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. 

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Saturday Sample: Light in the dark, A Good Mechanic by Matthew Temple, old red wine

 

A Good Mechanic

Matthew Temple

Sam tossing a hot dog wrapper at Melissa’s head, running up five steps to the pier, pastel blue railings dotted in rust, bumping into a woman in sweet floral dress crying – is that lady crying? – him sprinting too fast to be sure. Faster, run faster. I win.

Melissa muttering, “You ass, Samuel Johnson,” but a big sea taking her words away, leaving thoughts. Those legs are too short for that body. His head’s too big for his body. Samuel Johnson, you ass.

    Melissa moving, her turn.

Patting her head until three fingertips find ketchup dabs on her fringe, cut geometric sharp last Monday, a lunchtime affair, less than one hour. Ketchup scabbing and Melissa hunting for a tissue in denim pockets so tight her fingers hurt going in and coming out even more but looking a million dollars. Her opinion. Are you pregnant or fat? Sam’s opinion.

    “I just washed it, you ass.”

    Back to her hair, big sea taking away her voice again. Melissa thinking – it’s no good, shouting at high tide, he can’t hear me. And there he is unchastened, still smiling, waving, goofy dancing on the pier. Okay you won. You won, Sam. Jesus, I’m twenty-four. I’m too old to race you, Samuel. You’re too old to race, Samuel. My man Sam.

Come August, this Samuel Johnson is going to be her husband, Sam the goofy dancer, jubilant on a pastel pier. He’s not inside her head so doesn’t know she’s too old to race, he’s too old to race. Opening her mouth, cupping hands to echo, Melissa shouting, “I just fricking washed it, Sam,” and this time, him reacting.

    “Wash it again, you lazy doucher.”

Up ahead, him laughing, pointing at fat waves humping the pier, he’s been running past those pastel railings since his legs, way too short, began running, “I’ll toss you in the sea if you keep moaning. Wash your wig, you lazy doucher.”

    Your laugh’s too high for a man, her again. A little boy’s voice with little boy’s legs. Oh, Sam.

    Two old ladies, carrying groceries between them, mundane pallbearers, Sam shouting, “That girl wears a wig”, running along his favorite pier to a small bar, run by Nathan, named after Nathan, to see Jack, his brother, two years younger, turning twenty this Fall. Jack, the Johnsons’ baby. Jack, the army boy.

    “Atten-shun!”

    Six drinkers, looking to the door, seeing Sam. It’s cold out there, a drinker is thinking, why the red face? Done wondering, going back to his beer, glass wet enough for a few gulps more, not knowing Sam was racing and winning all the way.

    Jack pushing a seat from the table with his left foot, noticing a dust mark on his sneakers, nothing special, blue and white. Picking up a serviette, also not special, leaning to brush them clean, army habits in his young bones.

 Then Jack remembering where he is, Nathan’s on the pier, Sam looking at him with a silly grin, not brushing a sports shoe any more. Seconds later, pretending to tie an undone shoelace, fumbling in truth with a lace that’s tight and neat. A precision shoelace. Army habit.

    Crouching down at his lace, remembering Sam’s dumb greeting. He does it every time. Why not say ‘Hi’ or ‘Hello Jack’? Can’t my brother act his age? He’s twenty-two. I’m the baby, for crying out loud.

     “Sit down, Sam.”

The younger brother patting a free chair, creaky green and beaten, wanting to ask after Melissa. Thinking twice. Asking after Melissa, “No Mel?”

Sam rocking his seat, left right, table shaking

    “Easy, soldier. Easy. I ain’t taking no orders from a ba-ba-baby.”

Sam swigging Jack’s drink, pushing out his tongue, mock horror, and belching, “Lemonade? Desert sun’s made you soft. It’ll be camel milk soon.” Swigging again, swallowing, gasping, Jack tightening with impatience. Come on, come on. Where’s Mel?

