Quainlty Traditional

Roger Noons

French Merlot

George chose an old fashioned, traditional restaurant, in which to take his lunch. There were several of them in Ironbridge. Sitting at a square, corner table, he slowly ran his fingertips over the starched, white, linen cloth: the corners pointing at 45 degrees towards the floor, folds sharper than the creases in a sea captain’s trousers.

    He surveyed the room, smiled cheerfully as he realised that there was sufficient copper, brass and china on display, to stock three modestly-sized antique shops. His fellow diners, all couples, together generated a significant background hum, but such was the spacing of the tables, that he could not discern a single word from any quarter.

    The black and white attired waitress appeared at his side: placed his main course before him, and gave a brief curtsy before departing; only to return moments later with a small jug, which she placed at his right hand. A slight bob provided the coda to her second visit.

    George noted that the pattern on the jug matched that of the plate, a fact that was clear, because he could view so much of the plate. Crown Derby, if he was not mistaken. As he raised his knife and fork, he was tempted to recall the waitress, in order to inquire as to whether war might have been declared.

    His portion of calves liver, no more than four ounces he surmised, was accompanied by a single rasher of crispy bacon: a dessert spoon full of fried onions, and a single scoop of mashed potato. The jug, though no more than three inches in height, was only half filled with gravy.

    From the first mouthful however, he was aware that each item had been exquisitely cooked. The liver, tender as a bruise, melted in his mouth: the onions were perfection and the bacon, divided into bite-size pieces at the mere touch of a tine of the fork. The mashed potato had that ideal balance between flour and butter, and it was enhanced by the gravy, in which he believed he could taste a spot or two of a French merlot. He ate slowly, putting down his cutlery while he was chewing, in order to prolong the enjoyment.

    Normally annoyed, when his pudding appeared within seconds of the removal of the main course platter, George was on this occasion pleased to receive his Apple Charlotte, and beamed in response to the waitress’s repeat bob. Surveying it, in the centre of a dish, how he despised the current fashion of serving pudding on a plate, he deemed it perfect in appearance, displaying evidence of the basin in which it had been moulded. When he tested with his fork, he found the outside to be crisp and as he spooned an opening, the steam which escaped revealed the pulped apple inside.

    He was aware that it would have been prepared in advance and microwaved just before it was brought to the table, but from the first taste, it was delicious. In his enthusiasm, he burned the tip of his tongue on the apple, and again he ate slowly in order to relish the experience. An air of sadness washed over him, as he finally put down his fork and spoon.

    ‘Would you like tea or coffee sir?’

    ‘Thank you, no, I think I will take a turn around the town and return to enjoy a pot of tea, before I depart for home.’

    This time, she merely nodded.

    The sadness passed and he felt pleased with himself for selecting this establishment. Although modest in quantity, it was the tastiest lunch he had eaten in years. As he caressed his substantial solar plexus, beneath his waistcoat, the bill was slid on to the table on his left hand side.

    As he unfolded the stiff, cream sheet, the first words he read were ‘Service is not included.’  He raised his eyes to the figures above, and his lips straightened. It seemed that quaintness and tradition were ignored, when it came to financial matters. As he reached for his wallet, he suffered what he feared might be an early symptom of dyspepsia.

***

BIO - Roger Noons began writing in 2006, when he completed a screenplay, for a friend who is an amateur film maker. After the film was made, he wrote further scripts, then began short stories and poems. He occasionally produces non fiction, particularly memoirs from his long career in Environmental Health. 

Once in a Lifetime

Patsy Collins

Extra rich hot chocolate - with whipped cream,
marshmallows, candy stirrer, flake, sprinkles, and chocolate cookies
on the side

