When Life Gets Messyby Diane Neilson,dDouble caramel mocha

 

Harry jolted awake as the front door slammed.

Jenny looked flustered as she deposited a cardboard coffee cup on the table and shrugged off her coat.

"Sorry I'm late Grandad, it's carnage out there."

"Well you shouldn't have left it 'till rush hour"

"I know, I know, but ... I had a client and it ran over."

Jenny popped back in and scooped up the ready meal. Hotpot. He preferred the lasagne.

"No lasagne today Gramps, sorry, this was all they had."

He grunted and stared at the coffee cup. Why didn't she just buy a jar of instant? She was always claiming to be skint and what those coffee shops were charging was daylight robbery.

"You should have just bought a jar, it's cheaper." he said, pointing at the coffee.

"Ah well, it's a little treat isn't it, Double Caramel Mocha."

She put the plastic tray of food down in front of him. He preferred it on a plate but he better not say anything. He started to eat, chewing slowly, his dentures finding a piece of gristle amongst the veg and gravy. He spat it out and pointedly wrapped it in a tissue before holding it out to her.

Without comment, she took it from him and dropped it in the kitchen bin, before settling herself in the armchair opposite, a bottle of plain water in hand. That was probably from the coffee shop as well. Couldn't she turn on a tap?

"Well Grandad, have you had a nice day?"

He frowned at her over his glasses and carried on eating.

"I've been run off my feet; two bikini waxes, an eyebrow re-shape and three foot massages. Oh, and a facial skin peel."

"Why don't you get a proper job instead of pandering to people's expensive and unnecessary needs?" he pronounced; a rhetorical question that he regularly repeated.

"Never mind that, have you thought about what we talked about yesterday?"

"What you talked about, you mean."

Jenny sighed. "You can't stay here much longer Gramps, you can't manage by yourself. You need looking after, now that Gran's gone."

"I've got you, haven't I?" Another rhetorical question.

They both sat in silence for a few moments before Jenny spoke up again.

"You do know you'll lose the house if you have to go into care?"

Harry rose to his feet unsteadily. "I've told you, you can have my house when I'm dead!" he barked. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm going for a lie down."

He left the room, leaning heavily on his stick and muttering under his breath.

Jenny cleared away his tea tray, washed the dishes that had been left in the sink and half-filled the kettle for his bedtime hot chocolate, before peeping in at his bedroom door.

"See you tomorrow then, call if you need me."

He replied with a wave of his hand, almost a dismissal, and she bit her tongue as she left, resisting the urge to slam the front door behind her.

Jenny climbed into her old Ford Escort and sat for a moment, tears stinging her eyes. She had been caring for her Grandad for five years now, since Gran died, and it wasn't getting any easier.

She had been talking to a client a couple of weeks ago who had told her that she had signed over her whole life to her son: signed over the deeds to her house and given him power of attorney so that she wouldn't have to spend her whole worth on care home fees when the time came. She planned to spend all of her money having a great time until she was "decrepit or doo-lally" - her words.

Jenny was horrified. "But where are you living?"

"Oh, I get to stay in my house, they just can't take it off me to pay for care, and when I do pop-me-clogs, its already his. No fuss about inheritance."

She had told her grandad about the woman, explaining as best she could and hoping he would think about it. After all, he had told her often enough that the house was hers when he went, and it would simplify matters. His response had been the same as today, ‘You can have my house when I'm dead’. She had been quite offended, she wasn't after his money, she was just trying to be pragmatic.

Jenny should have led a different life. Her grandad was right about her job; it was rubbish pay and she spent her days pandering to the whims of rich ladies and daft girls. She had been all set to go to university. She got great A-level grades and had been accepted at Lancaster to study business; far enough to have to live away, but close enough to pop home whenever she wanted to.

But then her gran died quite suddenly. Jenny had lost her mum when she was quite young; her dad had never been on the scene and she had spent ten years living with her grandparents whom she loved dearly.

Overnight, her life and her plans changed. She couldn't leave her grandad on his own, so she got an apprenticeship at a local salon and moved into a tiny flat above a smelly kebab shop on the high street. She worked hard all day and then every evening, after work, she called in at her grandad's with his supper and his favourite ‘expensive’ coffee - the one he had always ordered when he treated her and gran to coffee and a slice of lemon drizzle on a Sunday afternoon.

