Eyes Opened Wide by Robin Wrigley, pink Champagne

 The offer of a lift in this noisy Bedford QL service truck was a stark reminder that a third class ride was better than a first class walk. John pulled the canvas sides apart from time to time in order to enjoy the view of the English countryside in full, glorious summer. It enthralled him and was a relief from the noise of the whining Bedford engine, the rattling of the superstructure and the flapping of the canvas as they wound their way down the A30.

            It didn’t seem possible this was the first time he had seen his own country in nearly three years and that seven days ago he was looking at Miriam coyly waving to him from Haifa docks as they set sail from Palestine. A tear in his eye started to form.

            Three sun-baked years out of his youth, thrust amongst two completely different sets of people who had one common enemy, the likes of him and his comrades. He had enlisted in the Royal Engineers and was posted  to Palestine in a clear-up operation after the defeat of the German army and he had found himself wedged between Arabs and Jews and unsure who he could trust.

            Now, he was shortly to be demobbed and slotted back into the life that had been his before they clad him in khaki and shipped him across the Mediterranean Sea. As he sat bouncing on the rough bench seat in the back of the wagon, his mind spun through a kaleidoscope of scenes and thoughts that at times caused a light sweat to break over his forehead. It all became too much to take in. He was happy before he was shipped away yet even happier before they shipped him back. Now he was home again.

            They dropped him at the railway station as he requested. He wasn’t intending to catch a train anywhere as he was already in his hometown. He jumped to the ground clutching the knotted rope placed there for that purpose to lessen the impact, then tugged his kitbag after him. Hoisting it on his shoulder he walked around to the passenger side and thanked the corporal for the lift and watched the truck drive away, back down the hill.

            He stood for a moment and took in the scene. Nothing had changed in his absence, as he stood soaking it in as though refocusing his eyes after a lens change. Directly across the road was ‘The Station Café’ so he decided a cup of tea was in order before he made the walk to the family home. They were not expecting him simply because he had not informed them of his return.

            The place was empty apart from an old fellow reading a newspaper at the corner table. They made eye contact with one another but neither of them spoke. John placed his kitbag against a chair snatched his beret off and went to the counter where a rather tall skinny girl stood.

            ‘Can I get you something luv?’ she asked indifferently.

            ‘Just a tea please,’ he replied.

The smell of fried food in the air made his stomach rumble. He wished he could order more than a cup of tea but having given the lion’s share of his demob pay to Miriam he didn’t have much choice. It was all he could think of to give her at their last meeting. He returned to his table frankly unsure if this was the correct procedure but not wishing to extend the conversation further by asking. He sat down at his selected table and dropped his beret onto one of the chairs. In all honesty he really didn’t have the faintest idea of how you bought stuff in these places. He’d never been in a café before other than a NAAFI canteen. There, with the bright eyes of Miriam behind the counter he never needed any help.

            Seeing the old man in the corner with his newspaper caused his thoughts to drift to the lack of such basic everyday items as newspapers where he had spent the last three years. Not that it mattered as he was never much of a reader anyway. The odd local weeks-old newspapers, sent from home to individuals did get passed around the barracks. It was understandable that the recipients were delighted to receive them and wanted to share but reading parish news from towns he’d never visited offered little interest to him. He had even resorted to reading the odd comic to relieve the boredom when on the relief parts of guard duty. In fact, when his mind wandered, he often compared himself to one of the heroes in the Superman comic and that his uniform was a disguise for the real him.

            He looked out of the window and watched a young woman pushing a pram with some difficulty up the hill on the opposite side of the road. Another mixture of scenes rushed through his mind before he caught the smell of fried food under his nose as the skinny girl placed a cup of steaming tea on the table in front of him causing him to flinch slightly. No word passed between them.

            This was how his home territory and how its natives behaved, silently as if avoiding social intercourse at all costs. As though extra words would lead to more. How utterly different Palestine and the army had been. People said what was on their mind. Asked questions. Hello mister, where you from? What your name? Always searching for an answer, encouraging, even instigating conversation for conversation’s sake. Open disappointment if you fail to engage.

            Now, he had but the time to finish this cup of tea, walk across the meadows and decide whether Superman would revert to Clark Kent and Lois Lane was just a memory. A kiss under an orange tree in Jaffa. Along with his tan, will it fade?

About the author

Robin short stories have appeared in CafeLit both on line and in print on a regular basis. He has also entered various writing competitions but has yet to get past being short listed. 

