Disclosure by Rob Molan, Pinot Grigio

It’s feels so good to get it out there. It feels a bit unreal though as I’ve been thinking about it for so long but never found the courage until today to pull the trigger.

I re-wrote the final paragraph several times.

‘My experience at Hamilton’s was not an isolated case but a reflection of the culture of misogyny and bullying in the company. Many of my colleagues were also victims of harassment and intimidation and were threatened with dismissal if they complained. I hope sharing my story will encourage others to come out and say what they went through and Hamilton’s are held to account for their mistreatment of staff.’

It was painful writing that stuff. I lost two stone in my last year there with all the stress I suffered. That so and so Mr Welsh thought it was amusing.

‘Are you planning to be a model, Carol? That prisoner of war chic suits you.’ The big fat git enjoyed trying to get a rise out of female staff.

But now it is out there on social media for all to read about. I’m going to have glass of wine and put on some music. I get a bottle of Pinot Grigio out of the fridge, grab a glass and go into the lounge where I’ll put on Abba’s greatest hits, pour myself a large one and flop on the sofa.

A few glasses later, “Voulez Vous” is playing at full volume and I’m up on my feet singing along. I’ve got a rubbish voice but I don’t care who hears me. When it finishes, I head unsteadily towards the little girls’ room and spot a letter lying on the door mat. I pick the envelope up, wander into the kitchen and tear it open. It’s from a firm called Smith and Hibbitt.

‘I am writing to remind you of the terms of the Non-Disclosure Agreement (NDA) which you signed when you left the employment of Hamilton’s on 31 May 2023.

In return for a severance payment, you undertook not to disclose to any third party information either related to (a) the circumstances relating to your departure from the company or (b) its management practices.

I must reiterate that my clients will not hesitate to take legal action in the event of you disclosing such information and will seek damages in court.’

I don’t remember any NDA but I recall Mr Welsh walking into the workshop on my last day waving a piece of paper with his sausage fingers.

‘Sign this, Carol, before you go. You don’t need to read it. It’s just a formality.’ He stood over me breathing heavily as I autographed it.

Lying bastard. But Hamilton’s can go whistle if they think they’re going to get anything off me. I spent their lousy payoff ages ago and don’t have any savings.

I scrunch up the letter and throw it in the bin. I’m going to crack open another bottle and put Gloria Gaynor on.

About the author

Rob lives in Edinburgh started writing short stories during lockdown. To date, he's had several tales published by Cafe Lit and others in various anthologies. He likes to experiment with different genres and styles of writing. 

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Paradise Beach by Anne Georg, Corona beer

 Tanned, toned Madison snaps photos of beach flotsam, a dead bird, a stray dog, a lavatory, sunbathers, beach umbrellas: random minutiae that catch her eye. Having exhausted her photographic curiosity, she sits in a shaded corner of the beach in the breeze-scattered scent of roasted coconut and sunscreen mingling with the waft of garbage.

Nostalgia has brought her here—a fond memory of a solitary day spent with her parents decades ago. She’d worn her first bikini. Her hair was bleached blond from the sun. Now, wearing a white cherry-imprinted flared sundress, greying hair with blonde and rust highlights skewing from under her straw sunhat, Madison longs for her imagined past.

A boy, loud and boisterous leaps into the air to catch a beachball someone has thrown, spraying sand into Madison’s face. She sputters and rubs grit from the corners of her eyes.

‘Disculpame. I’m sorry Miss,’ the boy stammers. She gets up, suppressing tears of self-pity that sting behind her eyes; ignores him, and moves down the beach. Is it too much to ask for silence and reflection in nature? The beach is alive with the chatter and shrieks of exuberant Mexican families, a pandemonium of parrots.

She remembers another beach, Paradise Bach, nearby, but further from the road where fewer people are likely to venture. She’ll find respite from this crowd there. Madison sets out, stopping at a popular kiosk selling coconut water, joining the dozen or so people waiting in line under the shade of palm trees. They shout to one another, joking, raucous.

Madison barges through the line-up ignoring the grumbles from others. ‘Perdon señor.’ She assumes her most commanding voice. ‘Cuanto tiempo necisito para llegar a la playa Paraiso? Pero sigiendo la costa, no a la calle.’

The vendor, a grey-haired Mexican man, looks at her bemused, answers in English. ‘You can’t go to Paradise Beach by the coast, señora. You must take the steps over there, then follow the sidewalk to the beach.’ He points to a wooden staircase along the cliff edge. Madison resents the merry parade of Mexican beachgoers climbing it, no doubt crowding onto Paradise Beach.

‘I don’t want to go up there and walk on the pavement with everyone else. I want to follow the coastline.’ She has perfected her Latina whine.

‘It’s not so far, señora. Not even ten minutes. This is how all the people go. It is the only way to Paradise Beach. You can’t get there along the coast.’