At least once in every lifetime there will be a day more full of joy
than any other. When a smile is never absent. A day when the sun seems
to shine a little more brightly just for you; when the wind drops to a
welcome breeze. When the lights are always green and the milk doesn’t
spill. It might be your wedding day, or last day at school. You may
discover God or a friend you had lost. Perhaps you’ll win the lottery,
or the Champion's League. Maybe it will be the first time you hold
your child, or hear her call you Mummy. For a few there will be many
such days, fortune will favour them. Their joy will smile from their
mouth and sparkle in their eyes.
Some will have little luck, enduring a lifetime of hardship and
suffering. But joy may reach even them. Someone might care enough to
help. Perhaps there will be a day when there’s enough food to eat and
the promise of more in the future. With help they could have many such
days. There can be pleasure too in saving a life, feeding the hungry,
doing the right thing. Joy can be a gift we bring when we share our
money, or time or talent or love. Happiness is contagious, make sure
yours is passed on. Offer a smile and watch it spread.
Others will have a chance to create their own joy. Their once in a
lifetime moment will be reaching the mountain summit or learning to
stand without crutches. These peaks and supports may be real for all
to see. They may be personal, metaphoric challenges. Learning to face
our fears can release us from their powerful hold. Risking failure and
disappointment allows us to aim for success. Try for the job you want,
send your novel to the publisher, tell your lover how you feel. Sow
the seed, maybe it will flower. Your smile will continue on another’s
face after you have walked by.
But it’s not for me this one surge of happiness. There won’t be that
once only day of joy. Every moment of every day is here but once. I
want each and every one to be happy. I’ll try not to hear the traffic
and arguing neighbours. Instead I’ll listen for birdsong and
children’s laughter. I’ll look into scruffy gardens for a flower
freshly opened. If it rains I’ll look for the rainbow. If I don’t see
it I’ll watch the grubby streets as they are washed clean. When the
sun shines I’ll know the warmth is there for me. When night falls the
sparkling stars will dance for me. I’ll sow lots of seeds, some will
surely flower. My smiles will be reflected in every face I see.
Life is a once only event. Some things will happen once only it that
lifetime. But the moments that can be happy, the times that we smile -
there’s no limit for them.


patsy-collins.blogspot.com

Jazz Cafe

Kathleen Jones

Mango Smoothie

The pianist is off the beat.  It annoys me that he can't keep tempo, but I can't get anyone else to play for the money — a straight thirty each and a few free drinks.
    And no-one listens anyway.  The smart set come to meet each other and observe the weird and exotic who drift in off the Soho street.  It's really a high class pick-up joint, full of postmodern girls in deliberately tatty designer clothes, chatting up men with wind-blown hairstyles in over-large jackets.  You can smell the Porsche's and BMW's illegally parked on the pavement outside.
    One of the girls has draped herself over the corner of Henry's piano, dogging him up with her eyes.  No joy there.  Henry's one of what Simon always sarcastically refers to as the V.H.M.s — the Very Happily Marrieds.  Musicians with wives and mortgages and small offspring who divide their spare time between IKEA and the garden centre.

    Nine o'clock on a summer evening in the Café Lafayette.  Just coming to the end of the first set.  I turn to take a sip of mineral water to soothe my smoke-roughened throat and catch sight of myself in the mirrored surface of the wall opposite.  A slim girl on a high stool with a long bony face and long reddish-brownish hair I only just recognise as me;  above her, the golden holograms of the brass ceiling fans rotating at full speed;  behind her, the circles and squares of an art-deco window frame.  A yellow raincoat is walking past with a black and white umbrella.
    After a while the yellow coat edges into my view of the bar.  It's Maggi, shaking the damp from her bobbed black hair.  The sight of her paralyses my throat just for a moment.  But I control the spasm in order to finish the song and sign off at the microphone. `We're going to take a break now, but we'll be back with you later.  Ladies and gentlemen, Henry Field at the piano.'  A scatter of applause barely audible above the conversation.  `And I'm Kate Hennessy.'  More applause this time, but still only polite, perfunctory.  People have more interesting things to do with their hands — glasses, cigarettes, other people's bodies.
    Which brings me back to Maggi, who's taken off her raincoat and crumpled it over a stool.  She's wearing a black body suit, an eight inch long white crotch-cover (definitely not a skirt) and black and white striped tights.  Ridiculously thin.  And she has a thin mouth that opens to show pointed little teeth like a predatory fish.   
    ‘Not working tonight?'  I ask.
Maggi shakes her head.  ‘I've been in the studio all day mixing the CD.'
    My throat goes into spasm again, but I manage to control my face by catching the barman's eye and ordering another mineral water.  It simply isn't fair that Maggi should be making a CD already.  She's only been on the scene a year.  Of course it helps being an American — there's an implicit belief that the only real jazz musicians are Americans, particularly singers.  All the songs seem to have been written in American idiom.
    I feel suddenly very old.  Twenty seven, rising twenty eight and still without a recording contract.  Plenty of work though, plenty of people to tell me I can sing — a gutsy, bluesy voice that doesn't seem to belong to my slim frame.  Quite a contrast to Maggi's high-pitched intonation and complete disregard for melody.  But that kind of stringy, rhythmic scat-singing seems to be fashionable now.
    I hate you. I think the words deliberately as a kind of relief, looking at Maggi drinking a half of lager out of a triangular flower vase.  My own mineral water is being offered in a similar glass with circular ice and a segment of lime pressed onto the rim.  The place is unbearably pretentious.

