An Amazing Voice by Judith Skilleter, provencal rosé

Ray has the most amazing voice. He is a bass singer, a rich booming bass singer. It is a fabulous voice with a wonderful range and one that could tackle any role or song. It is a voice that captivates audiences. In his early years Ray had singing lessons and even attended music school where he was encouraged to perform by his teachers and to make singing his career.  But that sort of life was not for him: always on the move and new venues and new people every day - no way. He enjoyed stability and being in one place too much. In any case his girlfriend from when he was fourteen years old was pregnant with their first child and it was with delight he chose a different profession that had nothing to do with music – music was a hobby he loved and he was not prepared  for it to become a chore. So Ray became a history teacher where he used his voice to great effect but not by singing. He married his girlfriend and very soon they had three children under six years. The peripatetic life of a troubadour was definitely not for him.

As a teacher he did not need to raise his voice to be heard; it was beautifully raised all the time and even the miscreants at the back of the class did not miss a word.  His pupils loved him, he was an entertaining teacher and he made history fascinating and his punishments were a delight.

Ray remembers one time some years ago when he was teaching A Level students about the Italian Wars. He saw Alec Finn at the back of the class chatting to his pal in the next seat.

“Finn,” boomed Ray without much effort, “you are here to learn history and not talk to your dodgy pal in the next seat. Both of you, by tomorrow morning I would like to see in my cubby hole a full list of the states in the United States alongside their capitals and I would like to see underlined those capital cities that have a name the same as a city in the UK. And do not let Washington baffle you.”

This, of course, led to much laughter and merriment throughout the class.

“What do the two of you say to that then?” continued Ray.

“Yes sir, sorry sir” said Finn and his dodgy pal at the same time.

“In fact you can all do this lovely little task. I don’t mind if you share and copy, do it together” said Ray.

“Oh no sir,” went right round the room.

“It is a useful piece of learning for which you will all thank me when you are as old and grey as me and love doing crosswords and pub quizzes. So stop whingeing. Now, back to the Italian Wars – and I mean you too Finn.”

Next morning Ray found one completed and correct list in his cubby hole signed by the whole class, the Headmaster, a few of the other staff members, Paul McCartney, Shirley Bassey and Mick Jagger.

“Wonderful,” said Ray quietly to himself.

Ray is a football referee and again his big voice is an asset. He does not referee for the big professional teams, rather local school and amateur teams. And he loves it. Refereeing keeps him fit. (He tried golf but he found it boring and his clubs, new, shiny and hardly used, were sold on eBay). Ray rarely has to use his whistle to stop play or identify fouls as his voice his quite enough.

There was a young player, Joe Dobson, who was with a professional side’s academy for a while until he was let go. - “Football can be a cruel business” thinks Ray. Joe had committed just too many fouls in the penalty area. “The lad just gets too excited if there is a chance of a goal,” rationalised Ray. But Joe was sent off many times often with the words “Dobson off” ringing in his ears when Ray was the referee. Of course, the crowd picked this phrase up and Ray hears them singing “Dobson off” even when Dobson is not playing.

“It is my own personal chant,” Ray thinks with delight.  I have a nickname – Dobson off. As for Joe Dobson himself, he signs autographs “Dobson off” as he now enjoys a solid football career, albeit not in the heady heights of the Premier League.

But music is still a big part of Ray’s life. He is in a couple of choirs – of course he is. And he is in a barber shop quartet whose repertoire is enjoyed at weddings and dinner dances. Ray’s voice can always be identified no matter how big or how small the venue. His favourite songs are from the Deep South where he can give full rein to his rich bass voice and these are often requested by his audiences.

Every year Ray is asked to be Father Christmas in the local big stores and shopping malls as his 'Ho Ho Ho's are well known. He says no to the traditional Santa Claus tasks: having young children on your knee can be risky these days, risky to himself, so he avoids these contacts and contracts. But, now he is retired from teaching he instead enjoys singing in shopping malls dressed as Santa Claus at Xmas. And the money he raises goes to charity.

 Ray loved singing his own children to sleep all those years ago, although he had to learn to sing very quietly otherwise there would be complaints that he was too loud and they couldn’t get to sleep. He is now relearning quiet singing for when his small grandchildren come to stay.

“One day they will ask me to read to them rather than Gramps singing” says Alice wistfully, but she doesn’t mind really. Ray’s voice has always been one of the reasons she fell in love with him and always will be. She delights in the pleasure the younger generations get from Gramps’ marvellous voice.

But Ray and Alice also enjoy silence. Every morning there is up to two hours where there is not a word spoken.

Their routine is that they wake up and enjoy a cup of tea from a long-hated Teasmade that Alice inherited when her mother died. She now loves it and enjoys a cup of Earl Grey tea with milk while Ray enjoys tea with honey and lemon (to protect his voice) before they start their day. Once up and ready they stroll to the newsagents for their newspapers and come straight home for breakfast. Breakfast is spent in complete silence as they do the puzzles in their papers – Ray attacks the cryptic crosswords and Alice attacks the Sudokus and general knowledge crosswords. The only word spoken during this precious time is the occasional “Shhh” if one or the other mutters to themselves.  Only  after the puzzles and most likely a second pot of coffee have been completed can their noisy day begin.

Both Ray and Alice are now retired. For all her working life Alice was a librarian. What else could she be with all those decibels at home? Her working days were spent in relative silence while her personal life was full of glorious noise – apart from puzzle time – and she loved and still loves it.

About the author

Judith Skilleter is new to writing fiction after a long career in social work and teaching. Her first children's novel The April Rebellion, has recently been published. Judith is a Geordie, who settled in East Yorkshire forty-five years ago and is married with four grandchildren 

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.)