Madison hears her father’s voice. ‘This guy sells coconuts. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Of course she can get to Paradise Beach following the coastline. It’s a beach—ten minutes away from this beach—on the same coastline!’ She is an egalitarian but confesses to inheriting her father’s disdain for the meek and mediocre mainstream, to which most Mexicans belong, like people everywhere. No prejudice there. She is from a Germanic tradition of adventurers. Not inclined to follow the beaten path.

‘Gracias, señor. I’m going to go along the coast. If it doesn’t work out, I can always turn around. Maybe I’ll buy a coconut from you. Hasta la vista.’ Madison dismisses the vendor and brushes past the others waiting in line. The vendor shrugs his shoulders and points to his head. He and his customers watch the gringa as she is swallowed by shadow. They continue their banter.

Madison walks through the shade and into a shock of bright. She pulls her wide brim lower over her eyes and observes the landscape spread in front of her. The scene exhilarates her: a tumble of strewn boulders piled one on top of the other, bordered on one side by the cliff rising from it and on the other by the ocean cracking against it. Even if Paradise Beach is crowded, at least she’ll have an adventure getting there.

After living under the constraints of her chastising father, enduring a domineering husband till she couldn’t anymore, then shouldering the yoke of frugal single parenthood, she relishes this feeling of freedom. She needs a physical challenge to clear her mind, take power and move forward with her life, which lately has taken a dark turn: estrangement from her daughter, getting fired from her job, losing her best friend to cancer.

She hops over one pile of boulders, then another and another. She loves her agility. All those years of yoga have paid off. She feels like a kid playing hopscotch, breathes in the salty air, marvels at the ruggedness of the moment.

Her father would be pleased to see Madison stoically alone on the rocks. She remembers a woman he’d disparaged, a solo traveller, who’d briefly joined some people for companionship. ‘How can she say she’s independent when she’s hitching her horse to their cart? Anyone can do that.’ His contempt has reverberated through her life. Madison purposefully lives alone and travels alone, proving her courage and independence on jaunts such as this coastal hike, even though loneliness is her constant companion and her father long dead.

She carries on, rounding one bend then another. She believes the beach must be around the next one. Which is a relief. Her able legs are tiring under the rigour of boulder hopping.

A blast of heat billows as she rounds the corner: more boulders piled on more boulders, a ribbon of toppled towers as far as she can see. Which comfortingly, isn’t that far. Madison’s gaze follows a lone crab skittering around the rocks scrabbling for existence, a kindred spirit. Aren’t we all a bit like that crab? Alone and scrabbling? Ah, this landscape is so profound. Madison tingles with nature’s inspiration.

‘Ouch!’ She slips on the treacherous slime that carpets the boulders and tweaks her knee, sucks air between her teeth, wincing with pain.

‘Damn it.’ How inconvenient.

Thankfully, Paradise Beach is only ten minutes away. But it’s been much longer than that. She’s sure of it. Madison doesn’t wear a watch: as a savvy traveller she knows it would invite pickpockets. Nor does she carry a cell phone, which is for the fearful tourists who abound these days, like amoebas, always needing to merge with friends, family, just a text away. Not her. She snubs her compatriots, influenced by her father’s judgement: ‘They travel to Mexico to be with each other. They need each other. We need no one. We’re real travellers.’ Her father didn’t like humanity in general, whether they were tourists or Mexicans or Germans. He didn’t much like Canadians, either, or his kids. Madison was one of a large brood, now scattered around the globe, letting their shared history disperse into the years lapsed since their collective childhood.

How much time has passed since she’s been on the rocks? The sun burns a perfect round hole into the atmosphere, radiates heat that makes her scalp prickle. Paradise Beach has got to be around the next bend. She stops to lean against a boulder, takes off her hat and wipes the sweat from her forehead with her forearm. No wonder Mexicans follow the well-worn route. This is not for the faint of heart. Ah, the trials of an independent spirit! Madison chuckles thinking of tricky situations she’s been in and escaped from.

Her mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton balls. As she’s twisting the lid off her water bottle she fumbles and loses her grip. The metal container slips from her hand, ricocheting down an abyss between boulders, its banging echoing and fizzling into a slender tang, then a sliver-thin ting followed by a chasm of silence. Except for the ringing in her ears.

Madison peers down the crevasse into a deep darkness drenched in pungent sea odours. She broods, elbow on thigh, chin in hand, lifts her gaze to the horizon and wishes herself to be drinking cerveca on Paradise Beach. Stubbornness clings to her like a sea urchin to these rocks. She wont’t admit she might have been foolish. She continues through the boulders along the coastal route to Paradise Beach.

She rounds the next corner. Nothing but endless rocks, sky and sea, a vista she would normally breathe in, exaltated. Now, the intensity of the sun pummels her, an overload of sensation depletes her. ‘Where the hell is it?’ Doubt ripples into Madison’s thoughts. Why had the man at the kiosk said you couldn’t get to Paradise Beach following the coast? In retrospect, she had been foolish, perhaps, not to heed the advice of a local.

A maverick gust of wind swirls around her, lifts her skirt Marilyn Munroe-style and grabs her sunhat, lofting it into the air. She watches it shimmy in the air, all whimsy and lightness, and sail toward the ocean. The gust ends as abruptly as it began, mocking her as if it arose just to steal her hat.