He hadn't always been a grumpy old man and he had always been there for her, so she was devastated that he now seemed to think she was after his money; she wished she had never mentioned it.

Harry lay for a long time with his eyes closed. Jenny was right, he needed to sort things out why he still could. The problem was that it wasn't as simple as just signing over the house. If it was, he would do it in a heartbeat; there was no house to sign over - there was nothing.

When Mary had become ill, a lot earlier than Jenny was aware of, they had put the house into a shared ownership scheme; handing over their home to a company who then allowed them to live there as long as they needed to. This had freed up a bit of cash so that they could enjoy a few holidays while she was still able, and put a bit aside should Jenny want to go to university or buy her own place. He had paid the deposit on her little flat and helped her to kit it out, the plan being that when she went to Uni she could rent it out to help ends meet.

When Mary's health had taken a sudden downturn, it had taken them all by surprise. He really hadn't wanted Jenny to change her plans, but she had refused to move away, instead taking that ridiculous job painting nails.

And now he was stuck. Jenny wasn't being callous, she was being sensible. How was he going to explain this whole mess?

The next afternoon, Jenny made sure that she was early. She also made sure that she had bought Grandads favourite lasagne - for two.

When she walked in, she noticed that he had tidied up a bit, and that there was a pile of envelopes on the sideboard.

"Hi Gramps, lasagne tonight...and I picked up a lemon drizzle cake for us, a little treat."

It was Harry's turn to feel the tears pricking at his eyes, and he wiped them away quickly as she went into the kitchen to heat up the lasagne and put the kettle on.

"Sit down love, we need to talk."

By the time he had finished they were both in tears.

"Oh, Grandad, why didn't you tell me all this earlier?"

"I'd always promised you the house... and now I've nothing for you. I didn't know how."

His voice trailed off and he stared out of the window, somehow a shrunken version of the man he had been an hour earlier.

"Get your coat on," she said, "We're going out."

They sat in companionable silence, two extra-large double caramel mochas and a large slice of lemon drizzle cake on the table in front of them.

"It'll be Ok Gramps. We've got each other, you have a roof over your head for as long as you need it, and I have my whole life ahead of me to go to Uni and get a better job."

"I don't deserve you." Harry said, grasping her hand. "I don't deserve you, but I'm glad I've got you. Let's have another coffee."

 About the author 

DIane is a new writer and her aim is to entertain and inform. She lives in the UK and likes experiments with a range of genres including poetry and short stories. She has released five books, and has had several short stories published by Cafelit.

 

Paste story here Paste author bio here

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Match Day by Diane Neilson, Can of Vimto

A real-life story based on my first experience of a rugby league game in September 1978

I had waited so long!

Years of watching my dad and uncle, nan and grandad disappear every Sunday afternoon—climbing into my grandad's old Triumph and driving down the road, scarves trailing from the rear windows, taunting me.

I used to stand miserably, with my chin on the window ledge, refusing to move until the car was out of sight, the last of the exhaust fumes carried away on the wind. Until my mum dragged me away with the luke-warm promise of an exciting afternoon; a trip to the park or a new comic from the shop. On any other day I'd have been thrilled, but not on match day. 

I had asked my dad loads of times if I could go with them, but the answer was always the same, 'It’s no place for kids, you can come when you're older'.

Well now I was older - eleven to be exact - and the new season was about to start. My dad had bought me a season ticket for my birthday in June and a bubbling excitement had taken hold immediately, growing like a grumbling volcano or a dam about to burst, until it was finally match-day and I couldn't keep still; hopping from one foot to the other and mithering the living daylights out of my dad until he threatened to leave me at home if I didn't pack it in. 

I couldn't stop, so I spent the next couple of hours throwing a ball round in the street to burn off the energy of my anticipation. 

Who could blame me? It was the first home match of the season, and ahead lay the wonderful promise of Sunday road-trips, and maybe a thrilling Wembley encounter and eventual silverware. I always assumed we would win (still do), and only three days previous we had beat Huddersfield away in the first game of the season, proving me right - in my eyes at least. 

