers and the desk they’re on recede from my touch. Then I realise it’s not them that’s moving, it’s me. I’m drifting upwards. Below me are the rows of desks and students. No one seems to have noticed what’s happening to me. I call out but there is no response. I look for my desk but there are no empty places. Is that me down there? I’ve never seen the top of my head before. There’s no doubt it’s me though - mousey-brown hair tied back in a ponytail and lime green fingernails...

(See 21/7, 8/9, and 8/12 for the first three parts of ‘Ork’) At least they feed him. A hungry worker is a poor worker they tell him. Their tract is the work of traitors. Although Ork could never put his name to such a document he has no choice but to use the press that will bring their tract to life. The machine has not been well treated and he curses at the frequent breakdowns. But his skills and his  dextrous  fingers come to his aid. He works all day and well into the evening. His captors are pleased with his progress and tell him of their future plans, how together they will make a forceful team. At last he is allowed to sleep, but without further food. He dreams of Digger by his side. Woken by cold and hunger, he rises in the darkness and feels his way around the room. He edges towards the single doorway which he finds locked and barred. Did he imagine a ceiling hatch or was it really there? He moves carefully through the darkness to where his memory – o...