Jean by Judith Skilleter, a large flat white coffee

 Jean is thinking of leaving home, she is thinking of leaving her family to their own devices. It would just be for a short time – to teach them a lesson. In fact Jean has been thinking about leaving for some time but she was just waiting for the right time and that time could be now. Her children, sixteen year old twin girls have just finished their GSCE’s and her husband works away so much he would hardly notice.

Jean is fed up doing everything for everyone while no-one does anything for her. She has tried over the years to impose rules which have worked for a little while but sooner, rather than later, the old lazy ways return. And Jean accepts that it is all her fault; she has made a rod for her own back. Since the twins were born she has immersed herself into motherhood – wifehood, if that is a noun, had been sacrificed. She adored her girls’ early years and even during infant and primary schools. She loved doing things for them, taking care of them in an extra special way, always being available to meet their wants and needs. But when senior school and those dreadful teen years appeared Jean felt she was being taken for granted. The twins expected her to do everything for them without any thanks or appreciation and their home was treated like a hotel, four star probably given the scale of their demands , which, of course, Jean met.

It is now the long summer holiday before they restart school for their A levels – if their GCSEs are good enough – and it looks as if every day will start about lunch time and the rest of the day will be spent on their computers or mobiles while they chat to their boyfriends or equally lazy mates. Boyfriends for each of them is plural, as far as Jean is aware they have no-one special. Unless they are all special. Jean shudders at the thought. Neither of her daughters have intentions to get a job for the holidays or do something useful in the weeks ahead.

Jean does not intend to stay away forever. Just enough time for them to take some responsibility for themselves – to cook and feed themselves and the do their washing. Jean accepts that ironing will not be on the list of the new skills she hopes will be learned in her absence. Jean rationalises that change would not only be good for her but also good for the girls who would have to become more self-reliant in her absence.

As far as her husband is concerned they have had frequent chats over the years about how their marriage takes second place to the needs of the girls and their home and his work. At first the husband was OK about this; he had enough to worry about with work and if their home life was ticking over then that was all to the good. But Jean now suspects he has a lover.  Details of expensive restaurants and hotels have appeared on bank statements and he seems to be away far more these days. Jean actually is not bothered too much about this as she reckons she has long fallen out of love with him and so long as the home and family continue it will be OK. But now it is she, Jean herself, who is thinking of totally disrupting whatever ease their home life has.

Jean works as a secretary part time at a local solicitors’ office where she works specifically for one of the partners, who just happens to be her best friend. This solicitor, Fiona, knows all about Jean’s home life and her regular failed in-house attempts to change it. Fiona has a recently vacated granny flat at her house; her mother had to go into a care home and she has offered it rent-free to Fiona should she decide to leave. Jean insisted on paying rent but Fiona had a better idea, she would use some of Jean’s free evening time to get on top of Fiona’s administration backlog, something Fiona hated.  Jean could also work from home, the granny flat, in case the family came looking for her. Of course Fiona would say something bland and unhelpful should this happen. All they needed was a start date.

But what if it didn’t work. What if her husband moved the girlfriend in in her absence? What if she returned to a house full of Domino pizza boxes and Chinese takeaway remains? What if the boyfriends stayed over? What if one or both of her girls fell pregnant? There had been one rule that had not been broken; the boyfriends were not allowed to sleep over at their house. This was the rule even though Jean accepted that if the girls wanted to have sex they would find the time and place. Then there was the risk of parties, the possibility of parties every night was a terrifying thought. Jean was part of a parents' WhatsApp group and recently a parent, whose daughter had had a party straight after the final GCSE exam, had warned other parents against having similar gatherings as their home had been trashed by uninvited guests. The mum had found used condoms in her bed and whoever had tried to get to the ensuite toilet to be sick had missed the pan. The downstairs rooms were a total mess with spilt food and beer and wines, precious ornaments had been broken and paintings had been ruined with foul graffiti and vulgar drawings. Someone had put details of the party on social media and it went viral. The party’s host reckons it had been someone she recently had a row with and who had not been invited.

As a result the party’s host was grounded for the entire holiday so she could clean up the mess and her savings for a week in Ibiza with friends would now be used to buy a new bed for her mother.

Jean’s twins were at the party and were shocked at the mess and the behaviour of others – which they had nothing to do with, or so they said. They were also shocked at their friend’s level of punishment, a reaction Jean was pleased about. They would perhaps now think twice about having a party at home.

But there is also a possible negative conclusion to this plan. Jean thought that a result of her departure might be that the girls would hate her. They would accuse her of not loving them anymore. They would accuse her of abandoning them. They would not welcome her back. The whole plan could easily backfire. She thought she might leave them a note explaining what she was doing and why she was doing it. Her husband would understand but she was not sure the girls would. Her mothering skills had made them selfish and that would not change overnight.

The day came for her planned departure. A text to her husband was ready to send and a letter for the girls was on the kitchen table. Her bag was packed with enough clothes for a couple of weeks. Jean sat down at the table and found herself shaking, tears flowed and she kept shaking her head.

“I can’t do this” she said out loud. The text was deleted, the letter was torn up and the bag was taken upstairs to be unpacked.

Jean emptied the dishwasher and started on the ironing. 

About the author

 

Judith Skilleter is new to writing fiction after a long career in social work and teaching. Her first children's novel The April Rebellion, has recently been published. Judith is a Geordie, who settled in East Yorkshire forty-five years ago and is married with four grandchildren.

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.)

Paula is Not Moving by Judith Skilleter, gin and tonic

Paula thinks she ought to move house. No, that is wrong. Paula’s three children all think she ought to move house. Where she currently lives is too big for one person; it requires too much upkeep and with bills going up all the time her utilities costs are huge and Paula is not getting any younger – as climbing the stairs two or three times a day reminds her. But Paula is not convinced that a move is for her. She can afford the extra costs and if she shuts doors the rooms unused are forgotten.