I had seen matches on TV, of course, but somehow I knew it would be so much better in real life. I couldn't wait to be part of the Sunday gang and had mapped out every second so many times: piling into the car, decked out in hats and scarves; the billowing roar of the crowd; the highs and lows—riding a wave of emotion as the game progressed; a can of Vimto and a Pimblett's pie at half-time, followed by the KitKat in my pocket. 

I could even imagine the inevitable debate on the way home as my dad and grandad gave the game a thorough post-mortem.  My dad parked half a mile away (‘for a quick getaway later’, he said) and as we approached the ground on foot I could sense the tension in the air.

We queued up at the home end, my dad gripping the collar of my jacket, until it was finally our turn to pass through the turnstile. Once inside, the noise doubled. 

The crowd were singing their anthems and goading the opposition fans with well-practised chants. Someone was banging rhythmically on the corrugated iron fencing at the back of the stand, and a relentless indecipherable chatter assaulted my ears: the banter of men, chatter of women, laughter of giddy boys and girls weaving between their parents’ legs playing tag, smaller kids on their dad's shoulders, and over it all, a stream of names being read out over the tannoy. 

Every so often there would be a loud cheer as one of our star players was named, and then a long hollow booing at the names of the opposition. Me and my dad squeezed into a space behind one of the rattling wooden barriers and I jiggled around, perching on my dad’s steel-capped boots, until I could see a patch of green turf between the people in front and the goal posts rising like giant H's above a sea of red and white.

A deafening roar crashed like a wave as the players emerged from the tunnel, and I was suddenly overwhelmed by the smell of wintergreen mingled with freshly cut grass and warm beer. My eyes stung and my stomach rolled, while the chanting of soon-to-be familiar names rang in my ears followed by a sudden, shrill whistle - they were off.

Unless you have been to a rugby match it's hard to imagine the brutality. As the whistle pierced the early autumn air, twenty-six pairs of boots thundered across the emerald field towards each other, whilst thousands roared with pure delight. For eighty minutes, bodies collided like crashing waves as shoulder met shoulder, the crowd gasping then roaring after each crushing hit. Mud and sweat became a second skin and ragged breaths were taken between tackles, a storm of bodies with steaming nostrils and burning muscles, their boots carving up the hallowed turf in a relentless tide of collisions.

Amid the battle, moments of sheer elegance: the full back sliced through the line like a blade through silk, skipping beyond the last line of defence to score beneath the posts. In response, the opposition scrum-half accelerated like lightening, leaving defenders clutching at shadows. At half time it was five all.

With only minutes remaining, the deciding try unfolded like a masterpiece. The crowd held its breath and time seemed to stand still as our star player took control; In a game of force, he answered with finesse as the ball became an extension of his hands, his feet gracefully painting a path across the field, the roar of the crowd rising as the white line welcomed him home. Agony and ecstasy experienced simultaneously, the home crowd erupting into joyous raptures as the visitors held their heads in their hands in disbelief. 

The home crowd spilled onto the pitch as the full-time siren sounded, players and supporters celebrating as one, as the defeated opposition melted away down the tunnel.

We were giants. Triumphant. Unbeatable, for now, and the short journey home was everything I thought it would be as we celebrated a battle hard won; as though we had fought it ourselves.

It would not always feel like this. There would be losses to balance the wins; highs and lows are part of the ebb and flow of sport, after all. But for now, I was elated: part of the story and part of a community—the start of a love affair that would last my whole life and create memories to cherish forever. I was hooked.

Diane is a new writer and her aim is to entertain and inform. She lives in the UK and likes experiments with a range of genres including poetry and short stories. She has released five books, and has had several short stories published by Cafelit.

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the author the other half goes to expenses e.g. Maintaining the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.  

Watching the world go by, bBy Diane Neilson,a bottomless coffee

 

Watching the world go by

By Diane Neilson

A bottomless coffee

 

I enjoy the peculiarity of people, I always have; and sit for an hour every day just to watch and imagine.

I position myself deliberately in the window seat of the café, opposite the marketplace. The library is on the corner opposite, and all sorts walk by: the breadth of humanity, from ladies to farmers, mothers with children, and at three, the school bus empties - a whole new world. I sit with a 'bottomless coffee', a genius idea that allows me to witness the world for as long as I like, unobserved, veiled in anonymity, for who would care about a solitary woman watching the world go by?