Her gaze follows the brief and rapid descent of the hat plunging to earth, tumbling among the boulders, disappearing. She releases a wail, raw, like a wounded animal. Gasping at this new indignity, she limps a detour to fetch the hat, spies it tucked in a gash between two rocks. She lies on her stomach, attempts to reach it, sliding her torso into the crevasse. The hat is so close, but her grasping fingers flail futile mere inches above it. A failure, she heaves herself from the dank cleft, slumps onto a boulder, lowers her head onto her knees and clasps her shins with her arms. She imagines the effervescence of a Corona slaking her thirst, the luxurious repose of swinging in the hammock under the shade of a palm-thatched roof, the savoury drift of fish frying—on Paradise Beach. She squints to survey what lies ahead. A sea of boulders as far as her eye can see. A limited horizon, yes, but she’s become wary of what lies concealed beyond the next bend.

It can’t be far now. Ten minutes? Why did he lie to her? She deflects blame for her circumstance at the vendor, her father, the elements, even though she knows she herself orchestrated this. Madison’s folly heckles through the string of tiny coastal undulations she is consigned to follow. Each has gulls flying overhead, crabs, snails and the occasional colony of sea urchins. All of them creatures of this environment. Unlike her. The prideful certainty of her infallibility crashes down, crushing her belief in herself.

She inhales through a parched throat. Her tongue is thick. Her legs tremble. The bells in her ears clamour. She needs to get off these rocks. Should she turn around? That would be admitting defeat. She’s already come too far. She couldn’t bear the vendor’s knowing look.

She hears her heart’s throb as it pounds her every cell with dread, flushing blood into her fingers, swelling them sausage-like—and into her face, which pulsates like a broiling tomato.

Another corner rounded. More rocks. More sky. A large bird circles above her. Is that a vulture? How long has it been up there, witnessing her struggle, anticipating her demise?

For the first time her death on these rocks seems possible. Wouldn’t that be ironic? Imagine what the vulture will do. Imagine what the vendor will say. What if her father were still alive? He himself made many mistakes. He was a prideful, hurtful man, strident and clumsy. At least she doesn’t have to face his judgement. She pushes away thoughts of him, hauls herself onward to the elusive Paradise Beach. She dreads endless boulders ahead. Fears the vulture’s purpose. She promises never to be prideful again. To be better. Humble. If only she can extract herself from this situation.

Her last angry conversation with her daughter pounds in her memory. Why did it bother her that the girl loved other girls when Madison had a series of unsatisfying relationships with men. It didn’t make sense. She promises to reconcile with her daughter.

Madison rounds another corner, running her dry tongue over the tiny blisters forming on her cracked lips, limping through the stabbing pain in her knee. She peers into the distance. The landscape has opened! Cupping her hands over her eyes she spies three distant figures undulating through the heat waves.

She dares to hope. No matter how reckless she’s been in the past and what life-threatening situations she’s entangled herself in, she has always managed to survive. Today, the pattern would repeat. Hope’s adrenaline sends her sliding and stumbling over humping rock. She’d almost given up. She’s giddy with her luck.

She stops. She’s reached a gaping inlet. The humidity and heat have distorted space. The figures are across the inlet, farther away than they looked. ‘Señores, I’m here! Help!’ She flails her arms above her head. The breeze snatches her pleas like feathers, scatters them syllable by syllable, weightless, feeble. The bodies move away without having seen or heard her. Her road ends here. No water, no hat, a sore knee. How will she get back?

She sits on a rock. Shudders at the vulture still circling, cringes at the crabs carrying tiny mollusc corpses, recoils at the pungent stink of decay, despairs at the punishing waves pounding the boulders, ponders her plight. If only she could press the rewind button, taking her back to the kiosk where she would follow the vendor’s wise advice. If only she could hear her daughter’s laughter again.

She’s read the stories about hapless adventurers who ‘died doing what they love’ and has cast derision on them. At least she’ll be dead and will not feel the judgement of the living. She hopes she is dead by the time the vultures land on her body and crabs scrabble over her to feast on her eyeballs.

She lifts her head, casts her eyes across the landscape and searches for escape. Over and over and over she examines the cliff. She used to be good at scrambling. Maybe she could scale this formidable wall, even though a fall onto the rocks would probably kill her. That or retreat. Which comes with its own set of dangers.

She stands, limps toward the cliff and searches for a route to her salvation. Nothing but a sheer wall of rock probably thirty metres high. Desperate now, her eyes jerk from shadow to shadow. There must be a way.

On the periphery of her eyesight is a cement runoff channel extending from the tip of the inlet to the top of the cliff. ‘Oh my God!’ She’s going to get out of here! Madison scrambles over the boulders, slipping on rock slime, splashing though the shallow water, arrives at the mouth of the culvert.