“Lazy Mel’s still dragging her fat ass up here. Sorry, the next Mrs Johnson’s still dragging her fat ass up here. Don’t get her started on the wedding, Jackie Boy. What a con…”

    Jack leaning over table, lowering voice, not smiling, never that, saying, “I told you, Sam. I’ll chuck a few dollars in the hat.”

    Sam answering with a grunt.

“Cheers.”

I’m the oldest, for Christ’s sake. I don’t want your dollars, ba-ba-baby. Sam thinking that on his creaking chair, left right. Nathan, fix your freaking creaking chair.

Sam rocking, looking at his fingernails, seeing grease a hundred bars of soap can’t remove, feeling proud. I loves this grease, every speck. Telling himself dirty hands are a sign of a good mechanic. And so what if Steve let me go? Who needs Steve Malone? Lazy junkie. Plenty more garages need good mechanics. People drive in tough times and good times. People drive all the time. Only a matter of time. What’s it been, a month?

Melissa walking over, passing the drinker back to wondering why the boy’s face, Sam’s that is, was red on a day like today.

    “Why run off? Why dick about? And what was all that wig shit?”

Sam laughing again but nobody listening, Melissa smoothing her hair.

“Hello, Jack.”

    Melissa hugging Jack, kissing his cheek close to a small mole left of his lips, soft brown, thinking it’s cute. Sam not thinking his brother’s mole is cute. Skin cancer or black death or a bull’s eye for a desert sniper that’s what he calls it depending on his mood. His mood depends on many things, beer, sleep, work. When work comes, it comes by the hour, people always need a good mechanic, don’t they? Will you look at my hands.

Jack moving to the bar trying not to move like an army man but his walk gives him away and after a few steps, he stops pretending he isn’t an army man, a man who fires bullets at strangers in strange lands nobody cared about when he was a boy, two years younger than Samuel.

Walking straight, now, shoulders back, arms by sides, proud to be in his father’s regiment. Peter Johnson, dying before his baby learned to march. Are you proud, Dad?

    “Beer?”

    “Yup.”

    “Not you. Mel. Beer, Mel?”

    Melissa nodding, smiling and nodding, not caring about work, her new job, two months old, ten minutes from the army base. It began first week in April round the time Jack came home. First tour over and he came home.

Sorting paperwork, answering phones, in a long thin office smelling of burnt plastic, Melissa’s new job. Boss is a realtor called Patricia with big spun hair, smoking and singing all day, sounding like bad jazz to Melissa. Shut up. Shut up. Get your terrible singing out of my ears. Can’t you see I need to think?

    Job boring but wedding looming. I’m going to be Mrs Melissa Johnson, playing it round her mouth at night, alone. I’m going to marry my man Sam.

    “Why there?”

That’s what Sam was asking when she took the job in a town with no pier. He had a point. Thirty minute bus ride there, thirty minute bus ride home. I like a change of scene, she kept saying, and the bus ride is okay. Listening to music, reading magazines, thinking about our wedding, yours and mine, Melissa and Sam. The Johnsons.

Sam beaming when he hears that, still beaming when his future wife goes to make fresh coffee, a treat for her man. But Melissa stopping at the kitchen door, motorcycle parts everywhere, forgetting fresh coffee, his treat, going to bed, reading alone.

Sam jumping on the bed. Stop ignoring me! God gave us tongues for a reason. Talk to me, Melissa. Grabbing her book, waggling his tongue in her face, she smelling his saliva. Same every time. Melissa enjoys reading on her bus ride to work.

Jack walking back from the bar. Everyone drinking, two people thinking what to say.

    “How’s the bike, Sam?”

    “The motorcycle? She’s beautiful. She’s the best. She’s my girl.”

    “She’s all over my kitchen, that’s how she is, Jack. All over my kitchen and my balcony. We eat on our knees. My kitchen table isn’t a table. It’s a pile of junk.”

    Sam leaping up, throttling Melissa, softly no harm done, playing a game.

“Junk! Hah! I know every one of those bolts by name. I’m their daddy.”

