Christmas Caro by Clare Martin, a cup of warm, spiced wine

Sumptuous.

It was Caro’s favourite word. Everything good was sumptuous. Dark chocolate, a silk blouse, Elgar’s Enigma Variations.

And this room.

Sumptuous.

Sparkling mirrors and chandeliers, swathes of rich red hangings, and dragons dancing underfoot and overhead. A room made for parties and performances, with added glitter and gold for Christmas.

And, just for a few moments, it was all hers.

Caro was always early. Her friends joked about her obsessive planning, her terror of tardiness. Today's journey had been perfect without delay or diversion.

And here was her reward. Silence and solitude in sumptuous surroundings.

She stood in the centre of the room, breathed in and sang a soft note. The acoustics were perfect. She ran a scale, up and down, the high notes soaring up towards the ceiling, the low notes grounding her in the rich red and blue carpet.

The room demanded perfection. Better warm up properly, Caro admonished herself and taking a sip from her water bottle, began a series of trills and long notes.

‘The Holly and the Ivy,’ she sang over and over again, trying to get the leap to the high E just right.

‘Oh, that’s my favourite!’ The soft voice came from the doorway and Caro swung round. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.’ The guide, dressed as a Regency serving maid, ducked her head and turned to leave.

‘No, please don’t go.’ Caro stretched out her hand. ‘It’s my fault. I’m here early, but they said I could come in and wait for the others.’

‘You’re part of the entertainment then?’ The woman stepped further into the room, and Caro caught the sweet smell of cinnamon, tang of lemon and hint of warm. spiced wine that followed in her wake.

They really were going to town this festive season, Caro thought. All the more reason to be note perfect.

‘What will you be performing?’

‘The usual festive songs and carols.' Caro was running through the repertoire in her head, hoping she’d remember all the words. 'Hark The Herald, I Saw Three Ships. The traditional ones, you know.'

'..Oh tidings of comfort and joy ..'  the woman's voice was soft and gentle, setting sweet harmonics ringing. She sang beautifully, naturally.

'You should join us,' Caro rushed in.' You'd be very welcome …'

‘Oh no, I could never .. I wouldn't presume .. and I’m needed below stairs you see.’

Caro thought that was a nice touch, the old phrase tripping naturally off the guide’s tongue. She heard the distant clatter of pans, a man's voice shouting. Saw the woman flinch slightly.

'I just wanted to listen, for a moment.'

‘Perhaps, if we sing loud enough ..’ Caro turned her head as a group of her fellow choir members arrived, chattering loudly.

‘Here she is, good old Caro. Early as always.’ Much laughter and gentle teasing.

‘Fabulous place to sing, isn’t it?’ Her friend Sarah, unwound her scarf and dropped it on the window seat. ‘I guess you’ve tested out the acoustics already?’

‘Just a few scales,' Caro felt a sudden kick of irritation as the room filled with the everyday. 'And I was running through some of the carols for the guide. She's a singer too.’ She turned back and saw the pale shadow of the woman, smiling sadly as she faded into the red silk hangings.

‘Guide? What guide?’ 

About the author

  

Clare Martin is a writer with a background in radio journalism. Based in Sussex, England, she specialises in flash fiction and short stories. Writing about what lies under the surface of ordinary life, she draws inspiration from overheard conversations and the tales we tell ourselves. 

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Recipe for the Perfect Apology by Clare Martin, a comforting cup of tea

Ingredients

·         Details of the incident

·         An exact recollection of words used. Note: These must not be blanched, minced, shredded or coated in sugar, or the flavour will be completely ruined.

·         Understanding the impact of the incident.  Exact quantities are essential. Do not estimate, and ensure you use appropriate measures. If in doubt seek advice elsewhere before preparing the apology.

·         Promises, for decoration (optional extra)

Method

Prepare your work area. Make sure you have cleared away any leftovers from previous apologies to ensure no cross-contamination.

Assemble everything you need. Consult your list to make sure nothing is left out and that all ingredients, especially your words, are carefully weighed.

Invite the injured person into the work area and make sure they are comfortable.

Make a clean breast of the issue and carefully blend all the ingredients. Note: It is essential to do this in the right order or the apology will curdle and be unpalatable.

Garnish with promises to learn from the incident and do better next time. Note: This step is optional. Sometimes an apology is best served plain to allow the full flavour to come through.

Serve with affection.

An apology is best served immediately. Never reheat an apology.

About the author 

Clare Martin is a writer with a background in radio journalism. Based in Sussex, England, she specialises in flash fiction and short stories. Writing about what lies under the surface of ordinary life, she draws inspiration from overheard conversations and the tales we tell ourselves. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

The Visit by Clare Martin, a gin and tonic, for old times' sake

It’s the leaving that’s hard.

Arriving’s okay. Warmth, loud music from the TV lounge, the twittering of caged birds and murmured conversation. A lingering smell of gravy, a hint of polish. The sharp undertone of bleach

Quiet and heavy – a blanket that warms, comforts and restricts.

I’m greeted with a smile and a cheerful hello from everyone I pass, as a carer takes me through. We exchange quick, elliptical remarks, filling me in on today’s state of play.

And then she’s there, at the end of the corridor – smile wavering, eyes spurting hot tears of mingled relief and happiness.

‘Oooh hoo!’, her fingers waggle at me.

We hug – my arms trying to encompass every bit of her, conveying love, reassurance, and so-happy-to-see-you.

On a good day, I swiftly turn tears to a watery chuckle with a bit of nonsensical chatter. A silly song. Something and nothing.

On a bad day, we stand swaying together awhile, me murmuring consolation into her soft, flyaway hair until she’s ready to have her arm tucked into mine and take a gentle stroll around the unit.

Correction. Her home.

We find a place to sit and talk – me willing myself to relax, sit back in my chair, and chat about the weather, the birds, the flowers, the children.

All the while, my inner self is perched on the edge of my seat, eyes scanning her face, straining to catch every last drop of her words, willing there to be meaning beneath the rote phrases. To see in her eyes some sense of self, some fleeting wisp of memory.

Those eyes. Still bright blue.

How piercing they were when she detected me in wrong-doing. How warm and loving when my actions filled her with pride.

Now behind the gaze lies blankness, as though she is staring into somewhere misty and far off. A puzzle she cannot untangle.

Time passes – more nonsense, interspersed with quick checks of her physical state. And always, always, trying to make her laugh.

It’s the leaving that’s hard. It kills a little bit of me, every time.

Towards the end of the afternoon, I make ‘got to leave soon’ noises. My gut twists as I talk of journey times, weather, hours of daylight left, where the kids are and how I have to get home to them soon.

Does she - always the carer, the organiser, the worrier – understand? Or do my words mean nothing?

I’m preparing myself for departure.

I stand and we link arms again and stroll along the corridors, admiring the pictures on the wall, talking to the budgies, greeting the people we pass.

‘Got to go now, Mum.’

Another all-embracing hug – trying to give through my whole body, my mind, my heart, anything to arm her for the coming days.

The bad days, the confused days, the past-is-here-and-now days, the pain-filled memory days.

I slide slowly towards the front door.

Look back.

There she stands, rudderless, adrift in a sea of warmth and kind, compassionate care. Yet still adrift - blue eyes un-focusing in a look of loss and leaving.

About the author 

 Clare Martin is a writer with a background in radio journalism. Based in Sussex, England, she specialises in flash fiction and short stories. Writing about what lies under the surface of ordinary life, she draws inspiration from overheard conversations and the tales we tell ourselves. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)