It’s practically vertical, too steep to walk up. ‘I’ll crawl if I have to.’ She has to. Madison crawls on all fours, using her arms to haul herself up the narrow, scum-sour trough, smearing fetid muck on her pretty dress. The cement scrapes her knees, pebbles and debris embed into her chafed palms. From beyond the grave, her father’s laughter goads her onward, the way he used to mock her physical awkwardness. ‘Fuck you, dead man!’ His laughter fizzles and dissipates. That was easy. Why hadn’t she done that years ago? She is making progress.

Quivering with fatigue, she drags herself to the top of the cliff and hauls her bruised body over a low stone wall. Her knee aches and her ankle pulsates with an injury she didn’t even know she’d acquired.

Madison leans against the wall, scans the scene. She has arrived on a cobblestone walkway shaded by an elegant arc of large trees dripping voluptuous trains of spicy-scented yellow flowers. Jolly vendors sell refreshments from brightly coloured carts to Mexicans who meander in couples and family groups, breezily chatting and laughing, eating ice cream, and drinking Coca Cola in their crispy clean beachwear.

She wants to weep with joy at seeing them. Instead, a demented cackle escapes her lips.

Her presence has cast an unease on this oasis of good humour and cool. Frightened children point, gasp and move toward their parents, grasping their hands. Adults eye her suspicious, alarmed. Who is this bedraggled gringa? She looks like she’s just crawled out of a swamp. She acts deranged, eyes darting about, squawking and panting like a captured animal; stinks of the sweat of desperation brewed with seaweed and rock slime. Her thin hair is plastered to her head, her face sunburnt and streaked with dirt; hands, forearms, shins scraped, muddy and bleeding; sundress filthy and torn, the imprint of cherries unappetizingly mushed. Parents, shield their children’s eyes with their hands as they manoeuvre around her, trying not to stare at her themselves.

Diminished and battered, repentant and relieved, Madison peers back along the walkway. About one hundred metres behind her is the exit from the beach where she declined the vendor’s advice. Ahead of her a wooden arrow reads ‘Stairway to Paradise Beach 100 metres’.

Madison limps towards it, humbled and grateful to join the flow of fellow human beings heading to Paradise Beach.

About the author

 

Anne Georg lives in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. She has published journalism, travel writing, a graphic non-fiction (with illustrator Jaye Hilchey) four flash fiction stories and a novelette. Anne is a volunteer judge for the Alberta Magazine Awards and a member of the Alexandra Writers Centre Society. 

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Bleeding Hearts by Kate Twitchin, oak-aged Chardonnay

Being the eldest, Ben’s suffered the longest, so he usually comes up with the best lines.

Ellie, our little sister, struggles a bit. Ben and I have always tried to shield her; she hasn’t been quite so deeply wounded.

“Who’s turn is it?” I ask, as I refill our glasses.

“I don’t know, I mean, shouldn’t we be coming up with more, you know, appropriate, conventional stuff?” Ellie asks.

“Boring,” Ben groans.

“I mean, she might not survive the surgery, so then we’ll need to…” Ellie continues.

“She’ll survive, just like she did the heart attacks, out of spite. Besides, Dr Choudhury is a brilliant cardiologist,” I remind her.

“He is, but 3D-printed hearts are relatively new and Mother is 87; who can say how her miserable old body will react to a change of heart.” Ben snorts at his unintended pun.

We’re playing our game, the one that we kid ourselves keeps us sane. We’re writing brutally honest eulogies for our brutal mother’s funeral.

“I went to see him today…”

Silence. Two pairs of eyes searching mine.

“He’s developed an upgrade. The basic model…”

“Hardly basic,” Ellie mutters.

“Agreed. The technology is mind-blowing. Anyway, the basic model beats and pumps just like the real thing…”

“And?” Ben prompts.

“The new model is programmed to be compassionate, empathetic and loving, and…drum-roll…is devoid of narcissism!”

“Way to go, Doc!” Ben raises his glass.

“Will it work?” Ellie asks.

“Dr. Choudhury is confident. Imagine it, a lovely new mum, a real mum, and, when the time does finally come, writing a beautiful eulogy for her will be a bitter-sweet privilege.”

“Will she remember being a narcissist?” Ellie asks.

“I hope not, think how guilty she’d feel,” I say.

“My heart bleeds,” Ben says, and pushes his empty glass towards me.

About the author

Retired Administrator Kate is enjoying sitting around and making things up. She’s had short stories, Flash Fictions and poems published in print and online, and has been placed in a variety of competitions. She thinks she’d like to write a novel but can’t seem to stop writing shorts. 

 

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Long Day’s Journey Into Night by Michael Barrington, oak-aged Chardonnay

 Cynthia was terrified. She had never been close to a black man and now was surrounded by them. Sweating, heaving bodies, manhandling huge crates, cabin chests and traveling trunks. As they brushed past her, she pulled in her corseted figure so they wouldn’t touch. Reaching out, she felt for Reggie’s arm. The humidity, the unrecognizable smells, the chaos, the cacophony of strange languages. The noise of men forcing open crates with steel crowbars, then hammering them shut, was deafening. It was overwhelming.