Sam’s motorcycle is a Triumph. Built in 1983 and bought ten years later, when Peter Johnson, fresh home from another desert, needs to feel full of blood again. It’s yours when I die, he’s telling Sam over a Sunday beer, Sam’s favorite kind, him and his father and beer. You’re the family mechanic, Sam. Always tinkering even as a boy, you were, Sam. Nuts and bolts everywhere. You’re the mechanic, Jack’s the soldier.

Sam leaning back, creaking, telling his brother about his beloved machine. How he’s stripping her engine, stripping her gas tank, removing her rear brake, rebuilding her wheels. Can you rebuild wheels? asks Jack. Sam shaking his head, going on with words so fast and familiar, sounding like a chant to his brother.

Sam stops talking, sudden as anything, looking under the table, turning to Jack.

“Easy tiger. None of your funny stuff today, thank you.”

Jack blushing, Don’t look at me, Mel. You’ll guess. He’ll guess. What have I done? Please don’t look at me, Mel. Look away. Look away.

Melissa looking confused.

“My ba-ba-baby bro’ was playing footsie with me. With his own brother. Join the Navy, soldier boy.”

Sam drinking beer, spilling drops, going on with his tale of engines, gas tanks and wheels. Across the table Melissa sobbing, his future wife, head in hands, saying, “You and your stupid motorcycle,” quiet as if the big sea’s there in  Nathan’s bar, taking her voice away, “You and your stupid motorcycle.”

Find your copy here  

About the author:

Matthew Temple's writing was recently shortlisted in a contest run by the Newer York Press in the USA. He is currently adapting several of his stories for short film and stage.

Squat shop by Stefan Sofiski, red wine

Beaten by burdens, pondering aging, I wait for the trolleybus. I gaze at wet cobbles, city lights.

Sofia is full of them- Roman, Tsarist, communist cobbles... When they dig up the streets, they put them on piles and then lay them back on.

A cheap tobacco smell pulls me from cobble thoughts. - They don’t sell these anymore! - I turn… no one around. Then I see it. - The squat shop! It was here!

Rusty shutters in front of a basement window in an old building.

Squat shops popped up everywhere when capitalism arrived. Basement businesses selling cigarettes, liquor and sweets. A client would select from a display on the street and squat for the transaction… hence a “squat shop”. All gone now, replaced by malls and “proper” establishments.

Memories rush into my tired, sleepy head… fifteen... We’ve dodged school. Stride toward the squat shop for cigarettes and booze. Ahmed, an old Turk with a mustache yellowed by nicotine, greets us.

‘Welcome back… Two bottles for the price of one?’ Ahmed would entice from underground, raspy voice, thick accent. Like a devil.

Party in the park, under towering monuments of dead communists… Push the corks inside the bottles, pass them around... Laughter and mucking about… The taste of a girl’s lips-  cold but soft, hint of wine... eager hands stroking warm bodies under coats.

Occasionally, a coppers’ Lada would stop and chase us away… Our flight slowed by laughing and whooping.

I shake my head and step toward the once squat shop. Shutters hang slanted on corroded hinges. I squat and run my fingers on the chipping paint... I haven’t smoked in years, but crave one badly. - Ahmed must be dead now, - I think.

‘Two bottles for the price of one?’ From the eternal dust of the basement, I hear his ghost.

About the author:

Stefan Sofiski is the pen name of an engineering professional with a badly hidden secret passion for writing. 

Weekend Wonder by Peter Lingard, a glass of Italian red

Frank glanced at the woman next to him as he took his seat.  She was bundled up against the cold and so only her fur-encircled face was visible.  She had a small, pert, upturned nose and sensuous lips on which she wore light-red lipstick.  Someone had painted a small red, white and blue French flag on her cheek.  A wisp of brown hair jutted from under her parka and fluttered in the breeze.  Her brown eyes measured him as she smiled.  ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

‘For me?’ he asked.

‘For someone to sit ‘ere,’ she indicated Frank’s seat with a nod of her head.  ‘I need a body to stop the wind that blows on me,’ she explained in a charming French accent.  ‘Preferably, a man’s body.’  She smiled mischievously.