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Magic Dust

 

by June Webber

pink champagne

 

    Tina adjusted her tiara and scowled into the full-length mirror.  A petite figure in a pastel pink tutu with diaphanous wings, pink tights, and sparkly ballet shoes, looked back.  Tina wrinkled up her nose.  A young man in a Lincoln green belted tunic, with matching tights and jaunty hat peered over her shoulder.

‘Wave your magic wand and make my lottery numbers come up,’ joked Peter Pan.

‘Stop pestering me,’ she retorted.

‘Magic me a tall, dark, handsome man,’ added Wendy.

‘Find your own,’ snapped Tina tetchily.

Tina would love to be principal boy in the pantomime, but at 4 foot 11 she was the shortest in the company.  Last year she had been a dwarf in Snow White, and the year before a mouse in Cinderella.  ‘I suppose Tinker Bell is a step up,’ she thought, but she still hated the costume.

‘All the best presents come in small packets,’ her grandmother, shrunken with age, had told her.  This was little consolation when she could not see over heads in a crowd and could not reach the top shelf in the supermarket.  She waved her magic wand, wishing she could grow another 6 inches or so, but knew she was stuck at being ‘cute, sweet and dainty.’

‘We’ve got to put on an especially good performance this afternoon,’ reminded Wendy.  ‘The kids from the hospice are coming.’

‘Yes, poor kids, they don’t have much joy in their lives. I only wish we could make them better,’ added Tina feeling guilty about being absorbed in her own problems when she was fit and healthy.  Their lives were a painful struggle with rounds of hospital visits and operations, and never being able to run around, play football or dance, as other children did.

The carers were wheeling the children to the front of the theatre and helping those on crutches to their seats.  The children were all flushed with excitement and chattering away before the orchestra started playing.

Tina attached her flying harness over her costume.  She had been very nervous the first time she had flown and was quite dizzy, but now she enjoyed floating in the air above the stage, and out over the audience, arms outstretched.  When she made her entrance, there were gasps of delight from the children.  Pale faces, often racked with pain, broke into smiles, and eyes opened wide as Tinker Bell flew above their heads scattering magic dust from her hollow wand.  The silver dust sparkled in the spotlights, and the children reached up to catch some.  When she was safely on the ground, the children clapped loudly and cheered.

At the finale, Tinker Bell received the biggest applause of all, as she curtsied, smiled, and blew kisses.  Peter Pan squeezed her hand affectionately, and whispered, ‘Well done.’

She had brought some magic into the lives of children whose lives were a daily struggle and who, like Peter Pan, would never grow up. At that moment she felt ten feet tall.

 

About the author 

June Webber is retired, lives in Dorset, and writes short stories and poetry.

Past Lives

by Jo Dearden

a glass of pink champagne 

 

She had been looking forward to the holiday. Italy was one of her favourite destinations, but this was the first time she had been to the Italian Riviera. They decided to fly to Nice and drive across the French border to make the most of the spectacular coastal scenery. She was not disappointed.  Narrow roads curled through the rugged mountains with hair pin bends above the azure sea below. They wound the windows down letting the warm Mediterranean air wash over them.

She could see their hotel, the Villa del Romano in the distance as they drove into the pretty seaside town of Alassio. It faced the sea with a large stone terrace overlooking the beach. All the windows had slatted dark green shutters. Many of them seemed to be closed.  I suppose it’s to keep the sun out she thought as they unloaded their luggage.

As she stepped into the entrance hall, she suddenly had a weird feeling. A strange sensation that she had been here before, but that was impossible as she had not visited this area of Italy until now.  The black and white marble tiled floor with the wide staircase that rose up from the far end seemed familiar.  She had an image of a large circular mahogany table with a tall vase of flowers, which wasn’t there anymore. Perhaps it was similar to somewhere else she had been. She decided not to say anything to Paul. They were shown to their simply furnished bedroom. French windows led to a small balcony with a couple of chairs on it. She could see the terrace and a swathe of bronzed sand below.

After they had unpacked, they decided to relax on the beach. She put on her new black and white striped swimsuit, grabbed a towel and slipped her feet into her favourite silvery flip flops. She tied her shoulder length blonde hair into a tortoiseshell clip. ‘I’ll catch you up,’ her husband Paul said as he lay on the bed reading his book. She ran down the wooden stairs to the hall and out onto the terrace, where a few of the guests were idly eating and drinking. She skipped down the stone steps that led to the beach below.

An attendant showed her to an empty sun bed. She dropped her beach bag on to it and walked to the water’s edge. The sea felt warm and enticing. She was a good swimmer and was soon several yards from the beach. She lay on her back letting the gentle waves roll over her. She looked towards the imposing façade of the hotel. It had been a family home once. A large 19^th century villa that had been built and owned by a Scottish family for four generations until it was sold to a hotel group. She had read about it in the guidebook.