            None of the ladies on the ship had advised her what to wear. Perspiration uncomfortably soaked the armpits and high neck of her dress. It might have appeared un-lady-like, but she should never have worn stockings, and definitely not a corset. She felt as if she were about to faint.

            “Reginald, darling, do you think you could get me a bottle of soda water? I’m so terribly thirsty.”

            “You’ll need to hang on for a while, Cynthia, my dear. I don’t see any waiters here. We’ll soon be at the British High Commission. Damned inconsiderate of them to keep us waiting like this. Should have been here long ago. They’ve known about our arrival for weeks. For God’s sake, it’s 1921, the bloody war is over. So, what’s the holdup?”

            They were standing in the cavernous baggage hall under the giant hanging alphabetical letter H, for Hughes, together with all their luggage and a thousand people.

            Suddenly, there was a shout. “You must be Reginald Hughes-Smithson, is that correct?”

            An affirmative nod. “Lionel Broadhurst,” the young man said, extending his hand. “Welcome to Lagos. So sorry for the delay, old chap. Had a deuce of a time getting here. Two trucks fought for the same piece of road. Bloody awful mess. Bodies everywhere, and of course, traffic not moving.”

            Taking off his Panama hat, he offered his hand again.

            “Oh, pardon me, and you must be…I do apologize, but they never gave me your name. You are only listed as wife.”

            “Cynthia,” she replied nervously. This entire experience was making her more anxious by the minute.

            “Excellent, then if you’ll bring your hand luggage, and what you will need for the next two days, my assistants here, will take care of everything else.” Two burly, but smiling black men, with heavily scarified faces, dressed in smart khaki shirts and shorts, were standing discreetly behind him. “The next time you will see any of these loads will be in Kaduna.” He turned and spoke quietly to the men in a foreign language, which they later learned was Yoruba. Then addressing Cynthia, “Please, let me have your valise, Ma’am. Follow me.”

            Ignoring the long line of people, he walked up to a desk, waited until an immigration officer was available, then said imperiously, “British High Commission staff.” Seconds later, they exited into the searing heat and blazing midmorning sun of a busy, Lagos Monday. With the windows down, the chaotic drive across the city in almost unbearable heat and humidity, was a scary experience. Strange smells of smog, choking exhaust fumes, sewage and rotting vegetation assaulted their senses. The traffic’s deafening noise made it practically impossible to converse. Lionel skillfully negotiated a turbulent sea of horn blowing, smoke belching, colorfully painted, overloaded and almost wrecked vehicles, that seemed to have little or no order to it. But none of that seemed to matter. With her eyes half closed behind her sunglasses, Cynthia was just relieved to be out of the customs shed, and enjoying the breeze created by the car’s motion.

Other than being served by a stream of black men wearing formal uniforms, distinctive red jackets, white shirts, black bow ties, and pants, they might have been dining at the Carlton Gentleman’s Club back home. The beautiful chandeliers, long mahogany dining table that seated twelve, with upholstered chairs, and matching furnishings. The line of mounted, stuffed animal heads on one wall. The gallery of somber-looking male portraits along the other. But it was lunch at the High Commission.

            “So good to see you again, Reggie. And congratulations on the exams. Jolly well done. Welcome to the District Officer’s group. There’s only a few of us, you know,” and let out a chuckle. “You will love Kaduna and, of course, you will fit right in with your fluent Hausa.” Arnold Telford, was a physically big man with a loud voice, protruding belly and a tight-fitting linen suit that had seen better days. His skin had the yellow, jaundiced tint of somebody who had spent many years in the tropics. He was the acting “chief of station.” His and Lionel’s boss, the Resident of the Lagos Region, had traveled to meet with some important Yoruba chiefs. “There’s so much to do up there,” he bellowed, “but you’ll have a jolly old time. They have a wonderful jockey club, and you’ll get to play lots of polo. You do ride, don’t you?”

            Before he could reply, Lionel interjected. “Perhaps we should first give them the details of their itinerary?”

            “Excellent thinking. A champion idea, old boy. Why don’t you walk them through it?”

            “I have your tickets and will drive you to the railway station at Iddo, tonight. Your train leaves at 8:00 PM. It’s called the Limited, but trust me, there is nothing special about it. Your journey, barring any accidents, like cows on the tracks or a water tower not working, will be about sixteen hours. You are due to arrive in Kaduna at 12:00 PM. Don’t worry about getting to your house. Whoever is meeting you will have checked your arrival time beforehand by telegraphing down the line for confirmation. I have booked you first class, of course, and your compartment has bench seats which become bunk beds with two more that can be pulled down above them. Although it normally accommodates four people, it is reserved for just the two of you. There is a WC and washbasin with hot water at the end of the carriage. Do not drink the water or use it to brush your teeth. But you already know about that. There will be a restaurant car serving European food, which is normally quite good, and a saloon with a full bar with upholstered seats where you can order a drink and relax. Of course, these amenities are only for first-class passengers, which might include a few Nigerians, usually heads of government departments or railway officials. Your boxes and luggage will already be on board, and in Kaduna, staff from the Regional Office will arrange for everything to be taken to your house.”