Frank sat down and the brown hair stilled.  ‘It is a little chilly,’ he conceded.

‘For you, the day will get even chillier,’ she said with an impish grin.

‘Why’s that, then?’

‘Because Les Bleus will win, of course!’

‘Umm.’  Frank gave the woman an insincere smile as he banged his gloved hands together to generate some warmth.

‘Oh yes, you will see,’ the woman advised him with confidence. 

 

The track-suited footballers stood and waited while the Royal Marine Band played the respective national anthems.  Some English players tried to keep warm by jumping up and down during the playing of ‘La Marseillaise’.  The French players remained respectfully motionless for the band’s rendition of ‘God Save the Queen’.

The woman turned to Frank.  ‘Your team is very eager to start, no?’

‘You don’t blame them for wanting to get on with it on a day like this, do you?’

The woman looked away and Frank felt a measure of guilt for the lack of respect shown by the English players.

 

Each team played an attacking game and play moved continuously from one end of the pitch to the other.  Both sides thundered the ball against goal posts and crossbars.  The crunching tackles were crisp and clean.  The two goalkeepers made miraculous saves and the crowd constantly roared both teams on.  As the game progressed and the seemingly inevitable goals had not been scored, the roar of the crowd increased and tension mounted on the field and in the stands.  Frank’s neighbour clapped her gloved hands together in excitement and screamed encouragement to the French team.

‘Allez, Les Bleus!’

Frank was not to be outdone, ‘Come on, England!’

 

An English player was injured and the game stalled whilst a trainer and stretcher-bearers ran onto the field.  Frank looked at the woman at his side and saw her exhale her tension.  She relaxed her hands in her lap and twisted her head to return Frank’s gaze.

‘C’est fantastique, non?  Oh, sorry.  This is a fantastic game, no?’

Frank smiled.  ‘I understood you.  Yeah, it’s a great game.’  He looked at his watch.  ‘It’ll be halftime soon and I’ll be going to get myself a cup of tea.  Would you like one?’  He hadn’t meant to offer the woman a drink; the words had involuntarily escaped his mouth

‘Do they have coffee?’

 ‘I don’t know, but do you really want English coffee?’

The woman’s laughter was delightful and made Frank instantly forget she supported the opposition.  ‘You are correct.  Tea would be nice with a little milk and no sugar, s’il vous plait?’

‘Yeah, no problem.’

 

The second half of the game created more tension as time elapsed without a score.  A French striker wasted an opportunity to put his country ahead and was called ‘stupide’.  The ball was kicked straight down the pitch and an Englishman who found himself with an equal opportunity received his equal share of derision for his miss.  The woman turned to Frank with relief in her eyes and a gloved hand covering her wide-open mouth.  He smiled and raised his eyebrows.

 

Still, the game went from end to end and the cacophony of sound created by the spectators reached a fevered pitch.  It was almost a relief when France scored and released the pressure valve for the eighty thousand fans in the stadium.  Frank’s anxiety subsided into a feeling of chagrin.  He realised he had been tensing muscles all over his body and found the relaxing of them a pleasant counter to his disappointment of the French goal.

The woman lightly beat her small fists on Frank’s knee.  ‘Allez, Les Bleus,’ she cried with a joy that would have been infectious, had it been for a different reason.

Frank gave the woman a begrudging smile, took hold of her gloved hands and moved them so that she could beat on her own legs.

 

Play restarted after the French players completed their celebration of the goal.  The English forwards stormed the French defences and Frank, along with other fans, bellowed his support.  ‘Come on, England!’

French fans started to sing ‘La Marseillaise’ and their English counterparts sang ‘God Save the Queen’.  Suddenly, England scored and the home fans erupted.  Frank was on his feet in an instant.

‘Yeahhhhhhhhh!’ he roared.  His companion was unable to see anything and so she too stood and banged her hands together.  The fact that the woman applauded an English goal was not lost on Frank.  He was confused.

‘That was a goal for us,’ he shouted.

‘I know, but it was a good one and so I clap my hands for the man who scored it.’