Later, as they were enjoying their supper on the candlelit terrace with the moon glinting on the dark sea, she thought she saw a young maid, dressed in Victorian clothes standing behind where Paul was sitting. She picked up her large glass of wine and decided to tell him.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said turning around in his chair. ‘I can’t see anything. It must be you imagining things again,’ he said, picking up his phone to see if there were any incoming messages. She knew he was sceptical of what he thought of as her over active mind. She let it go but decided she would ask a few questions about the history of the hotel tomorrow. That night, as she lay in bed the image of the maid came back to her. She thought she could see her standing at the foot of the bed. She snapped on the bedside light. There was nothing there.  Paul didn’t stir. Perhaps she had dreamt it.

The next morning, she woke early. Paul was still asleep. A few too many glasses of wine last night. She opened the bedroom windows. She could smell the scent of bougainvillea in the air. She quickly dressed and went down to the terrace for breakfast.

As she was finishing her coffee, she saw there was a rusty iron gate at one side of the terrace leading into the hotel garden. She hadn’t noticed it before. A few minutes later she found herself wandering past immaculate herbaceous borders. She could see a large pergola covered with cascading lilac wisteria. Beneath it was an old stone bench, where an elderly woman dressed in black was sitting. A lacey shawl covered head. The old lady beckoned to her to come closer. 

‘You can see me, can’t you?’ the woman said, stretching out a gnarled hand towards her.

‘Yes, I can.’

‘You have a special gift. You can see people that others can’t. Don’t be afraid. People like me are still waiting to get to the other side. Our time will come.’

She told the woman about the maid she had seen. ‘Perhaps she doesn’t want to leave. There will be a reason,’ she said.

A fluttering in the trees distracted her, which for a moment made her glance towards the other side of the garden. When she looked at the bench again, the woman had vanished. She walked slowly back to the hotel, thinking about what she had seen and heard. The concierge was at the reception desk.

‘Can I help you Signora?’ he asked her.

‘I was just wondering if you know anything about any of the maids who worked here when the hotel was a private residence. I’m thinking of the Victorian era,’ she asked him.

The concierge put his pen down on the desk. ‘Well, there was a story, but I don’t know if it’s true. A young maid, you know, got into the family way. Think the baby died somehow. She was so distraught, she walked into the sea out there and drowned. Some say her ghost is in this hotel, but I’ve never seen her.’

She knew now. She had been here before. In another life, she was a maid too in this very house. She and Molly had been friends.

About the auhtor 

Jo Dearden trained as a journalist with the Oxford Mail and Times.  She did a degree in English Literature with creative writing as a mature student. She co-edited her local village newsletter for about ten years. She also worked for a number of years for the Citizens’ Advice Bureau. She is currently a member of a creative writing group, which is stimulating her writing again. Jo lives in Suffolk.

 

 

Flying Geese

by Jenny Palmer

pink champagne

As the fog cleared, the geese came into view. They were flying in a V formation, one out in front and the rest of the flock following behind. A sign of spring, perhaps.

According to the Royal Horticultural Society everything was about three weeks late this year. The garden birds had only just started singing and the first celandines hadn’t appeared yet. The sheep were bleating. The farmer must be about. He would be bringing them some mangolds. The grass still hadn’t started growing and they had new-born lambs to feed. It had been a long winter. What was happening to the weather?

Seeing the birds reminded her of Tom. Once when they were courting, he’d taken her to see an air show. They’d been watching a flypast by the Red Arrows.

‘Why do they fly in that formation’ she’d asked.

‘It’s to do with aero dynamics,’ he’d explained.  ‘The V formation reduces fuel consumption and minimises drag and that increases the range. For planes it’s good for mutual defence and concentrates fire power. They got the idea from the birds. With them it spreads flight fatigue and helps their communication en route.’

That was Tom all over. He’d been a Spitfire pilot during the war and prided himself on his technical knowledge. He was like a walking encyclopaedia.  But how had the birds learnt to fly in formation in the first place, she wondered? And why did swallows return every spring and salmon swim upstream to spawn, for that matter?  It must be something innate.

Tom took things at face value.  It was because of his military training, she imagined.  He’d never been one for spontaneity.  Over the years they’d had lots of holidays away with the children, in Europe mainly. He’d always been the one to make the arrangements. Organised. That was what he was. And an early riser. Morning was the best part of the day, he used to say.  