 

An unusually tall lady passes, striding purposefully. She has stylish silver-grey hair and a bright silk scarf. Her high cheekbones are dusted with pink and her lips are scarlet; I imagine her to be a 'Sophia' or maybe a'Charlotte', on her way to a business meeting; suited and booted with her shiny brown briefcase; sunglasses and pace ensuring that nobody dares stop her.

 

A small child races by, heading for the road. I tense - almost stand - and then tut quietly as his mother hurls herself towards him, grabbing his arm in the nick of time, yelling at him, her face a picture of anger rather than relief, or guilt. He bursts into tears, snot running down into his mouth as he melts into her, and I see that she is now mortified by her reaction. Its strange how we behave when scared, I think, often contrary to how we feel. I warm to her; it isn't easy being a mum.

 

The librarian trots down the steps. It must be her lunch break. She will come through the door in a moment - "Caramel latte with an extra shot please, and a chicken salad on brown." The same every day - a creature of habit. Whose business is it if she has the same every day? Certainly not mine. She looks like a librarian, Ithink: short cropped hair, large glasses. Elfish, one could say. I can imagine her shushing people politely as their literary conversations become heated; reshelving the books, quietly soothed by it's exacting order.

 

Mike from the cheese stall rushes by. He's always rushing, I often wonder why. Where is he going? Maybe he calls on his aging mother in his break; or nips out for groceries; I wonder if he smells like cheese - and if so, which one; what ridiculous thoughts I have! He's a nice looking man; short and squat with a friendly face; his smile always reaches his eyes, you know the kind.

 

Ah, the school bus! Like ants they teem as the doors open, hardly waiting for the pneumatics to drop the step to the kerb. Do they listen to each other? I often wonder because they all seem to chatter to each other at once. Maybe you can chatter and listen at that age, I can't remember. Oh dear, two of them are jostling, a larger boy knocking the smaller one's backpack from his shoulder. Jeering and doing it again and again, his cowardly little mob egging him on. The little one is almost in tears now; runs across the road and is almost hit by a car, on the other side, wiping the mbarrassing tears from his face with the back of his hand before anyone sees them. I've seen them though, and I wish I was brave enough to go and confront those boys. Maybe I will one day; I'll wait at the bus stop and knock their bags to the ground - see how they like it.

 

"Top-up Jean? Sorry, didn't mean to make you jump. Penny for them..." I am startled as the lovely Rachel brings me back to reality.

"Yes please love." She pours me another cup of kindness and squeezes my shoulder as she sneaks a choc-chip muffin onto my plate. You wouldn't know it to look at her, wouldn't guess she was an angel in disguise: tattooed arms, piercings everywhere, spiky green hair - well it's green today anyway - and those leather pants! How does she breathe?

 

The cafe door opens and a tall, handsome man walks in. Everyone looks at him. He smiles easily and asks Rachel for a coca cola, he never did grow into hot drinks.

"Hi Gran," he smiles as he bends to hug me and kisses the top of my head, "...how are you? People-watching again?"

"Just waiting for you love, that's all, and I'm all the better for seeing you."

He smiles and sits down, stretching his legs out and eyeing me curiously. "Don't you get bored coming here every day."

"Bored? Never! How can you ever get bored of people? And anyway, it means I get to have a cuppa with my handsome grandson everyday. Nothing's better than that.

About the author 

 

"Come on you two, I'm all done."

We both get to our feets and I watch as Rachel links my boy, and walks out of the cafe, shift over."

 

They will invite me for tea and I will refuse. They need their time alone.

 

I will sit in the garden later, thinking about all the people I have seen and wondering what they might be up to on a warm summer's evening. I will admire my roses and breathe in the heady scent of the jasmine and honeysuckle and I will think of you, my love.

 

Am I lonely? Not at all. I miss you, but we had fifty years together which makes me feel very lucky.