            “It sounds wonderful,” Reggie replied. “Thanks for setting all this up, old boy.”

            “My pleasure, dear chap. We are all in this together.”

            Even though the sun had set, the heat was still oppressive. Not a breath of air moved. After fighting their way through the jostling crowds to their compartment, and a final handshake to Lionel, they both sat down and looked at each other. They had hardly spoken since their time in the baggage hall.

            At twenty-six, Reggie had already spent summers in Nigeria doing fieldwork for his degree and gaining experience for his future profession, working for the British Foreign Office as a District Officer. Tall, dark-eyed, athletic-looking and with the right political connections, his future was guaranteed. With an interest in academics rather than sports, he had a gift for learning languages, and in Nigeria, fluency with Hausa, was a must.

            He’d unexpectedly met Cynthia Lothian Phillips, daughter of Sir Edmund, a member of the House of Lords and of the Foreign Affairs Committee, at a graduation ball arranged by his gentlemen’s club. Stunningly beautiful, her jet-black hair, contrasted with her opalescent skin. Wearing an extravagant gown her father had insisted on, half the room had paused mid-sentence. She had long ago learned the patterns of men’s attention, and that night she wore that awareness like a second veil.

But as she turned from one congratulatory handshake to another, her gaze landed on a figure who wasn’t looking at her at all. Reginal Hughes Smithson stood near the edge of the dance floor, hands loosely clasped behind his back, listening intently to an older professor. Quiet. Reserved. A little awkward in his evening jacket, as though he would rather be back among his books than under these chandeliers.

Something in his stillness drew her more powerfully than all the admiring stares. While other men projected confidence, bravado, or desire, Reginal radiated something entirely different—depth, thoughtfulness, a mind always half turned inward. She found her breath catching before she could mask it. For the first time that evening, she realized she was the one staring.

Three weeks later they were engaged and two weeks after that, they were married, just four days before sailing for Lagos and Nigeria.

“How are you feeling my, dear? It’s been a long day.”

Looking at him, Cynthia’s eyes blazed. “Well, since you ask, I’m frustrated, irritable, sad, mad and angry with you. And among other things, I’m struggling with a headache. You have ignored me all day. Not once did you seriously enquire about me. And don’t ask me about the cad at the High Commission. Full of himself and his own usurped importance. Is this how it’s going to be for the next two years? I understood that being the wife of a District Officer would have its restrictions, and that I would be entering a man’s world, but to be totally ignored! As if I had no personal needs. I felt I did not exist. And you joined in their game like a natural. I will support you in all that you do. I will help you succeed and achieve full status as a District Officer. But Reginald, I am here. And you cannot just take me for granted. I’m not just a wallflower like many of the wives out here, I presume. I am educated. I am a liberated woman. Remember, we both graduated from Oxford!”

There was a long pause.

“That’s a lot to take in, Cynthia. I had no idea.”

“Of course you didn’t. You are so caught up in who you are, what you want to achieve, where you want to end up professionally. Your need to impress. But I’m your wife!”

“Then what would like me to do?”

“You can take me to dinner, and we will see if it lives up to the standards your new friends enthused about. But before we do that, I would like you to please bring down my valise.”

He stumbled as he retrieved it, then placed it on the seat. The train had given a sudden jerk. To the sound of hissing steam and spinning wheels, it began chugging its way out of the station and into the Nigerian night. Reaching up, Reggie slid open two small and narrow windows above the larger one, which allowed in the cool air as the locomotive gathered up speed.

“If you would draw the blinds on the window, Reginald, and the one on the door, I am going to change for dinner.

“What! What are you saying, Cynthia?”

“I am going to get out of these damn clothes.”

“But what if somebody were to come in?”

“Then it’s your duty to prevent them.”

After taking up a position with his back to the door, he watched unbelievingly as she slipped out of her dress and then began undoing her corset.

“I doubt I will be using this again,” she commented. “At least I hope not. You have no idea how uncomfortable it has been for me today.” Sitting down, she removed her stockings, giving a sigh of relief as she rolled them up and placed them with the rest of her clothes.

His eyes opened wide as she shamelessly removed all her underwear, throwing it on the seat, and stood naked before him. She was beautiful. The train swayed, and as she reached upwards to hold on to the rack to steady herself, for a split second she was suspended. In that one moment, all he wanted to do was make love to her.

Taking her time, she searched in a toilet bag, retrieved her Eau de Cologne, sprayed a handkerchief and wiped her armpits and throat. After putting on a bandeau bra and satin panty shorts, she selected a flapper dress that matched her hair. Then, fixing her makeup with the help of a hand mirror, put on her cloche hat, turned to Reggie and smiled.

            “Short of taking a bath, this will have to do. But I’m already feeling so much better. Shall we go and see what’s for dinner?”

            “You look amazing,” he murmured, still shocked by what he had just heard and witnessed. “And I apologize now, but I am going like this. I’ll change into something more suitable tomorrow. “

            Reggie was quiet during the meal, which was excellent, and accompanied by glasses of French wine. Cynthia repeated how uncomfortable she had been all day and especially with the humidity.

