Saturday Sample: A Bolt from the Blue by Mark Winson

 

A cup of unstirred tea that only presents the sugar

to the tongue with the last mouthful

 

It was a strange day. There was a grating silence hanging in the air. There were few birds singing, few conversations of passers-by that I could gate crash and less than the usual stampede of traffic rumbling down the high street. Most notable was the stillness that settled over the school playground, a clamour I ordinarily enjoyed; the chatter and giggling of children are to me, so representative of the continuation of life. The sunshine, the glorious sunshine that had dominated so much of that

summer, was also absent, as if God had flicked a simple switch. My face felt abandoned, condemned to defending itself from the sharp wind that brought about the change in the weather. Perhaps there had been something more, on that noteworthy day, that I should have been aware of.

 

Needs must, however. I had drained the house of milk, blitzed out the bread bin and was suffering an oral withdrawal after eating too many dry crackers. Dry, I say dry, but they had turned, were slightly damp, so I had to venture out. It would at least break the silence, not that my silence inconvenienced anyone, living alone on my meagre income was hardly going to open sunflowers. I had learned to cope however, made mistakes along the way, as we all do, but there was a subtle difference between wanting to and having to. The doctor had told me that!

 

So, I donned my overcoat. I feel the cold much more these days and wear it more than often. I’ve taken to sitting in it, to listen to The Archers, rather than putting the heating on. Then, I took up my not so macho shopping bag, which was the wife’s, bless her, and fully equipped, I left. I tried to walk with a defiant step, something I’d learned that relieved my trepidation and hesitation. Shoppers with swinging bags and drag-along children are normally the only waves that fail to part in front of me, but I was far more confused when there were none. An ever doubting mind you see, a propensity for reflecting on the downside of my existence, and a tendency to ask myself taxing questions all the time. I did on that day. Was it that people were avoiding me? Maybe the case had I not washed for a week, but I’m always fastidious with my personal hygiene and always indulge in a drift of aftershave.

 

I did well to dodge the abrupt parking bollards and spewing litter bins, which were more than testing, but getting across the road was like negotiating my life away. Screaming cars, articulated lorries, silent but deadly push bikes are bad enough, but I also had to contend with the state of the road surface. What do they do all day long, in those bleeding council offices? Most likely they are engrossed in that Facebook thing, playing games and talking to fellow anoraks. They even twitter, according to my nephew, as if they’re all birding freaks or something. I ride over the ruts in smooth roads when out of town, but I’m at far more risk of falling down those cut into an urban street. It’s then I wobble like jelly, scrabbling to right myself just in time to avoid yet another skidding car with all the tread of a fried egg in a well-greased pan.

 

I walked past the arcade, listening to the pinging pinball machines and jingling of coins falling over the waterfalls, past the last remaining record shop, one

that persists in playing music that you’re supposed to listen to in your garage! I stopped just outside Mothercare, somewhere I think all babies dislike judging by the bawling coming from inside and turned to stand at the curbs edge. Hesitating,

assessing the odds in crossing the street, I suddenly felt a splash from God’s watering can. I cursed him under my breath. I have my doubts about religion

and would like to know just how God can be held so reverently, what with all the bad in the world. There was twice the urgency if I wanted to stay dry. So, prompted by my chiding mind if nothing else, I quickly stepped out into the oceanic expanse of tarmac, leaving behind the security of its coastline, with no more focus than getting across the channel.

 

It was then that it happened. I’d been so preoccupied; I’d paid little heed to the rumbling overhead and failed to realise or recognise what was coming. I always listen to the news of a morning but have an unerring habit to switch the radio off before the weather report.

 

You don’t hear lightening, you have little warning that it’s coming, only a heavenly notification that it’s been and gone as the furniture overhead is dragged

across the sky. Then wallop! This bolt from what must have been a power-station in the clouds hit me, pummelling me into what became scorched tarmac! It

rifled up through my body, from the ground beneath my feet until the hair on the back of my neck stood like that of a cat’s angry back. I felt myself go rigid,

statuesque and hard; any chill of the day being blown away in a millisecond. There was a distinct smell of dry burning and a crackling closing over the vacuum left in the air as all the oxygen was consumed. Probably being the only reason why I hadn’t burst into flames. I could feel the blood in my veins beginning to boil, taste a hit of what seemed to be barbecue sauce, infused into my tongue. I yelled,

believe me you would! I don’t think I swore, least not as this generation seem to, but something leapt from my screaming mouth all the same. Then all was dark,

all was silent.

 

I don’t remember much more at that point, I had no inkling of how long I been away with the fairies, it was just, well, black. They say your life is supposed

to flash before your eyes, not that it did in my case, but neither did it occur to me that I’d been deprived of a promised liaison with St Peter, and had never stood before the gold wrought iron of heaven’s gates. I could have lost days, I could have lost weeks, things might well have accelerated to the point of memissing several episodes of The Archers.