    Henry is talking to a girl further up the bar, possibly his wife.  She's pregnant, leaning back slightly on her heels for balance, resting her arms across the top of the bulge.
    I have to force myself to look away.  I can't bear to see it.  My body aches for a child.  It's so strong, it's like a fierce dog eating my insides out.  Something inexplicable, biological.  We can't afford to have a child just yet.  I don't even want a child yet — not until I've got somewhere with my singing, and not until Simon is earning enough for both of us.  But every morning when I get the press-out strip of pills out of the drawer I have a battle with myself.  My body says ‘No.  Put them back in the drawer.'  And my head says ‘Don't be stupid.  Take the damn thing as quick as you can.'  And my hands shake so much I can hardly push the little blue circles out of their sockets.
    ‘Simon coming down later?'  Maggi asks.
    I nod.  He's doing a show on Charing Cross Road.  Orchestra pit work.  Well beneath his abilities really, but it's all that's around at the moment.  A dreary musical, created around the life of some long-dead music-hall star, which will run for the tourist season and be pulled off before Christmas.  Simon should be getting something better.
    ‘I want to ask him something,'  Maggi goes on.  She smiles, revealing all  the little pointed teeth.  ‘I thought we might all go down to Ronnie's after.  A friend of mine from the States is playing and he said he'd get us in.'
    ‘I'm not sure I've got the energy.  It's been a tough week..'  Anything to avoid an evening with Maggi.
    ‘OK.'  She shrugs in an easy-going, friendly kind of way.
    I find it incredible that Maggi seems unaware of my hostility.  I can feel it leaking from me like battery acid.  ‘What did you want Simon for anyway?'
    ‘I wondered whether he'd like to do a gig for me next Thursday afternoon.  It's a tea dance at the Grosvenor.  Guy shut his hand in a car door and can't play for a week or two.'
Bad luck for Guy.  Extra money for Simon. That's how it goes.

    He walks in towards the end of the second set, dumping the holdall with his saxophone and music-stand behind the piano.  He looks very thin and serious in the black and white evening outfit he got second hand in Oxfam.  He raises a hand and wriggles his long, elegant fingers at me.  Simon's hands are incredible.  Very pale and bony, with exceptionally long, spatulate fingers.  Women's hands.  Sometimes I think that Simon would make a very pretty woman with his heart-shaped face and curly blonde hair and the very thick black eyelashes that screen his jade blue eyes. 
    We've been married for three years, and lived together two before that, ever since we met at the Guildhall School of Music.  Simon was a pupil of Kathy Stobart, while I was studying with Cleo Laine.  Five years.  Five years of bedsits and awful furnished flats.  But now we have our own — a ground floor, two bedroom Victorian apartment in Hackney.  Not the best area, but the first rung on the property ladder and large enough — I have to stop myself.  I'd been going to think ‘enough space for a child’, but that's dangerous stuff.