Her home is one in which she has lived all her married life of fifty happy years.  She and her husband Gordon, who died some years ago with prostate cancer – long before they know what they know now about that dreadful disease - had saved and saved to be able to put down a mortgage on their detached three bedroom house.  The cost of the house was £5000 and their mortgage was high.

Paula’s dad who, had always lived in rented property, said on a number of occasions to the young couple

“I don’t know how you sleep at night taking on such a huge debt”

But Paula and Gordon were determined; they knew it would be their forever home, and they were successful. Not once did they miss a mortgage repayment and their house was now worth many times that initial valuation of £5000 and had become a nice inheritance for their three children. Yet it was these same three children who were encouraging Paula to find somewhere smaller.

Paula went along with her children’s plans – as she always had – but not with the enthusiasm they had hoped for.

“Anything to keep them happy,” she thought, “and off my back”.

Paula loved her home. It had over fifty years of marvellous memories. Some memories were not marvellous though. She remembers miscarrying their first child in the bathroom at eleven weeks. She remembers Kate, their eldest child, falling down the stairs and breaking a leg at three years old. She remembers Richard, their middle child, at sixteen hiding cannabis in his bedroom. Gordon was so cross and ashamed and sad when Paula found this strange substance in his sock drawer and showed it to her husband.

“The stupid little git,” were the most polite words he used when he recognised the cannabis. And his words to their son were even less polite. Richard is now a barrister in London and doing OK.  The family joke is that Richard is a barista in London as he loves coffee. Richard does not think this joke is very funny.

And she remembers Jill, their youngest, telling them straight after her A levels and with a university place secured that she was pregnant and was keeping the baby and that she and Matt would marry but not yet. It was her fait accompli. There was no discussion about a termination – Jill would not allow it.

But now Jill and Matt have celebrated their silver wedding anniversary and are doing things now that they might have done in their late teens and early twenties. Currently a very happy and very much in love couple, they are back-packing somewhere in Western Australia. Their three children, all born before they married, have left the nest and are pursuing their own lives and ambitions. 

(Jill and Matt’s wedding was put off until after their family was complete on purpose – they wanted all their children to be on the wedding photographs. Their son was Matt’s best man at 6 years old and their twin girls at three years old were bridesmaids.)

As for the house itself,  it was very much a sixties house. It had one bathroom with a toilet at the top of the stairs. Showers were not in regular use then but once they became more popular a hand held shower was fixed to the taps. The kitchen was tiny but big enough for a very small kitchen table.  They ate in the separate dining room where new G plan furniture was their pride and joy. They had a garage but no car.

“Things are so different now,” thinks Paula as she reluctantly tours houses with double garages and ensuites and very fancy showers. Paula does not like ensuites. The thought of waking up in the night, finding that the door to the ensuite is open and all she can see is bleach and toilet rolls fills her with horror. She looked at houses with plugs for electric cars. “No thank you,” thinks Paula as she drives home in her manual ten year old Ford Fiesta.

The five of them managed very nicely thank you with one family bathroom. But changes came when the girls needed more privacy and when the loo queue was becoming more of a nuisance. Paula and Gordon then built a bedroom and bathroom on top of the garage, itself by then filled with a family car, for the girls’ use and an extra toilet was fitted under the stairs.

“How did we manage without these changes,” thinks Paula as she looks back at the years when she went into the new bathroom and saw the mess, the shampoo, the conditioners, the creams and lotions and potions and  make-up and all the private stuff that young teenage girls need – or at least think they need. As for the downstairs loo, it is a godsend now she finds stairs tricky.

The children know of Paula’s problems with stairs and think a bungalow would be a good idea. Paula has looked at bungalows and doesn’t like them. It seems wrong to Paula to have the sleeping space on the same level as the living space – go in the front door and turn left to the bedrooms with at least one dreaded ensuite and turn right to the living space, usually painted grey or magnolia or one of the many swanky paint colours that are fashionable these days.

Then there is security. Paula’s upstairs windows are usually open all summer; she sleeps with her bedroom window open all year round. But it would not be a good idea to leave a bungalow without checking that all the windows were closed if not locked.   ”No fresh air unless you were in.” Paula shakes her head in dismay.

So Paula has ditched the idea of moving to a house without an upstairs. Her children think she is mad but her mind is made up. Paula was now looking at smaller houses, she would be downsizing – “What a horrible word” she thinks. But to her dismay the smaller houses she viewed were just as dismal and unimpressive – and small.

If she moved she would then have to get rid of so much stuff, so many memories, and so many things that are so important to her. Her best memories are, of course, the many happy years with Gordon. Years and years of delight that she is determined to not leave behind.

After another unsuccessful house viewing Paula made her mind up. She found her mobile phone and tapped to the Watts app group linking her with her children. She left a message.

“I have had enough of house viewing. I am staying put. I will buy a stair-lift. Don’t even try to dissuade me. Love and kisses, mum.”

The Delight of Dogs by Judith Skilleter, a nice full bodied red wine

 Hilary looks after dogs. Not anybody’s dogs – she looks after dogs belonging to family and friends when they go on holiday or go away for work. It is not a business; she doesn’t charge kennel fees or anything but she does ask that they bring any special dietary requirements that the pooches might need. And of course they must bring their favourite toys and their bed. It is working well and she has five regular dogs and two waiting in the wings.

Sancho is her favourite. He was named after Don Quixote’s sidekick as the word spaniel comes from old French espagneul which translates as Spanish dog. Sancho is a cocker spaniel with identity issues. He thinks he is human. They watch TV together and Sancho sits beside her on the sofa where he sits back on his bottom with his front paws in the air. His particular favourite is the Grand Prix when Hilary can see his head going round and round and from side to side. Sancho is the most affectionate of all her visitors, he is the most licky and in summer Hilary does not wear open-toed sandals for fear of wet feet all day. Sancho belongs to Hilary’s son who lives some way away with his family.