 

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I opened my eyes. The shock was more than palpable, as stood in front of me was Jesus Christ, nestling on a fluffy white cloud formation, in a long blue robe that rolled comfortably over his relaxed arms, folded to allow his hands to come together in prayer. A legion of angels had glided over him, with the faces of innocent babies and the wings of mighty eagles

outstretched illustriously. Dainty birds with gloriously coloured coats, either heaven bound or in ghostly flight, swooped and played across the orange of the sky as they were welcomed by him. His smile was gentle, a forgiving smile to those that needed forgiving, and that could well have included me.

 

The vista in front of me was inspiring, inspiriting and yet in its own way, reassuring. It certainly wasn’t what I expected, believe you me. At first, I was

shocked, so shocked in witnessing what I was seeing that I felt sure it had to be a miracle. Had God put aside my perfidiousness, my dishonesty, that time I pinched a new band saw from work, that time I jabbed Richard Smith in the eye, I could go on. If asked I would never have admitted that I was unworthy, but then he is supposed to forgive you, isn’t he?

 

“I don’t believe it,” I said, “after all these years, after all this time,” I said. “I’m so sorry!” Frankly, it was surprising that this last-ditch confession was accepted and that the trapdoor to oblivion remained shut.

 

I was just about to kneel in front of Jesus and ask him for further directions, when suddenly, a panicked voice broke the serenity of the moment.

 

“He’s awake Vicar! He’s alive Vicar! but I think he thinks he’s dead, that he’s gone to heaven, he’s in a daze. You have to do something!” I could hear this lady’s

stampeding voice rattling round my head as I felt my stupor lighten and my feet finally touch down again. She sounded in some respects like the wife, always having her say, forcing her opinion, bless her, and then handing responsibility over to someone else. We survived as long as we did because I had the foresight to listen and then disregard much of what she said.

 

“Oh my, oh my Lord, how did he survive a strike like that? Just look at the state of him!” said a man more from somewhere behind my head, whose hands

were holding it steady. “It knocked the power out to the church and half of the town’s shops!” I was lying on my back you see, but then I’d hardly be standing

upright if what he was saying was true. In actual fact, I was lying exactly where a compassionate band of church goers had laid me, after rescuing my burnt

corpse from the middle of the charred road. How lucky that they were meeting on such a day, how lucky was I? They stood hopeful, crossing themselves over and over repeatedly, beseeching God not to take me before time, until eventually, thankfully, I opened my and managed to focus. I felt at first, as if I was in a hospital bed, with seven shades of junior Doctors angling over me, putting forward observations and coming to a bizarre diagnosis.

 

“We should never have brought him into the church, never have put him just here!” the Vicar said, chastising himself and looking up at the beautifully painted church ceiling. “He thinks he’s looking into heaven, thinks he’s meeting Jesus. You’re right, he thinks he must have passed away!” I don’t know whether it was the shock of the ceiling that I was looking at, or the crucifix hanging from the vicar’s neck!

 

It was then that I felt my mouth crack with an allowance for a broadening smile, or more likely a look of wonderment that had spread across my face, those looking down at me exhibiting much the same reaction. I was alive, I was more than alive, I was, well, repaired. I was no longer looking at Jesus and his cloud hopping minions, I’d focused on the vicar.

 

“No, you don’t understand,” I said. He wasn’t listening of course, not many people do when looking at someone of my age, they think that just because my bodies failing, my mind is too. His intentions were commendable all the same, Godly, saintly or whatever a man of the cloth strives to be.

 

“Lie still my son,” he said, “you’ve had a great shock!” Well, state the bleeding obvious he did, which didn’t help. “The ambulance is on its way,

don’t worry!” I looked directly into his eyes, the miraculous fresco above me didn’t matter anymore. I took hold of his arm, quickly, before he began preparing himself to give me the last rights.

 

“A shock it is, Vicar,” I said, “but not the shock you thought I’d had. You see, before I tried to cross the road and before I felt the heat burning up through my body… truth is…” I remember rubbing my eyes with the back of my hands at this point, as tears began to spill into tributaries running over my cheekbones. I smiled again, ready to make my announcement to the whole world and in the sight

of God. “Truth is… I was totally blind!”       

 

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About the author:

 

Frankly I don’t know how I came around to writing books. My teachers at school all said I could do better, although to be fair my English teacher Mrs Bullock extracted every last drop of mental substance from me, and fired up what has turned out to be a creative bent. Or is it that I’m just a daydreamer? Only in 2016 did I finally, after much persuasion from family and friends, take up writing more seriously and publish my first book. Since then, my style and genre evolved, until comfortably, I can now describe it as quirky fiction.                   