Frank smiled again.  ‘Thank you.’  The woman had a knack of making him smile.

 

Although both teams continued the onslaught of each other’s goal, the score remained tied after the ninety-minute mark.  The fourth official held up his board to indicate three minutes of extra time.  Again the roar of the crowd swelled to urge on their teams for a last attempt to win the game.

Frank’s overused vocal chords were sore with strain.  ‘Come on, England!’

With barely a minute of added time remaining, the French scored again.  Their supporters exploded with cheers.  ‘La Marseillaise’ rang out whilst the suddenly silent England fans headed for the exits.  Ten seconds after the game restarted, the referee blew the final whistle.  The French players ran a lap of honour around the stadium.  The disconsolate English players put their hands above their heads and applauded their remaining supporters as they made their way to the dressing rooms.

 

Frank turned to his left and held out his right hand.  ‘That was a great game that ended with the wrong result.  Justice will be served when we play in Paris.’

The woman took his hand and shook it.  ‘Of course.  We shall win again.  What is your name?’

‘Me?  Frank.  You?’

‘Me, also,’ she smiled.  ‘I am Francoise.  I am happy to have sat with you, Frank.  Au revoir.’

 

 

Frank was reading the menu in a small Italian restaurant when a female voice said,

‘Frank?  Is it you?’

He looked up to see the smiling face of Francoise.  He grinned and stood up to greet

her.  ‘Francoise!  What are you doing here?  I would have thought you’d be dining in a French restaurant tonight.  Please, sit down.’

‘Sank you.  I never dine in a French restaurant when I am in England.  That way I preserve my love for my food.  Me, I am surprised to see you too.  You do not dine at ’ome tonight?’

Frank pulled out a chair and helped the woman take a seat at the table.  A waiter took possession of Francoise’s coat, scarf and gloves, then disappeared.  ‘Nah.  I felt a little flat after the high tension of this afternoon’s game and felt I needed to eat out.’

‘It is lucky for both of us then.  We shall eat together, yes?’

‘I’d love to.  Would you like to share a bottle of wine?’

Francoise smiled.  ‘Provided it is not English wine!’

‘Will Italian wine be acceptable?  Perhaps some Chianti?’

Frank inspected the woman he was now seeing properly for the first time that day.  She was lovely.  Her hair was short, almost boyish.  Her shapely physique was well defined by a blue mohair sweater with an extravagant collar.  A black suede skirt reached her knees above black leather boots.  Frank realised he had been staring and was slightly embarrassed until he saw Francoise sizing him up in a similar fashion.  Well, that was okay.  He was five feet, ten inches tall and in good physical shape.  Women had told him he was good looking.  Furthermore, he felt good in his Italian suit and English shirt.

Throughout the meal, the two told of their jobs, likes, dislikes, memories and more.  Francoise’s laughter captivated him and provided a stage for his self-deprecating humour.  Before the main course arrived, Frank moved his chair next to the woman, stating his eyesight was too poor to see her properly across the three-foot expanse of white tablecloth.  Her response was a smile that contained all the messages Frank wanted to see.

After cheese and biscuits, Francoise leaned to her left and bent to pick her handbag up from the floor.  As she returned to an upright position, Frank caught her chin in his hand and arrested her movement.  He turned her face and kissed her tenderly on her mouth.  The kiss lasted just two seconds, but the texture of Francoise’s lips, combined with the warmth of her cheek and the smell of her perfume were like magic.  As he pulled his face away, he saw Francoise open her eyes.

‘Ooh la la,’ she breathed.  ‘We must do more of that.’

 

As the game had been played in England but won by France, they decided that splitting the bill in half was the fairest way of handling payment for their meal.  The couple walked five blocks to the hotel where Francoise was staying.  They stopped in two recessed shop doorways to rehearse the kiss and reached the hotel in a state of high excitement.

 

The sex was as passionate as had been the football game.  Like the game, their adventures moved from one end of the king-sized bed to the other.  The main difference was that each usurped the cries of encouragement the other had used at the game.  Francoise cried, ‘Come on England’ and Frank urged, ‘Allez, Les Bleus’.  In the shower, Frank da-de-dahed ‘La Marseillaise’ and Francois implored God to save Frank’s gracious queen.