And I have young Jack and Rachel just round the corner; maybe I will accept their invitation tomorrow.

iane is a new writer and her aim is to entertain and inform. She lives in the UK and likes experiments with a range of genres including poetry and short stories. She has released four books, and has had several stories published by Cafelit. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee?. Half of what you pay goes to the author the oher half goes to expenses e.g. Maintaining the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

Realisation by Diane Neilson, a couple of glasses of Merlot

Martha awoke to a startling realisation; she had absolutely no idea who she was.

She was, however, calm and stared at the blank, white ceiling, devoid of thought. Devoid of questions. ‘I could be that ceiling,’ she thought, ‘blank, featureless, forgettable.’

Of course, she knew that her name was Martha and that she was married to Tom, her childhood sweetheart. She knew that she had two lovely, if demanding, teenage girls, and she was acutely aware that she was a busy teacher, about to jump back on the treadmill that was school life. She also knew the date; that it was the last day of the summer holidays. 

But who was she? And who would miss her if she wasn’t here…poof! Just vanished into thin air. 

Martha had had a pleasant, if uneventful, life so far; uneventful, that is, apart from the things that are supposed to happen in life: an ordinary childhood, college, marriage, children, job, holidays… she should be happy. ‘I might be happy. Am I happy?’

She had no idea.

She shook her head and got up, throwing the duvet off and heading to the bathroom. As she cleaned her teeth, she stared at her 39-year-old self in the mirror: the slightly greying hair, the faint lines around her eyes, her tatty old pyjama top. “I don’t like this toothpaste!” she said out loud to her reflection.

For now, that was the only thing that came into her mind, although other thoughts soon followed.

‘We buy this because the girls will eat it.’ Whilst pouring her bowl of cereal into the bin. ‘Why do I never buy croissants’

She put two teaspoons of sugar in her coffee. She usually had none because they (Tom) had decided it was unnecessary. Unhealthy. ‘Why did I just go along with that?’

She got out a slice of bread to put in the toaster, and then returned it to the packet. ‘I don’t enjoy white bread. I don’t enjoy spreadable butter – or strawberry jam. I want a warm croissant drizzled with honey, and a caramel latte.’

Before she could change her mind, Martha dressed quickly and grabbed her bag. She marched down the street onto the main road and slipped guiltily into the trendy café. It was emptier than she had thought it would be and she placed her order, taking a seat by the window, waiting, with a feeling that could have been excitement, for her croissant and coffee. She realised that she couldn’t remember the last time she had been excited. Another unwelcome realisation. 

As I have already said, it was the last day of the summer holidays, over a month of being chauffeur to the girls and playing housewife. Tom had been attached to his work phone during their week in France and the girls had complained non-stop because there was no internet signal. 

She had just one delicious day when she could be whoever she wanted to be. Tom was at work, the girls had gone back to school the day before, and she had done all of her new term prep. She had a whole day with a blank diary. She had woken, alone, in her bed to a peaceful house, and she had liked it. The thought scared her a little. ‘Put that thought out of your head!’

But then, her third realisation of the day, she realised that she could think whatever she wanted – who would know. That led to another thought, she could do what she wanted – absolutely anything, a whole day with nobody to answer to.

‘So,’ she thought, ‘what shall I do?’ Her mind was blank. 

Back at home, she went through what would usually be her day, should she have one to herself, ticking off the items on a mental list: clear up the breakfast dishes and tidy the kitchen; clear the living room of all the detritus that came with two untidy teenagers, depositing it in their rooms and giving them a quick tidy too – making beds, folding clothes etc. etc. Same in hers and Tom’s room, quick shower, put a wash on, call on her mum who was struggling with her dad’s early dementia, pick up some shopping on the way home, prepare something to put in the oven later – something they would all eat – a lasagna maybe.

She would also plan to read a chapter of her book, pop down to the hairdressers to get her roots done, go for a swim – but she wouldn’t do any of those things, and her family would find her flopped on the sofa, exhausted, when they eventually returned home, questioning why she was so tired when she had had a day to herself.

No wonder she didn’t know who she was. She only existed as a small part of someone else’s life – lots of ‘someones’, actually: wife, mother, daughter, teacher, friend; or in terms of her contribution: housekeeper, cook, teacher, colleague, someone who could be relied on to run breakfast club if needed – or unblock a toilet. 

Martha was deflated. ‘Even I don’t know who I am, how can anybody else be expected to know?’