Then there is Fiddler who belongs to a neighbour who often goes on tour with a small band where she is a violinist, hence the name Fiddler. Fiddler also has identity issues. He thinks he is a rabbit as he doesn’t run, he bounds. He also is very inquisitive, too inquisitive. One time he disturbed a hedgehog and came back to the house leaping and bounding and scratching and in obvious distress - fleas. It took a while with tweezers to get these little pests out – and a visit to the vet and expensive flea treatment.

Cicero is an elderly black Labrador. He is a proud, independent dog and Hilary reckons that he allows her to look after him, he makes the decisions. She is his choice of carer and he is the boss. He is a gentle giant but he is old and big and pulls when they walk so Hilary has bought this special sort of lead that grips the dog by the nose and it seems to work. Cicero does not like it but it stops his pulling and especially stops him pulling Hilary into heavy traffic when something interesting appears on the other side of the road.

Miggy is still a pup with needle teeth. But Hilary loves Miggy as he and she love cuddles. She scoops him up into her arms and he falls asleep. Fabulous. Miggy belongs to a cousin who lives miles away but who is prepared to bring young Miggy to Hilary as she knows he will be well looked after – and there are no kennel fees.

Unfortunately, word has got around that Hilary looks after dogs for free and she gets calls from people she doesn’t know. Sometimes these calls are heart rending, especially when the owners say that unless she can take their dog (or dogs!) they will have to be put down. So far Hilary has been able to resist these temptations. With these new responsibilities she is starting to enjoy her life again, including her dog-free time, and does not want to be overwhelmed by canine cuties no matter how gorgeous they might be.

Another regular canine companion is Diego, a Belgian Shepherd. He is huge and hairy and he moults everywhere in clumps. Hilary collects all his moultings and is making a pillow for her visitors. He too is a gentle giant; he is not bothered by other dogs when they go out walking and he loves it when anybody gives him affection. Diego’s history is that he was a rescue dog from Romania and Hilary wonders about his early years which were probably not happy or safe years.

But when Diego yawns he looks just like a wolf and reminds Hilary of Little Red Riding Hood

“All the better to eat you with my dear!”

His rows of huge teeth are really quite alarming but so far all they have attacked are Bonios.

Her two dogs in waiting are Acorn who has just had six beautiful pups so it will be a while before she can visit, and Inky who will come when she is less destructive. Inky has a particular liking for wooden edges, like those on doors and skirting boards and tables and chairs. “A few more months” thinks Hilary.

Hilary is a widow. Darling Harry died five years ago after three years where he was looked after at home by Hilary. He had cancer, although this should be plural: he had a number of cancers. Hilary cared for him day and night. He had a hospital bed at home and Hilary slept next to him for three years on a futon on the floor. When he went into hospital she went with him and brought him home as soon as they would allow. For three years Hilary hardly ever went out but she had marvellous support from friends and family towards whom she feels enormous gratitude. It was their support that enabled Hilary and their son Michael to give Harry some contentment in his final months.

Hilary and Harry had been a match made in heaven. They met and were married within two months and they had over forty years of marital happiness. They had one son; to their dismay other children did not come along, but Michael, their only child, was a delight and still is. During his dad’s illness he came home and took over as often as he could. Michael was the only other person, apart from the medics, to whom Hilary would entrust Harry’s final days. Harry died in Hilary’s arms with Michael holding both parents’ hands. It was a peaceful and very emotional death but in a kind and loving sort of way.

But after Harry’s death Hilary found that she was without purpose, without function and without any reason to get up in the morning. Hilary herself was fit and healthy and she struggled with this emptiness. Harry had been her function and purpose for so long that it was difficult adjusting to life without him. Hilary also found that when on her own at home she was without love and companionship. That was her biggest loss. For a few months life was very difficult for Hilary, she felt she was contributing to nothing, she was giving nothing – these were months in which Hilary grieved.

It was Michael’s idea that his mum look after Sancho from time to time. After his dad’s death Michael had discussed with his wife that a dog might help his mum, not so much to move on but to cope better with her loss. “Not a puppy,” was his wife’s immediate response. “They poo and wee too much.”

“And she is not having Sancho,” came from under the table where Sancho and their daughter were playing quietly. Their daughter, Esme, was giving Sancho a pedicure – his nails on his back paws were orange and those on his front paws were blue. The red ribbon around his neck was the perfect colour next to his russet colouring.

“But perhaps we could start off with her having Sancho when we go on holiday. You know how much he hates kennels”

This comment was aimed under the table and it led to a nod from Esme followed by “OK – but he has to come home afterwards.”

And that was how it started. Sancho was Hilary’s first canine companion, her first foster dog. Sancho was the first who helped to bring back a bit of function, purpose, enjoyment and companionship into her life. And of course, she had to go out as these wonderful visitors needed regular walks where she met other dogs and their owners - instant short term companionship. With dogs there are no opportunities to sit around with memories, happy or otherwise 

However, in no way could these four legged canine creatures replace darling Harry but they did help her to cope with the huge emptiness, huge nothingness, that had suddenly come into her life after years of a life that was so full in so many ways. Life would never be as good as it had been for Hilary but there was now, due to her canine pals, most certainly progress towards a happier life.

 

About the author

  

Judith Skilleter is new to writing fiction after a long career in social work and teaching. Her first children's novel The April Rebellion, has recently been published. Judith is a Geordie, who settled in East Yorkshire forty-five years ago and is married with four grandchildren. 

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.)

Fiona by Judith Skilleter, limoncello

Fiona decided to go home by taxi. It would give her time to think. Her thoughts were of her long and happy marriage to Max. They had been late starters to this marriage business, meeting in their mid-thirties and then marrying after what some people thought was too short a courtship. From meeting to marriage it had been just three months; but Fiona and Max were certain that what they were doing was right for them, their love for each other felt overwhelming and that was all that was needed. It was all that mattered.