 

When they awoke in the morning, the mood had changed.  Two heads lay on two pillows and four eyes gazed at each other.  Francoise slowly moved across the space that separated their bodies and snuggled into Frank’s chest.  He gently rolled her onto her back, positioning himself above her as he did so.  Slowly, slowly he moved inside Francoise as she twisted languidly beneath him.  As the minutes went by, the couple began to awake to the need in them and the pace quickened.

‘Come on England,’ Francoise whispered softly in Frank’s ear.

‘Any minute now.  How about you?’

‘I am ready, mon cherie.  Tell me when.’

‘How about NOW!’ and he slammed himself into Francoise’s body again and again and again.

‘Mon Dieu!’ she cried out as spasms racked her flesh.  ‘Mon Dieu, Frank!’

 

They had breakfast in the room and then made love again.  Tears welled up in Francoise’s eyes and Frank gently wiped them away.

‘Is something wrong?’

Francoise wrapped her arms around Frank’s neck.  ‘Nothing is wrong, mon cherie.  Everysing is perfect.’

 

The pair took a taxi to the Tate Gallery and strolled hand in hand through the halls gazing at each other and glancing at the art on the walls.  When they had been inside long enough, they took another taxi, this time to Hyde Park.  Again, they strolled hand in hand, hardly noticing what happened around them.  It began to snow and Françoise took off a glove,  held out her hand, fingers splayed, and allowed the cold flakes to melt on her warm skin.  They came to an open, concreted space beside a frozen lake.  Ducks waddled on the ice and the snow fell silently on the lovers.

‘Shall we dance?’ Francoise asked.

‘We have no music…’ but he saw the look in her eyes.  ‘I’ll have to sing for us,’ he said as he took her in his arms.  The only tune that came immediately to mind was a song from the film ‘Doctor Zhivago’.  He hummed a few silent bars in his mind to make sure he had it right, then started to sing,

‘Somewhere my love.’  He didn’t know any more words so he dah-de-dahed his way through the rest of the tune.  They waltzed around the concrete dance floor, making circles in the snow.  Francoise sang a sweet accompaniment, adding an occasional word.  After a while, they stopped singing.  They continued to move smoothly to the music that played in their heads as they circled their exclusive dance floor.  They swayed in perfect harmony, silent except for the sound of the snow pushed around by their feet.  Francoise gazed up into the face of her lover and he looked down into her beautiful brown eyes.

A young man walked towards them with a boom-box on his shoulder.  Hip-hop music blasted from the machine, forcing the disappointed couple to stop dancing.  As the boy neared them, Francoise called out.  Then, fearing he would not hear her over the noise, she waved her arms to get the youth’s attention.  He stopped, turned off the music and lowered the radio.

‘S’up?’ he asked.

‘Would you play somesing romantic for us?  We were dancing to a lovely tune in our minds and you broke our spell.  I sink you owe us a waltz on your radio, non?’

‘You nuts or summat’?’

‘No, monsieur, just romantic.  Aren’t you ever romantic?’

The youth was uncomfortable with the question.  ‘What’s it to you?’

‘Come, play for us some nice music.  Just for a little while.  S’il vous plait.’

The youth hoisted his radio to face level, switched it on and turned the dial.  Snatches of conversation, odd musical notes, static and other noises followed one another as the needle progressed along the station bar.  Frank and Francoise watched the youth and waited, holding each other as the snow fell on them.

‘Me mum likes this station,’ the boy said.  The deejay was announcing a request for a song by Anne Murray.  ‘Yeah, this is the one.’  The boy put the radio on the ground, positioning it so that the speakers faced Frank and Francoise.  As the music started, he retreated to a bench, wiped the snow off the backrest and sat on it, his feet resting on the seat.

 

‘Can I have this dance for the rest of my life?’

Francoise tilted back her head and gazed up into Frank’s eyes, seemingly asking him the question put by the Canadian songstress.