The clapping after the last number is rather more enthusiastic — there are even half-hearted calls for an encore.  Normally I'd oblige, but tonight I'm not in the mood.  I catch Henry's eye and shake my head.
    At the bar Simon says, ‘No point in going to Ronnies on a Saturday night — it'll be packed out.  I thought we'd go down to the 100 Club instead.'  He and Maggi seem to have it all arranged.
    ‘And you think you could manage Prague in September?'  Maggi says.
    ‘Don't see why not.  It sounds a really interesting tour.  And I can always put in a Dep. for the show.'
    ‘Great!'
    ‘I don't want to go to the 100 Club,'  I hear myself say.  I'd meant it to sound reasonable, but it sounds petulant — a child refusing a treat out of temper. 
    Both Maggi and Simon turn to look at me.
    ‘She's tired, you know,'  Maggi says, speaking across me.
    ‘Are you?'  Simon looks peeved. ‘I was just feeling like breaking out a little.  That show's so deadly I need to unwind afterwards.  And we don't have to be up tomorrow.'  He's coaxing me.  ‘You'll enjoy it when you get there.  Bill Oakley and John Crichman are playing.'
    Simon says do this;  Simon says do that.  It's a familiar game.  They’re all looking at me.   I can either go home in a taxi and confirm to everyone that easy going, well-balanced Kate is having a pre-menstrual tantrum, or grit my teeth and endure a tense evening at my least favourite venue.  Simon knows what I'll do.  So does Maggi.  Making waves is not my style.  I can see clearly that this is my weakest point — my hatred of causing a fuss makes me easy to manipulate, and Maggi, with her predatory instincts, picked up on it right from the start.

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    Simon brought Maggi home with him a year ago.  She looked small and cold and defeated inside her yellow plastic coat.  Her mascara was trickling down her pale face like an exaggerated Pierrot mask.
    ‘This is Maggi,'  Simon said, bending down to put another bar on the electric fire.  ‘There was a mix-up over her flat, so I said she could stay with us for a bit.' 
    Just like that.
    I made myself smile and say ‘Fine.  No problem.'  Which is what people always say when there is.  And I went to make up the bed in the spare room.  It isn't a very good bed, acquired from some friends who were throwing it out onto a skip.  There's no carpet on the floor either, and only a big old chest of drawers my mother wanted to get rid of when she got divorced.  The curtains, left by the previous owners, are thin cotton hung on stretchy wires that almost cover the big Victorian window, but not quite.
    It would have to do.  Maggi said it was fine, wonderful, much better than a bin-liner on a street corner.  She'd be perfectly comfortable.
    Having her to stay  made practising difficult.  Simon, of course, could always take his saxophone and practise in the living room or the bedroom, but the piano with its solid metal frame couldn't be moved.  Which meant that I had to practise when Maggi wasn't in.  It was very inconvenient.  And there were minor irritations like her habit of singing to herself all the time and talking on the phone in the middle of the night to her mother in America, and the rather aggressive perfumes she wore with loud names like Poison and Opium, so that even when she wasn't there you could smell her all over the house. Even the chairs and the sofa in the living room smelt of stale civet.
    But what bothered me most was the thinness of the wall between the two bedrooms.  When we made love I was always aware of  Maggi listening on the other side of the plasterboard.  We make love less often now that Maggi’s there.
    As time went on there were other aggravations too.  Maggi had no sense of private property.  She would help herself to my face creams and precious Neil's Yard bath oils, borrow CDs and films without asking, and make coffee in my special mug —  the one Simon bought me in a street market in Delhi on our honeymoon.  If I psyched myself up to tackle her, she'd open her big, Pierrot eyes very wide and innocent and say ‘Oh.  Is it?  Sorry.  I didn't think you'd mind.’  Which made me feel completely mean.
    But the final trespass for me was the time I rang Simon from Oxford St and heard Maggi's voice on our answering machine. ‘Sorry I'm not around, but if you want to leave a message for Maggi, or Simon or Kate . . .'
    The beeps beeped in sequence — little electronic alarm bells, but I was too angry to speak.
    ‘You have to be patient,'  Simon said. ‘She's a foreigner, she doesn't know how things work around here.  Give her time.'
    It was true really.  And she tried so hard to please.  She bought bottles of wine on impulse and turned ordinary meals into celebrations, and sometimes when we got up late after a gig there would be hot corn muffins on the table and real blueberry jam.
    ‘She's such a generous person,' Simon said.  ‘It's just that she expects everyone else to be like herself.'
    I said nothing, but my gut feeling said ‘Bugger that.  She's using us.’  Why were men so easily taken in?