Max and Fiona were both successful lawyers. Fiona had her own law firm and Max was an up and coming barrister. They were more than comfortable with their joint incomes which they enjoyed to the full. Children were neither on the agenda nor the calendar. Both were very clear that they did not want to have children. They did not want the distraction from their work and, more especially, they did not want the distraction from each other. They both had lots of nieces and nephews with whom they could practice distant parenting (and spoiling with lavish gifts) and that was sufficient. Max and Fiona knew that people would think them selfish for not wanting to bring new lives into the world but this was something they could live with.

Together they had a tasteful and substantial home which they enjoyed filling with state of the art yet minimalistic furnishings and they had fabulous holidays. During their marriage they had enjoyed trips to the Galapagos Islands the see the iguanas, Borneo to see the orangutans and Antarctica to see the penguins. They visited the USA and drove from New York to Los Angeles, they visited South Africa on safari and they enjoyed so many other exotic and fascinating places. Life was good.

As they got older, however, the expected ailments of old age prevented these marvellous holiday adventures and Max and Fiona became happy enough with the familiarity of Western Europe, especially Spain, France and Italy. Each year they would enjoy two or three weeks in Cadiz and Sorrento and Nice. Fiona’s arthritis prevented hectic jaunts and Max had to be careful as angina had led to the fitting of stents in his chest to improve the blood flow through constricted arteries. This had frightened Max and he was more than happy to take holidays at an easier pace.

As retirement approached Fiona sold her law firm. She wanted to enjoy retirement and spend time in her garden, her pride and joy and main interest, while she could and before life became just too difficult. She had a gardener to help with the heavy work but Fiona adored pottering and planting, which she could manage for the moment. “Arthritis is a complete bugger,” she often said to herself.

As for Max he cut down on his work. He was not ready to leave the cut and thrust of the law yet but has happy to work two or three days a week on work he chose rather than work that was chosen for him.  Max was a well-respected barrister and he knew that leaving  the law had to be a slow and careful process so that he could ensure that his was a smooth departure.

Picking and choosing what he worked on and where he worked were features of his later years in the law that Max really enjoyed. He could be in London one day, Milan the next and then perhaps Leeds.  He loved both the variety and the travel. Fiona didn’t mind that she was seeing less of her husband. Her garden was a source of solace and she loved seeing how happy this new way of working suited Max. But sometimes she wished she could go to these wonderful European cities with him. “You’ll be bored, darling. I will be in court all day after which I prefer to come straight home or to wherever my next case might be. Furthermore, I will be distracted if you were there with me and with the thoughts that we cannot do things together. After all I am there to work,” was Max’s usual response when Fiona suggested that she might like to come with him.

Today Fiona had been to identify Max’s body at a mortuary and the taxi had returned her home. Max had been driving to Manchester for a case and had been in a dreadful motorway pile up where he, his passenger and those in other cars were killed.

The passenger in Max’s car was a colleague who was four months pregnant. Fiona had since learned that the baby was Max’s and that he had been having an illicit relationship with this colleague for over two years.  Most of the trips to Milan and Paris and Madrid had been trips with this colleague where they had enjoyed the privacy and luxury of fabulous hotels. And where they had made a baby.

Fiona could not believe this at first. Then the anger set in followed by then she felt her foolishness, her gullibility, for not reading more into his behaviour when trips abroad were mentioned- or even trips to Manchester. Fiona now felt a huge hate for the man she had loved for over thirty years. There had been no-one else in her whole life whom she had loved so fully and entirely.

Fiona had gone to the mortuary on her own to recognise her husband; she could not bear the sympathy and soothing words of others. He looked as if he was just sleeping peacefully, as if he would wake up soon and ask for a cup of tea. The post mortem had suggested that he had had a heart attack whilst driving and that this had most likely been the cause of the pile up.  He would not have known a thing about the accident. “But his passenger would have known everything,” thought Fiona with not a hint of sympathy.

Fiona also noticed that the clothes she collected were not clothes she knew.  They were more up to date and colourful. They were probably gifts from her, his lover. As she left the mortuary Fiona threw all his clothes into a waste bin.

Fiona knew that Max had a rented flat in London for when he was working there but it was somewhere she had never seen. Max had told her “It’s just a studio flat, my darling. Every surface is covered in legal stuff and I really do not want you to come and tidy it up – and there is nowhere for you to sit”.

Fiona then discovered that in fact it was a two bedroomed flat in a very desirable area of London. And neither was it rented. Max had bought it and his colleague/lover/passenger lived there.

Fiona had never felt such rage in her whole life. She felt that for the past thirty years she had been living a lie. How many people knew of Max’s affair? How many people looked at her with secret knowledge of this liaison especially at the occasional legal dinners to which she accompanied Max? Had his lover also been at these dinners? Had there been dinners where his plus one was his lover and not Fiona? How could he have made such a fool of her in front of people she knew and admired and who knew and admired her. As she and Max had often said “In the law everyone knows everyone else”

Fiona walked up to her front door and let herself in. She had made a few decisions. Max would have a cremation without ceremony, she did not care what might be in his will suggesting otherwise. There would be no fanfare for him, there would be no eulogy and no-one would sing his praises acknowledging his many successful years as a prominent and successful barrister.

Fiona was undecided about what to do when Max’s ashes were returned to her. Her current favourite was to flush them down the toilet, but this idea was closely followed by taking them to the tip or even putting them in one of those waste bins intended for dog mess.

As the front door closed behind her Fiona allowed the grief to hit her. She had held herself together so well all day, in fact ever since she had heard the news, the worst news ever. Despite grief being an emotion her she felt an all-encompassing physical pain. Every part of Fiona ached with sadness, with misery, with embarrassment and with even disbelief. “How could he have done this to me?” she thought and the tears flowed and flowed and flowed.