            “I had no idea. I was not prepared for this.”

            “Then you will enjoy Kaduna,” he explained. “It's six hundred miles to the north. Lagos in on the coast and is always humid. As we travel, the climate will change dramatically. We are in January. It will be extremely hot and dry for the next four months.” Then he paused wondering if he should share reality with her, but decided against it. The Harmattan wind was blowing, bringing in dust from the Sahara Desert, and the sun shining through it, would resemble a blood red orange. The heat would dry out everything, making her skin feel like brown paper, the covers of books would split, leather shoes would curl up, wooden furniture joints would loosen. Fine sand would invade everywhere and everything. Now the height of the dry season, daytime temperatures would soar well above one hundred degrees. Getting used to just two seasons a year would take time. But better he save this information until they were installed in their new home.

            They were the only passengers in the saloon. “Do you fancy a snifter?” Reggie asked. “A Cointreau would be perfect, darling.” Reggie ordered a Drambuie for himself.

            “Your earlier comments bothered me,” Reggie said, reaching out and taking hold of her hand. “You understand I’m here as a District Officer Cadet, and it will be two years at least before I can take the full D.O. exam. It’s important that we figure out how to make all of this work. I don’t want you to feel as if you are a token wife. We are both entering a colonial system that is well established with all its quirks, traditions and idiosyncrasies. But it’s the life I have chosen. I think it will be important for us to find some kind of employment for you, even part time, so that attending afternoon tea, knitting or card circles don’t become your only outlet.”

            Coming around behind him, she kissed the top of his head. “Agreed. We will make this work, my love.”

            Returning to their compartment, they were surprised to see that both the top bunk and seat underneath had been turned into beds complete with sheets, blankets, and pillows.

            “I’ll take the top bunk,” Reggie said. “I’m ready to crash. Will you be OK on the bottom?”

            “Just now, I think I could sleep on a washing line.”

            After turning off the lights, he could not find the switch for the dim, single light in the center of the ceiling, but thought nothing of it. They were both so tired, sleep would come easily. But at the very first station once the train had come to a complete stop, insects swarmed in through the open window.

            “Oh, my God,” Cynthia yelled, coming out of a deep sleep, feeling them on her face, waving her arms around and trying to swat them away. “Reginald, do something quickly.”

            Jumping down from his bunk, he quickly assessed what was happening and closed the open window. “It’s alright, my dear. They are harmless and have just been attracted by the light. Perhaps if we open the door, they will move towards the brighter lights in the corridor.”

            They sat, one on each side of the sliding door, he in pajamas, she wearing a long silk nightdress, ready to close it should any passenger approach. The strategy worked, at least for the most part. Some insects still remained, buzzing around the ceiling. 

            With the windows now closed and the train stationary, the heat in the compartment was intense, even with the sliding door open. Reggie suggested she try to sleep, but afraid to do so, Cynthia asked him to sit on the edge of her bunk and to swat any bothering insects.

            He waited until the train started gathering speed, then opened the windows again to catch the cool midnight air. As he watched Cynthia fall asleep, he realized that he would have to remain awake. When the train stopped at each station, he would need to get up, close the windows, wait until it moved again, then re-open them. It would be a long night.

About the author

Michael Barrington, has published 13 novels and over 60 short stories in the USA & UK. His upcoming novel, Colorblind recounts the 1943 racist Battle of Bamber Bridge in England, a shootout on the main street between Black US soldiers and white officers and MPs. He blogs on his website: www.mbwriter.net.

 

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Touched by Greatness by S. Nadja N Zajdman, hot chocolate

I was born to refugee parents who spoke almost a dozen languages between them, paid their taxes with pride, teared up when they caught sight of the Canadian flag, and put on their best clothes when they went to vote.  Considering who they were and where they came from, it is understandable that my parents would respond strongly to a cosmopolitan and charismatic leader, when he appeared in the form of Pierre Elliot Trudeau.  Trudeau’s passion for social inclusiveness appealed to my mother.  Trudeau’s principles and his straight-shooting gunslinger stance appealed to my father.

As a child growing up in Montreal in the late 1960s, I was of the generation that came to be called “Trudeau babies.”  Trudeau babies were expected to speak two languages, bridge two solitudes, and blend into a multi-cultural mosaic.  It was Trudeau’s vision of our future, and it became ours.

In challenging a journalist, he challenged us.  “Just watch me,” he uttered defiantly.  And that is what we did.  We watched, in wonder, as our Justice Minister transformed divorce and abortion laws.  We watched, in awe, as our Liberal candidate, turning steely eyed, stared down a mob pelting him with rocks and bottles on the eve of his first election.

In the wake of a political assassination we watched, with relief (most of us, anyway), as a grim leader ruthlessly clamped down and stamped out terrorism.  We watched, mystified, as this middle-aged bachelor plucked a flower child and took her for a wife.