Sample Saturday: Salford Stories, Everything Is Seen At Its Best in the Dark, Neil Campbell, red wine,

 

Why I chose Everything Is Seen At It's Best In The Dark:

 

I particularly liked the way a brief moment in time is coupled with enough information about the past to tell the tale of a tragedy and its effects on those concerned.  Particularly Sue. The description of her regular walk and her regular route, through very ordinary surroundings, is vivid in its simplicity and heart-breaking against the backdrop of grief and loss.  The language is uncluttered and used to great effect.  I am always interested in the aftermath of an event, how people cope, how they don't cope.  This particular story flicked that switch beautifully.”

Charlottte Delaney

Everything Is Seen At Its Best in the Dark

Neil Campbell

 

Sometimes in autumn when the ash trees are filled with red berries there are loads of crows among the branches, and evening sunlight filters through the taller trees, spraying the meadow with golden light. Sue always sits at the same bench near the pond so she can listen to the whispering of the reeds. She’s seen whole families of herons by that little pond. And it is quiet down there in the late afternoon. From the bench by the pond she can look beyond the river towards the high rise flat where she lives. And from the eleventh floor Denis can keep an eye on her too. Denis has always kept his eye on her, but he doesn’t know everything. She has friends on Chiffon Way and Angora Drive, and sometimes she sees them in the Old Pint Pot, but mainly it’s just her and Denis.

To get to the meadow she cuts down the cycle route instead of going via Blackburn Street. She has to be careful to cross on the sharp curve of road. On this occasion a car stops for a stray collie dog that clearly has somewhere to be. Sue crosses and looks up at the apple tree in one of the back gardens down there. She’s never seen a cyclist on the route and the road is scattered with broken glass. She follows the road round and finds herself by the bridge. She looks down at the swans that gather beneath it. The water is so shallow she can see tyres on the river bed. She follows along the river by the backs of houses, looking upriver at the weir that sparkles and crashes. She takes a right and then a left past the new houses, where a woman tending a newly-laid lawn ignores her as she walks slowly by. The people in the new houses don’t seem to know that it is okay to say ‘hello’. Sue thinks of how people are in such a rush these days. She was the same when she was younger, but she has forgotten.

She is not out of breath by the time she reaches the bench by the pond. That is the advantage of coming every day. She concentrates, and listens as the reeds brush together. Then she hears the crows calling out. They fly in pairs above the new-mown grass. How wonderful it must be to fly. It doesn’t matter to them if a lift breaks down. In a matter of seconds a crow can move from the meadow to the roof of the high rise.

When her boy was young, Sue stayed at home with him. When he was a baby he was wonderful, but on some days the flat could feel like a prison and the panoramic views seemed like a curse. Once, when watching the Telly Tubbies, she thought she might actually be going mad. She had nobody to help her. Lee was so tiring in his need for her attention. On nice days, when he was older, they would walk over to the meadow with a football. If they didn’t have the football, Lee would just run headlong into the bushes. Once she thought he was going to end up in the pond, he just ran straight towards it. But he loved the football. She remembered when he dribbled it all the way around the park. Even then he was determined. If he set his mind to something he would do it, and there was never any changing his mind. Denis tried to argue, but Sue just showed support. Sometimes she reproaches herself for that.

The friends who did speak were as bad as the ones who didn’t. She came to think that condolences are not for the benefit of the bereaved. At first, she hated the sight of poppies at the memorial on Chapel Street. She didn’t say anything. Friends said she’d ‘come round’. But the years after that were just a blur of keeping busy. They didn’t mellow her. She thought of all that pomp and ceremony. For her it was a token gesture. And the patterns kept repeating, and year after year they kept sending the boys and girls of Salford overseas.

Sometimes she thinks Lee might still come back. Sometimes she thinks she sees him in the Old Pint Pot, but there are many young men with broad shoulders and black hair. Sometimes she doesn’t remember that he wouldn’t look so young now. She always sees him as he was on the day he left. That day when Denis was so proud, and the buttons were brightly shining, and Sue smiled though she wanted to cry. Some days she sees him everywhere. She sees him in Denis’s face every night and every day, but that is a good thing.

The whispering of the reeds continues. In the vivid light of dusk the outline of the crows seems sharpened. As the day descends, their outline blurs, and soon enough they are flying beyond her sight. She buttons her jacket against the cold and begins the walk back. In the darkness, she can hear the wing strokes of the crows. Looking up at the sprinkled lights of the high rise, she can see a darkened figure in the living room window.

At Adelphi Street she goes right and walks towards the main road. She cuts through the car park and makes her way down the steps and into the Old Pint Pot. She doesn’t see the fusilier on Chapel Street, standing in stone. There are no names of any soldiers on that memorial anyway, and she knows nothing about South Africa.

The pub is filled with students. Sue likes them. And they’ve done up the Old Pint Pot since the last time she came in. They’ve done a good job with it. She sees Ken and Pauline from Angora Drive. She takes her red wine over to their table by the window. From there she can see the crescent of the Irwell, and beyond that, the moonlight shining across the meadow.

 

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