Deep down Fiona knew these negative feelings would not last but it felt right to have them for the moment. There was still a lot of pain to be faced before her life might make sense again.

About the author

 Judith Skilleter is new to writing fiction after a long career in social work and teaching. Her first children's novel The April Rebellion, has recently been published. Judith is a Geordie, who settled in East Yorkshire forty-five years ago and is married with four grandchildren.

 

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Dan by Judith Skilleter, a glass of Argentinian Merlot

It is January and Dan is fed up. Christmas has come and gone and there will be no presents until his birthday, ten months away in November. Dan does not count Easter as a present receiving opportunity as his family are just too traditional and all he gets is chocolate, some of it in the shape of rabbits. How old does his family think he is? Four years old? Five years old? Dan is seven years old and he wishes his family were more like his best pal Jacob’s. Jacob is already planning his Easter present list and will probably get things connected to Fortnite, his favourite computer game, or football boots or jazzy designer clothes. Oh how Dan wishes he was Jacob.

Christmas was sort of OK for presents. He got lots of Lego sets, all of which have now been completed and are proudly displayed on a shelf in his bedroom. Dan would like to say to his relatives, who he has to admit are very kind, that he would like Lego bricks, just bricks, not sets that you have to follow a complicated plan to assemble. These do not need imagination but a pile of bricks of assorted sizes and colours are a gift of total imagination and Dan would spend hours building things where the finished object would only be realised at the end. But Dan has been taught to be polite and he says very nicely on receipt of the various Lego building sets “Thank you so much; this is just what I wanted.” Dan can cope with these little white lies with but the kiss expected by the gift giver are things Dan would rather do without. Especially Great Aunt Martha who always smells of a combination of lavender and pee.

Uncle Philip, his dad’s brother, is an English teacher and every Christmas and birthday Dan gets a book, a hardback, usually a classic – “For you to enjoy later young man” says Uncle Philip usually with a wink and a grin revealing yellow teeth due to years of smoking.  Thankfully Uncle Philip does not expect to give or receive a kiss.  Dan has a growing shelf of Charles Dickens’ books which look as if they have far too many words for him to really enjoy – yet. Uncle Philip has also bought him The Hobbit and took him to the cinema to see the film. The film was OK but no matter how many times he starts the book he never gets past page three.  Jacob has some books by Anthony Horowitz   and he let Dan borrow one. It was great fun to read as were Jacob’s Ben Ten books – Oh how Dan wishes he was Jacob.

Dan’s main present from his mum and dad was a keyboard, a small piano without legs. His mum and dad have suggested he might like piano lessons and this is to get him used to a piano keyboard. Dan never asked for a keyboard, Dan has no interest in learning to play the piano and the keyboard is currently under his bed.

Then there are the friends and relatives who add to his train set. Dan’s dad has built in the spare room a huge track lay out where he, Dan’s dad, spends most evenings. New trains and extra track and houses and people are always met with great delight by Dan’s dad and Dan, of course, says, “Thank you so much; it is just what I wanted”. Dan really wasn’t bothered about the train set but he moves things around once or twice a week leaving the impression that he has a real interest in this unwanted and unasked for present.

Jacob, of course, is asked to write a list of what he would like for Christmas.  When Dan made a small list of things he would really like for Christmas his mum and dad told him that a list would mean there were no surprises on Christmas morning – and Christmas was all about surprises. “Not in Jacob’s house” thinks Dan.

His godmother, Mum’s best friend Gaynor, was at their house when the unsuccessful conversation about a Christmas gift list took place. Gaynor, noticed only by Dan, sneakily hid the screwed up list up her sleeve and winked at her favourite godson.  Her present was a box of pencils and felt-tips, of every colour under the sun, plus lots of good quality paper in all sizes.  Dan loves drawing and this gift had been at the top of his list and he loved it. Dan’s thanks to Gaynor on Christmas day were real and meant, he was so pleased to open something he really liked and had wanted so very much. Dan loves his pens and pencils but part of him wishes that this gift had not been at the top of the list. The gift at the top of the list, drawing things, was not his number one wish. Dan wishes he had put Fortnite or a football strip of his favourite team at the top– then he would have been totally happy.

Dan is a football fan. He adores football and he plays Saturday morning football in a local team. Unfortunately Dan’s family are a rugby union family and relatives in the past have played professionally for various rugby teams. It is even believed that a second cousin once removed may have played for England. Dan knows that his mum and dad would prefer that he enjoyed the game with the oval shaped ball and he overheard a conversation where his mum and dad were discussing a school Dan might go to when he turns eleven, a school that specialises in rugby. That made Dan very sad. Jacob, of course, also loves football and has been spotted by scouts for a couple of professional teams. Oh how Dan wishes he was Jacob.

Oh how Dan wishes he could make a few, just a few, decisions about his life. At the very least, birthday and Christmas presents would be things he would be delighted to choose for himself. He would even put up stupid Easter rabbits as presents if he could have more say at birthdays and Christmases. As for the big things, like where he went to school, well, that might have to wait until he was older. Perhaps when he was ten. 

About the author 

 

Judith Skilleter is new to writing fiction after a long career in social work and teaching. Her first children's novel The April Rebellion, has recently been published. Judith is a Geordie, who settled in East Yorkshire forty-five years ago and is married with four grandchildren.