We watched with delight, as our P.E.T. became a first-time father on Christmas Day.  We watched, astonished, as P.E.T. became a father on Christmas Day AGAIN, as if he had a contract with Santa Claus!

We watched, with amusement, when P.E. T. traveled to London and playfully pirouetted behind the back of the Queen.  Then we watched him get down to business and bring home the Canadian Constitution.

We watched sadly, and from a respectful distance, as an aging and chastened husband endured, in dignified silence, the agony of divorce.  We watched our P.E.T. come back from defeat to welcome us into the nineteen eighties and then we watched, with mixed emotions, as he relinquished the reins of power and returned to private life before the nineteen eighties were over.

 

Back home in Montreal, Pierre Trudeau took up residence in his mansion on Pine Avenue.  At the time I lived in a studio apartment on Penfield Avenue, which is located one block below Pine.  Though I heard tales from neighbours of what came to be called “Trudeau sightings,” I had yet to experience one.  My turn would come.

It was Friday afternoon in mid-January of 1990, at the traffic hour.  The Christmas break was over, and the city had returned to work.  I was antsy to get outside, after being shut in by a blizzard that hit the city the day before.   I stepped out my door, planning to take a walk around Penfield and Pine.  The air was mild and the snow that had taken the city by storm was fresh and—snow white. 

At the corner of Pine and Cedar, where the crags in the boulders off the mountainside catch falling snow and petrify it into stalactites of ice, a teenage girl swung down the street.  Her hair was thick and dark and flying from her hatless head.  She wore a short vinyl jacket, thin white tights, and a faded jean skirt that stopped above her knees.  It isn’t that warm, I thought.  Watching the girl, and experiencing the sense of vibrancy a crisp winter’s day infuses into me, I had to remind myself that it was still, only January.

I continued along Pine, to the long and steep staircase that connects this elegant and sloping avenue to the entrance of the Russian consulate, at the top of Avenue du Musee.  The snow that had banked seemed to favour the right side of the steps, so I sat down on the left.  A man appeared at the bottom of the landing, directly in front of me.  He started to climb the staircase.  Well, I thought, when he reaches the top he’ll just have to move, because I’m not going to.

In admiration, I gazed at the view.  Ropes of snow rimmed the bare branches like sugar frosting.  Caps of snow perched on spiked fences, like ice cream in cones.  As the light began to fade the street lamps switched on, as though ignited by an attentive elf.

A sudden gust of wind whistled at the snow, startling it off the rooftops.  Particles of snow, transformed into silver sequins, pirouetted under the illuminated lamps.   Headlights and taillights twinkled on cars in the distance, down the hill.  They inched along the downtown streets like dinky toys.  Smoke curled out of chimneys in pearl gray and crayoned swirls.  Dusk smudged the sky, and the scarlet red of the stoplights were the only spots of colour in a magical, monochrome world.

I felt myself smile.  The man who was climbing had reached the halfway mark on the black metal staircase.  He was wearing a high sheepskin hat, and the tails of his long coat, rimmed by a sheepskin collar, flared out and away from him, lifted by the wind.  In one hand, he was clutching a briefcase.  If not for the briefcase, he might’ve been taken for a father of confederation stepping out of a 19^th century daguerreotype.

The anachronistic-looking gentleman looked up and smiled at me.  That is when I recognized him.  My heart leapt and my brain froze.  The smile on my face was frozen, too.  Pierre Trudeau reached the last steps before the top.  He was now so close that I could’ve reached out and touched him, had it entered my mind to dare. 

“Phew!”  Trudeau took a deep and visible breath.  He was almost an old man, and it had been a long and steep climb.  Then he spoke, in a voice as familiar as my own.  “Can I sit with you?”

“Suuuure.”  I was still smiling.  By now, my smile had become so frozen that it was fixed.

In response, Trudeau smiled a warm and natural smile.  Then he bent over and touched my shoulder with his free hand.  He looked down at the right side of the step I was sitting on.  It was laden with snow. Reconsidering his original idea, Trudeau stepped into the snow, instead of sitting in it, and continued on his way, to the family mansion.  Before reaching his door, Trudeau was approached by the teenager I had first seen sauntering down Cedar.  They seemed to know each other.  Was she a family friend?  Trudeau stood outside the entrance of his home chatting with her, a nearly mythical figure in his high sheepskin hat, his long flaring coat with the sheepskin collar, and his briefcase, still in hand.

I leaned against the railing and, one final time, I watched.  I took in the icicles forming sculptures on the boulders off Cedar, the rush-hour traffic whooshing, like toboggans, down Pine, and the elder statesman standing in the twilight who had paused, in his climb, to touch the shoulder of a dreamy young woman and who still took time, in the fading light, to stop and chat with a pretty young girl.  

About the author

S. Nadja Zajdman is a Canadian author. In 2022 she published the story collection The Memory Keeper (Bridge House), as well as the memoir I Want You To Be Free. In 2023 Zajdman followed up with a second memoir, Daddy's Remains. In 2024 Bridge House brought out her essay collection, Between Worlds. 

 

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