    One day, after she'd been there about three months, she suggested that wouldn't it be better if Simon and I had the room with the piano in, to solve the practising problem? Which was true.  But I still didn't want to do it.  Why should I have to leave my bedroom on account of Maggi?  And why should I be made to feel the one who's being unreasonable if I don't?
    ‘It's the logical thing to do', Simon said.  ‘Maggi's right.'
    So the furniture was shifted, and it's the same furniture, even though it looks different in another setting.  But there's no carpet and the curtains from the other room wouldn't fit and so we have to make do with the thin damask that allows the street light to leech through it and stops me sleeping properly.  Every time I’ve saved up enough money for  curtains and carpeting something else had come up —  the car exhaust or the central heating boiler.
    And Maggi's been there ever since.  Whenever I get Simon round to talking about her leaving he says that having a lodger helps to pay the mortgage, and anyway, he's got used to her around.  And then Maggi says things like — ‘It's so wonderful of you to put up with me.  Sharing a flat with you guys is such fun.'  So what can I do?


    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    The routine's the same after every weekend gig.  Either a curry house or an Italian.  Usually there's some consensus, but tonight, because it's Maggi, there's an argument.  Maggi wants to go to the Italian so that she can show off her vocabulary to the waiters and order obscure wines no one has ever heard of, which, infuriatingly, are always wonderful.  And she always asks them for something which isn't on the menu, which is always  made available and smells delicious and enviable when it comes.
    I decide, insist, am absolutely adamant, that I'm going to have a curry. If I have to go to the 100 Club then I'm having my own way over the meal.  A childhood spent in India watching the cook blending the brightly coloured powders, red and orange and yellow;  chili and cumin and turmeric; the shiny green of peppers and the textures of cinnamon bark and clove, have left me addicted to the sensuality of its food.

    And it makes me feel secure.  My Ayah used to smell of cardamom which she chewed to sweeten her breath, and always, always in the house there was the smell of fenugreek, sharp and aromatic, blowing across the veranda in the breeze from the muslin'd windows.
    Not that this restaurant is anything like India.  It's decorated like a brothel.  An almost life-size naked lady in white plaster, surrounded by Grecian columns and Christmas lights, drips water onto plastic flowers at the entrance.  The walls are hung with pink brocade and have gilded lamp brackets with extravagantly fringed shades.  The ceiling has stalactites of plaster and gilt and crystal and, above the bar, swags of pink brocade billow and recede like an outrageous bed canopy.
    But it smells of fresh coriander and all those other scents that recreate my comfort zone.
The first thing Simon does as soon as we sit down is ask to have the music turned off.  Jazz musicians always do this.  Muzak tortures the ear.  But somehow I've never been able to bring myself to do it.  Other people there are enjoying the music — finding it an essential part of the atmosphere.  There's a little, hostile exchange with the manager which I try not to listen to, hiding behind the menu,.  Then, it seems, there's to be a compromise.  The jangle of voice and sitar becomes a faint, background wail.
    Henry's wife is telling a joke she'd heard on a music quiz programme.  ‘What's the difference between a musician and an insurance policy?'
    ‘I don't know.'  Simon says warily.  ‘What is the difference?'
She smiles and waits a second or two, as though she knows he isn't going to like it and is determined to enjoy his discomfort. ‘Insurance policies mature and make money.'
    Henry and I laugh outright.  Simon smiles a rather tight smile and says ‘That's cruel.'  And it is.
    But it's also true.  Someone told me before I married Simon ‘It's impossible to have a relationship with a musician — all they know is the music. Nothing else matters.'  I sometimes wonder if that's where I've gone wrong.  Perhaps I haven't been single-minded enough.  Perhaps that's why Maggi's spent all day making a CD while I've just sung to a deaf audience in a shitty cafe for fifty pounds.
    Maggi says, ‘I intend to make loads of money.'
And I expect she will.  Maggi knows how to get things.