Is Santa Claus Real? by Judith Skilleter, mulled wine, a pint please

Meg is in a bit of a pickle. It is coming up to Christmas and she is hearing the worst ever news. She has been told that there is no such person as Santa Claus and the presents are all bought by Mum and Dad.  The sources of this awful news are her two older brothers who took great delight in telling her that she had been told a lot of lies by Mum and Dad, and the grandmas and grandads and the various aunties and uncles. In fact Meg is in more than a bit of a pickle; she is upset and cross and very confused. She does not like the fact that people she loves having been telling her fibs all these years but the worst is what if it is true? What if there is no Santa Claus living in Lapland? What if he doesn’t fly through the night on his sleigh pulled by his favourite reindeer – with Rudolf leading the way of course? What if he doesn’t climb down chimneys to deliver presents to all the good little boys and girls? (Meg always tries to be very good from October onwards so that she is definitely on Santa’s present list.)What if the snacks she leaves out for Santa are not eaten after all by Santa and his reindeer? So who eats the carrots and mince pies and drinks the glass of sherry if not Santa and his crew? In fact Meg is very upset at the very thought that this delightful man in a red suit will not be squeezing down her chimney this year and worst of all never has.

Meg went to see her dad.

“Daddy” she said “the boys say that there is no Santa Claus and that the presents come from you and Mummy. Is that true?”

“Did they indeed?” said Dad whilst thinking “I’ll have words with those two later.” “Well Meg all I can say is that I hope there is a Santa Claus. But you know I have never seen him and I do stay up late on Christmas Eve hoping to catch him.

“But you then fall asleep on the sofa-every time.”

“I tell you what Meg, go and ask Mummy. She knows about things like this.”

Not convinced Meg went to find her mum who was writing Xmas cards. 

“What with the price of stamps these days I am not sure it is wise sending all these cards every year. We should give the money to charity – next year we will do that” Meg’s mum muttered to no-one in particular. “Oh hello Meg, what are you up to?” she said as her youngest came through the door with a strange expression on her face.

“Daddy sent me. He said you will know if Santa Claus is real or not because the boys have told me he is fake and that you and Dad buy all the presents.”

“What do you believe” asked Mum.

“I believed but now I am not sure. What if the boys are right?" said Meg.

Mum was really thinking hard at this point, trying to find the right thing to say.

“Well” said mummy thinking fast “I hope there is a Santa but the most important thing is what you want to believe. And if you want to believe in Santa Claus, then that is OK.”

 

About the author 

Judith Skilleter is new to writing fiction after a long career in social work and teaching. Her first children's novel The April Rebellion, has recently been published. Judith is a Geordie, who settled in East Yorkshire forty-five years ago and is married with four grandchildren. 

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Sal by Judith Skilleter, a whisky mac as winter approaches

Sal is now living in a retirement complex. It had not been an easy decision to give up the home she had lived in for fifty years but it was a necessary decision. The stairs were a problem. Or at least the stairs were not a problem, they were sturdy well-carpeted stairs – Sal was the problem. Owing to her arthritis she was finding them increasingly difficult to go up or down. She went up slowly and came down slowly on her bottom and then heaved herself upright holding on to the banister. All this was neither comfortable nor dignified. She had thought of bringing her bed downstairs. There was room for a single bed in the dining room but the shower was upstairs, as was the bath although it had been ages since she managed to get in or out of her bath. So alternative accommodation had to be found. She had no wish to be found at the bottom of her stairs by well-meaning firemen or policemen.

Sal looked at retirement homes where she would get a bedroom with an en suite but she reckoned she would find existence in one of these places too restricting. She liked to get out and about with help and someone to push a wheelchair and she still had all her wits about her. The homes she looked at seemed to be overflowing with old souls who had dementia. Sal knew she would need that sort of care one day – but not yet.

She eventually chose a retirement complex where she would have her own small flat – a combined sitting room and bedroom, small kitchen and bathroom – and where she could also mix and mingle with the other residents if she chose to. It also offered extra care for later on should Sal need it. Sal could take the accommodation furnished or unfurnished. She chose unfurnished and her move was accompanied by familiar furnishings and her favourite things.

A downside was that this level of care was expensive and Sal felt she had to discuss this extra outlay of money with her two grown up children. She had the money but she hoped to leave as much money as she could to her children and if they neither needed nor wanted it, it could be shared amongst her grandchildren. This care would, unfortunately, eat into the money she had saved, should she live a long time, and she felt she had to have her children’s approval for this. If only she knew how long she had to live, approximately would do.

Another reason to find good care was Sal’s determination not to become a burden to her children. They had their own lives and she did not want the care of and responsibility for an elderly and infirm lady to be theirs. As far as Sal was concerned in no way would she move to be with them or nearer them and, as she aged, in no way would she expect them to visit her more than they did at present. So, although both children would have had their mother to live with them, they knew it would not be a happy move for any of them, especially Sal. Hugh and Helen were delighted she had found something that might suit her

Furthermore, her children said she must go for the right sort of care for her and that their inheritance should not be a factor in her decision. Her son, Hugh, lived in Brussels with his Belgian wife and children. He was a Russia expert having studied Russian at university and had spent a year there for his degree.  In those days, nearly thirty years ago, Russia was a different place, a safer place, and Hugh had a few happy years working in Moscow after he graduated.  He now worked in Brussels, having returned to Western Europe when Vladimir Putin came to power.  Sal can remember a conversation she and her late husband, Hugh’s dad, had with Hugh in his early years in Moscow. He had said that it was a great place to be, he was very happy there, the people were very friendly but there was this new guy on the scene  who Hugh, and a few others, did not trust him one bit. He was ex-KGB and clearly had plans for his and Russia’s future. She remembers Hugh saying “We will have to keep a close eye on this chap.” Hugh was kept very busy these days following this chap.

Her daughter Helen lived in South Wales with her vicar husband. Helen had been ordained as a minister too and, of course, the usual times when elderly relatives would be visited such as weekends, Christmas and Easter were their busy times. But Sal did not mind this. She was pleased and proud that her children had happy families and interesting careers and that was good enough for her.

So Sal is in her new place of abode. I will call it “Dunroamin” she said to herself. It was OK. She figured that contentment would come eventually but for now she was happy to feel safe. Also she had not been completely happy at her old home since her husband had died; there were too many memories, mostly happy ones, but some nevertheless took her back to the bad days of her husband’s long illness before he died. This was definitely the time to move on.