Time for a good look at herself. Martha ignored all of the chores that needed doing in the house and went upstairs to her bedroom, flinging open the wardrobe doors and staring at the hangers draped with several pairs of black trousers and sensible blouses (essential for work), jeans and jumpers, a black dress – well it could double up for either a posh do or a funeral – and, right at the end of the rail, a sparkly red sequined top which she wore every year for the Christmas do. Her chest of drawers was just as bad: grey or faded underwear, ancient t-shirts, her other (equally awful) pair of pyjamas. 

Martha went downstairs and got a roll of binbags. Everything went in, everything, that is, but the sparkly red sequined top, the only item that spoke to her of anything but humdrum routine. She drove the lot to the local tip and then carried on into town, parking up at the large shopping centre. She had decided that she would only buy things that were interesting or colourful, almost in the hope that they would make her interesting and colourful too. 

On the way home she picked up a barista coffee machine, sugar, honey, fresh-mint toothpaste and some new cosmetics. She stopped off at the hairdressers: had her grey hair dismissed with a blonde rinse and lilac highlights, her eyebrows shaped and her nails gelled in shocking pink. She called at the bakery and bought a bag full of fresh pastries for morning, and cream cakes for tea. Back home, she went online and booked an ‘orientation meeting’ at the local gym, enrolling for yoga classes and a spa session, then ordered in a curry for tea.

At last, Martha sat back heavily. ‘What have I done?’ 

She heard a key in the front door and ran upstairs, panicking at what Tom would say. She had done nothing in the house – it was still the bombsite she had woken to this morning – and had spent an absolute fortune on her spending frenzy, to say nothing of the expensive gym membership that she had bought. 

Hearing Tom’s footsteps on the stairs, she shot into the en-suite, shutting the door behind her and leaning against it heavily, her heart pounding and her mind racing.

“Martha, where are you?” 

She opened the door slowly, dreading Tom’s reaction, but was stopped in her tracks at the sight before her. Her normally bearded, slightly scruffy husband was stood in the doorway looking extremely sheepish – and extremely smart – clean-shaven, sporting a new haircut and wearing a smart pair of trousers and crisp blue shirt.

“Your hair!” they both exclaimed together. 

Tom spoke first. “I just felt I’d let myself go. Let you down, you know. I thought I’d make a bit of an effort.”

“I didn’t know who I was this morning,” Martha admitted, cautiously, “I’m afraid I’ve had a bit of a splurge – gone a bit mad.”

They stared at each other for the longest moment, then both exploded with laughter, somehow ending up in each other’s arms. 

“Well, I like what I see.” Replied Tom, when they had both recovered. “Let’s go downstairs and have a glass of wine. I’ve bought a bottle of that Merlot that you like.”

An hour (and a bottle of wine later), two confused teenagers walked through the door to a very untidy house and a pair of slightly tipsy parents, one minus a beard and one sporting lilac highlights. They looked at each other and shrugged before heading to the kitchen, their demands fired in quick succession. “What’s for tea.” “I’m hungry, are there any snacks?” 

“You’re having a curry,” Martha replied, “Me and your dad are going out.”

The girls returned to the kitchen doorway, and stood there gaping. 

“It’s a school day tomorrow. You can’t go out on a school night.” Spouted Clara, in a perfect imitation of her mother. “And where is my netball kit? I need it tomorrow.”

“Never mind that,” smirked Emily, “who are you, and what have you done with our parents?” 

“Well, that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it. If we run into them, we will let you know.” said Martha, mysteriously. “Oh, and by the way, before your curry arrives, you can both give the house a tidy and put a wash on.”

A little later, and pleasantly full of pizza, Martha exclaimed to her husband, “I really didn’t know who I was this morning. I’m still not sure, but I definitely prefer this version.”

“Me too,” replied Tom, “and I can’t wait to see what other surprises are in store for me.”

Martha eyed him keenly, with a twinkle in her eye, as she leaned in. “Be careful what you wish for. You haven’t seen the bank balance yet.”

About the Author

Diane is a new writer and her aim is to entertain and inform. She lives in the UK and likes experiments with a range of genres including poetry and short stories. She has released four books, and has had three stories published by Cafelit.

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.)