Snowflakes fell on Francoise’s eyelashes and Frank bent to kiss them away.

He opened his mouth to say something, but his dance partner put two gloved fingers on his lips.

‘Shhh.  Just hold me.’

Again they made wide circles in the snow.  They danced as one, completely wrapped in their emotions.

Tears fell from Francoise’s eyes and Frank gently kissed them away.  She released an arm and brushed the droplets from his lips.  The youth sat silently and watched them.

When the song was finished, the youth picked up his boom-box and started to walk away.

‘See ya.’

‘Merci monsieur,’ Francoise called at his departing back.

‘Thanks, man,’ Frank shouted.

 

Francoise pulled back her coat sleeve to reveal her wristwatch. 

‘We must leave now, mon cherie.  The train, it departs in one and a half hours from now.’

Frank didn’t want to end the mood.  ‘Isn’t there a later train?’

‘Non, mon cherie.  I ‘ave to go to work tomorrow an’ I ‘ave a long way to go and a lot of things to do.’

Frank nodded his head.  ‘Okay, I understand.’  He cupped Francoise’s chin and kissed her as he had in the restaurant the night before.  ‘Yesterday was wonderful and today has been so good I can’t think of an adjective that would adequately describe it.  It’s just that it’s been, I dunno, the shortest day.’

 

 

On the train back to Huddersfield, Frank thought how wonderful the weekend had been, save for England’s defeat.  He remembered how beautiful Francoise had looked and how great the sex had been.  Anne Murray’s song played in his head.  ‘Can I have this dance for the rest of my life?’   He turned to his wife, put his arm around her and gave her a kiss.

‘I love you, Liz.  I want you to know that I’ve had a wonderful weekend.  How about you?’

‘The best, thank you sweetheart.  I like it when we have these weekends away.  They’re so much fun.  Next month, when we go to the Wagnerian opera at Covent Garden, I think I’ll drop Francoise and become a Brunhilda.’

About the author 

Peter Lingard, born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English. 

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Sunday Serial: 240 x 70 26. In the Woods 14 January 2019 by Gill James, red wine

 Introduction

This collection is a collection of seventy stories, each 240 words. They were inspired by the first picture seen on my Twitter feed on a given day. 

26. In the Woods 14 January 2019

 She was lost. She kept going east. The woods were to the west of the town, weren't they? But it was getting dark now.

Then saw it the A-frame house. The windows were invitingly lit up. Logs were stacked up on the veranda and she could smell wood smoke.

She hurried up the steps and knocked at the door. No reply. She looked up to the upstairs window. Were they asleep? "Can you hear me?" she called. 

Still no reply. She pushed the door open. It wasn't locked.

A fire burned brightly in the log-burner. Someone must have lit it. She could smell cooking as well. Garlic. Herbs, maybe meat.

There was note on the table. "Help yourself. I'll be along later."

A few moments later the oven pinged. The food was done.

She waited. It was soon dark outside. She was hungry now. It didn't seem as if anyone was coming to eat the meal.

She found oven gloves, cutlery and a bowl and helped herself to some of the casserole. It was delicious but it made her sleepy.

She made her way up the stairs.

The bedroom was sumptuous. A thick duvet and big plumped up pillows. The ensuite was equipped with soft towels, a fluffy dressing gown and a power shower. After she'd showered and returned to the bedroom she saw the nigh shirt. Had that been there before?

No matter. She was so sleepy now. She slipped it on and climbed into the bed.

She awoke with a start.

"I knew you’d come." This wasn't Goldilocks or Hansel and Gretel. Trevor. The reason she'd run into the woods in the first place. This was  the nightmare.           

About the author

Gill James is published by The Red Telephone, Butterfly and Chapeltown.  

She edits CafeLit and writes for the online community news magazine: Talking About My Generation.

She teaches Creative Writing and has an MA in Writing for Children and PhD in Creative and Critical Writing.    

http://www.gilljameswriter.com  

https://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B001KMQRKE

https://twitter.com/GillJames

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.)