And there were things to keep her busy in “Dunroamin”. A delightful volunteer took her and a wheelchair out shopping every Wednesday afternoon where she bought the things she needed to cook for herself and whatever else she might need. A couple of times a week Sal ate with the other residents but she was determined to be as independent as possible for as long as possible and these shopping outings and cooking for herself were very important to her.

Quite often she made her way to the residents' lounge helped by her Zimmer frame with basket on the front where she kept her books, her knitting and her puzzles. She kept busy there and made friends. There were a few ladies and gentlemen who were in the same position a she was – still as sharp as a tack alongside physical failings.

She was pleased to report to Hugh and Helen that it had been a good move – and it was. And Hugh and Helen both breathed a sigh of relief for all the right reasons.

About the author

 Judith Skilleter is new to writing fiction after a long career in social work and teaching. Her first children's novel The April Rebellion, has recently been published. Judith is a Geordie, who settled in East Yorkshire forty-five years ago and is married with four grandchildren 

 

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A Seasonal Tale by Judith Skilleter, gin and tonic

Aggie is a preserver who, every year, loves the months of July. August and September. Now don’t get me wrong, Aggie, does not preserve life. She is not one of those brave souls who patrol our beaches during the summer months in order to rescue individuals who get into trouble in the sea. Neither is she part of a mountain rescue service who perform an equally important service on our high peaks. Aggie makes jam and the late summer and early autumn, the season of mellow fruitfulness, (Thank you Mr Keats) is when the fruit she collects is at its brilliant best.

Aggie’s main harvest starts in mid-July with blackberries – or brambles as she likes to call them. She has sources of brambles in her locality, some in public areas and some on private property. Yes, Aggie is prepared to trespass to get her fruit. She is not alone in her hunt for the best brambles but during the season she sets out just after dawn when her fellow Bramblers are still asleep to get the best for that day. And as soon as she has sufficient she  heads for the kitchen to make jams (her current favourite is redcurrant and blackberry), chutneys (blackberry with caramelised onions is delicious), crumbles ( blackberry crumble is lovely but she has to wait for the Bramley apples to ripen before her favourite Bramley and Bramble (Brambley), can be made).

The Bramleys, or cooking apples as her mother knew them as, come in September and October. Aggie has a Bramley tree in her garden and in some years she is lucky to get a dozen decent apples from it. Aggie has no idea why this happens but this year her apple tree’s branches are touching the ground with the weight of the slowing ripening delights. She has never had such a marvellous crop. Already, in August of this year, they are a good size, a very good size, but those who know better than Aggie about Bramley-lore insist that she waits. “They still have growing to do” say these apple experts but Aggie is impatient and before the end of August her first apple crumble of the season has been tried and tested. Yum.

Gooseberries, as well as blackberries, keep Aggie busy while she waits for the apples. She loves the tartness, the sharpness of these green jewels and whatever she makes from them is kept for use over the coming months. There is absolutely no sharing where gooseberries are concerned. Her dinner party dessert during the gooseberry season is a gooseberry fool with home-made shortbread. It is always a success.

Aggie has tried to grow strawberries and raspberries but her success has been limited. One year she just managed a small jar of each – a very disappointing outcome. Aggie is very philosophical about her lack of red soft-fruit success but her success with their blackberry cousins more than makes up for it. Aggie likes the fruit she uses to have developed naturally, with little intervention from her and strawberries and raspberries, along with their associated aphids and worms and those blasted birds, seem too much like hard work and intervention to Aggie.

Then there are plums and pears. These are less easy to pilfer but Aggie’s preserve prowess is well known and occasionally she finds bags full of these delights on her doorstep. Some have notes asking her to use the donated fruit however she likes but to also give some of her produce to a charity of her choice. This Aggie does, but she likes it best when this fruit and note is also accompanied by a bag of jam sugar or even a bottle of pectin. Preserving is not an inexpensive business.

These fruit providers also leave jam jars on her doorstep for which Aggie is very grateful. If Aggie is at home when the doorstep deliveries arrive Aggie thanks these very kind people with a jar or two of freshly made jam – with the request that the empty jars be returned please.

Aggie is married to a delightful man who, when looking for something for his tea, something simple like sausages, finds nothing but frozen bags of fruit. This delightful man bought Aggie a new freezer for her purloined fruit but this new acquisition still does not offer enough freezer space. This delightful man is very patient and knows that by the time Xmas comes along there should be room for meat products in general and a turkey specifically. For a while this delightful man makes do with take-outs – and keeps out of the kitchen where there is usually at least one vat of fruit on the hob.

But the time and space the delightful man has for sharing the freezer with meat is short-lived. Aggie’s preserving instincts are also seen early in the New Year when Seville oranges appear in supermarkets. To his silent relief Aggie has tried and tried with these wondrous fruits but she has never been able to make marmalade as nice as the marmalade she buys in supermarkets, especially the three fruit variety and her output is therefore very limited – for the moment her marmalade is on a very small production line. Nevertheless, Aggie vows to continue her marmalade making with the hope that sometime soon she will make some that she enjoys at least as much as the commercial product. Is it the thickness of peel that is the problem? Is it the fruit mixture that does not blend nicely? Has the fruit not soaked with the sugar for enough time? Aggie is baffled but looks forward to trying again next year.

Of course, Aggie and the delightful man cannot possibly consume the vast amounts of jam that she makes. Most of it is given away- to good causes as well as friends and relatives. In fact when the delightful man goes to their local pub for a swift half his first beer is usually paid for with a jar of jam. The bartering system is alive and well and lives with jam makers.

 

About the author

 Judith Skilleter is new to writing fiction after a long career in social work and teaching. Her first children's novel The April Rebellion, has recently been published. Judith is a Geordie, who settled in East Yorkshire forty-five  years ago and is married with four grandchildren. 

 

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.)