Nowadays she got up when she felt like it.  If you couldn’t have a lie-in when you were retired, when could you?  After he’d died, she’d thrown herself into all manner of social activities. It helped to pass the time. And there was no shortage of things to do when you put your mind to it. She’d volunteered at the local Oxfam shop, joined a book club and become chief tea and biscuit monitor. She’d attended coffee mornings and quizzes, garden clubs and history groups.  Her latest passion was patchwork quilting.  It was her friend Marion from the Oxfam shop who had suggested it. 

‘It is important to keep the brain active as you get older,’ she’d said.

‘According to the latest neuro-scientific research, the brain of a seventy-year-old can develop as many brain cells as that of a twenty-year-old, if kept active. Patchwork is one way to do that. It’s known to be good for the brain on a par with doing sudoku or crosswords. These days they use it in maximum security prisons as therapy for both women and men.’

‘Is that so?’ said Jean.

She liked the fact that in the class they sat around in a circle of tables with their machines in front of them. You could go around and chat if you felt like it or if you needed inspiration, but it was a social occasion as much as anything.

At first, she’d followed the patterns laid out in books.  They stipulated the shapes and dimensions you could use and were often illustrated so that you didn’t even have to choose the colour combinations. You could buy a jelly roll, which was material, already cut up and with the colours all pre-matched.  Once you’d acquired a few basic skills and got the hang of understanding patterns, it was quite relaxing. A bit like painting by numbers. 

‘Haven’t you got enough quilts yet?’ Marion commented one day. ‘Your house is starting to look like little house on the prairie.’

‘Well, it was you who got me into it in the first place,’ Jean retorted. 

But it was true. The quilts had just seemed to grow exponentially. Every surface of the house was covered. There were quilts on the beds and thrown over the furniture.  There were quilted cushions, curtains and draft excluders for the doors and windows.  

She had an idea for a new quilt now.  This time she wanted to stamp her own personality on it. After all, she wasn’t in prison, was she?   After Tom had died, she’d had the open fireplace taken out and a fuel burner installed.  But there was an empty space above the mantel piece. A wall-hanging would fit there perfectly.  Just as she was about to start work, the phone rang.

‘Oh Jean, so glad I caught you,’ said Marion.  ‘We’re one down today. Could you cover, do you think?’

‘Sorry,’ she found herself saying. ‘I’m afraid I can’t today. I’ve got something on.’   She put the phone down before she could be persuaded otherwise.

The phone rang again. It was Judy this time from the book club.

‘Sorry to ask you at such notice but someone has dropped out. Could you prepare the presentation for the next meeting?’

The answer was a definite No. It was easy once you got the hang of it. Why had it taken her so long to learn that? Fear of upsetting people, fear of being thought badly of, or not knowing her own mind? But when all was said and done, what did it matter what people thought. There came a point in life when you should do what you wanted, surely. 

She wasn’t going to follow a pattern this time. She’d chosen the medallion style because it lent itself to improvisation. She’d start with a central motif and then add one border after another, in any design or colour she liked. What could be simpler? The artistry lay in the colour combination and choice of border designs. 

She remembered seeing a programme once about the late Matisse when he was going blind. He’d abandoned his former style of painting, in favour of cutting out origami shapes in vibrant, bold colours and making artwork out of them. People criticised him because it wasn’t what they expected of him. But he was right. The world was short of colour. You only had to remember the daily commute in London when you could have been forgiven for thinking everyone was going to a funeral. In South America, people weren’t afraid of combining shocking pink with yellow and green or red even. And in India people wore all the colours of the rainbow and they never seemed to clash.  

She would construct this quilt from scraps. It was a good way of using them up and there was the added advantage that they would blend in with her other furnishings. The central square would be in verdant green and this would be surrounded with strips of almond blossom and eucalyptus. In the next border she would pick up these colours and add contrasting shades. The quilt would grow organically. It could be as large or small as she wanted.

The outer border would be a series of triangles, set against a sky-blue background, rotating around the whole.  It was called the flying geese pattern in quilting circles.  On the central square she would applique a motif of a single goose, flying. 

But before she did any of that, she would book her flight.  It didn’t

really matter where, preferably somewhere hot.  It could be India, Peru or Timbuktu.  

About the author 

Jenny Palmer writes short stories, poems and local history. She has self-published two memoirs ‘Nowhere better than home’ and ‘Pastures New’ and a family history ‘Whipps, Watsons and Bulcocks: a Pendle family history 1560-1960,’  available from The Pendle Heritage Centre, Barrowford. She has co-edited four anthologies of women’s short stories, published by the Women’s Press and Serpent’s Tail. Her forthcoming collection of short stories ‘Keepsake and other stories,  published by Bridgehouse publications will be available soon on Amazon