    The toilets are pink porcelain shells with gold fittings.  Washing her hands in the imitation marble bowl, Henry's wife says ‘I don't know how you put up with it.'
    ‘What else can I do?'
    ‘I'd give them both their marching orders if it was me.'
She bumps the door behind her as she goes out, leaving me standing with my hands under the drier and an uncomfortable thought.  What did she mean by ‘both'?

© Kathleen Jones

www.kathleenjones.co.uk
www.kathleenjonesauthor.blogspot.com

Hail the New

Trevor Belshaw

Hail the New

 

Sweet Tea

"The gates are locked."

Richard Davis, checked the authenticity of the message before passing it back to the approaching workforce.

"We're locked out. Summat's up," he said.

The worrying news spread by way of a thousand whispers.

The adult employees shuffled their feet on the slush covered ground as the younger children started a game of tag to keep warm. Stumpy stood by the gates with his best friend Davy and his older brother, John. Davy suffered from a lung infection and a persistent cough, aggravated by working in the dust beneath the machines.

“What’s that big iron beast in the corner of the yard?” he wheezed. “I wasn’t there yesterday.”

Stumpy’s reply was cut short as a window opened in the gatekeeper's office and the long face of the foreman, Granville Lurcher, appeared. “There’s to be an announcement,” he shouted.

The boys looked at each other with grim faces. Announcements usually brought bad news.

The door to the gatehouse opened and a cold silence descended on the workforce. Mill owner, Cornelius Grubhunter, walked into the courtyard, smoothed his moustache and addressed the crowd.

 “Right, you lot,” he began. “There are going to be some big changes at the mill. The improvements will result in higher productivity and a better product for our customers. Some of you will be trained on the new machines. That will cost time and money, so certain economies will have to be made.”

“New machines?”

“Economies?”

The words buzzed like a swarm of bees.

Cornelius puffed out his chest and pointed to the new engine that Davy had spotted.

“Hail the new, lads and lasses,” he proclaimed. “This is PROGRESS!”

 “Will progress mean layoffs?” asked Davy’s mother.

Cornelius brushed his moustache again and held up his hand for silence. When he spoke his voice was honey laced with chilli-pepper.

“The only layoffs will come from the ranks of the child labourers. But...  there will be a reduction in wages for the rest of you. The new machinery has to be paid for somehow.”

“Pay cut?”

“How many children?”

Cornelius shrugged. “We'll keep four boys to work in the boiler house.”

Panic shot through the crowd.

“Only four?”

“We can't afford to eat without our Samuel's wages.”

“Lucy's wage helps pay the rent.”

Cornelius called for silence again but the crowd ignored him. Granville Lurcher stepped forward and glared at the workforce. “Silence!” he snarled.

The noise stopped abruptly. No one ever argued with Granville.

Cornelius pointed again to the black monster in the corner of the yard. “We have a team of engineers arriving this afternoon to fit this, and other new machinery. One of those machines will enable you to work without your brats getting their limbs ripped off as they crawl under the looms. For that you should be grateful.”

“But we need them to work.”

“And work they will,” said Cornelius with a saintly smile. “I have spoken to other businessmen in the area and between us we have found work for most of them.”

Davy burst into a coughing fit. Cornelius glared at him and continued.

“Some will go down the pit. There are also six sweeps willing to give work to boys small enough to climb into chimneys and there is work for all of the girls at the match factory.”

He paused to take a sheet of paper from Granville. “Bring your brats back here at 11 o'clock to face the selection panel.”

Granville strode up to the gates and held up a list of names. “The mill is now closed,” he said. “It will re-open on January 1st. A skeleton workforce of thirty men will assist the engineers. Their names are on this list along with the brats we have retained. The rest of you can bugger off  ‘ome.”

The crowd erupted. Insults were hurled at Cornelius.

At a signal from his employer, Granville blew a whistle. The factory doors opened and out poured a score of men, each carrying a thick stick or an iron bar. The leader slapped his stick into the palm of his hand.

“Now then. Who wants to argue?”

***

At eleven, the mill children marched back and forth across the courtyard while a small group of men studied their build and agility. The sweeps chose the smallest of the boys, while the manager of the coal mine wanted the stockier children. After an hour, only two remained.

Cornelius looked around at the employer’s representatives. “Will no one take these two boys? They’re tougher than they look.”

“That wheezy one’s no good to us with a chest like that,” said the mine manager. And the other only has one hand. What use is he to anyone?”

Cornelius pointed to Davy. “His cough is only a winter ailment; he’ll be fine in a day or two. The lad has the perfect build for chimney work. Who’ll have him on a wage free trial?”

“I'll take him on those terms,” said a mean looking sweep. “But it will be three months, wage free.”

Stumpy stood forlornly by as parents signed over their children to the new employers. Despite a plea to Cornelius from his mother, Stumpy was told to leave the premises and never return.

***

Sunday was the one day the mill workers had to themselves. The children met up at the frozen pump at the old town square. The mood was subdued.

“Where's Davy?” asked Stumpy.

“He got stuck in a chimney on his first day and suffocated,” said John. “The sweep just left him there. Ma had to go and get him out.”

Stumpy snarled. “He should never have been sent to the sweep.”

The children mumbled agreement.

“Davy should be avenged,” whispered Stumpy.

John nodded. “But how?”

“I have an idea,” said Stumpy. He looked around the earnest faces. “I'll need volunteers.”

***

Cornelius Grubhunter stood in front of the hall mirror and smoothed down his moustache.

‘Seven-thirty five. Where the hell was Granville?’ The mill owner’s Christmas banquet was not an event he liked to be late for. He called the groom to the back door and ordered him to prepare the bay. ‘I’ll ride to Hardfast Hall by way of the mill,’ he thought. ‘Granville’s excuse had better be a good one.’

Cornelius threw on his cloak and rode the short distance to the mill. He entered the boiler house to find a group of boys gathered around a dark shape on the floor.

“What are you brats standing around for?” he snarled. “Get that boiler fed.” Cornelius pushed them aside to find a pair of legs protruding from beneath the conveyor.

“Granville,” he shouted. “Get up man, are you drunk?” He aimed a kick at the legs. When there was no reaction he bent over to get a closer look.

Cornelius gasped when he saw what was left of his foreman. The entire top half of the body was missing. Smoke drifted up from the charred remains. He retched as the sickly smell of burning flesh assailed his nostrils.

“What the hell has...?”

A heavy coal shovel hit him across the back of the head, cutting him off, mid-sentence.

            Cornelius came to, lying on the coal conveyor, wrapped mummy-like in a sheet of Grubhunter's finest cotton with an oily rag stuffed in his mouth.

“Mmmmf.”

“Let's hear what he has to say.”

A small hand removed the rag.

“You’ll all hang,” spluttered Cornelius.

“If we do, you won’t be here to see it,” said a familiar voice.

“Stumpy? Damn you. I'll have your other hand for this.”

“No you won’t,” said Stumpy quietly. “You’re done hurting people.” He nodded and John turned the hand crank. The conveyor moved forward a couple of feet.

Stumpy turned to Edwin and Sam, the coal boys. “Get their horses and lead them to the Grimdon Marshes. Everyone must think they were taken by footpads.”

“Footpads?” spat Cornelius. “No one will believe it; they’ll come here looking for me.”

“And they’ll find nothing,” said Stumpy, calmly. He turned to the remaining coal boys. “Get what’s left of Granville back on the conveyor, lads.”

Cornelius’s boots began to smoulder. He craned his neck to look ahead. His eyes bulged as he looked into the mouth of the boiler. Flames performed a hellish ballet around its gaping jaws.

The conveyor moved again and Cornelius began to sweat. His feet felt like they were on fire.

“Please, don't do this. I'll give you anything you want. Anything, just say.”

“You can't give us Davy back.”

“Davy? Who's Davy?”  A high-pitched scream ripped from his lips as the conveyor lurched forward again. The flames lapped around his knees, his feet were gone.

 “Davy,” said Stumpy, “was the boy with the annoying cough. The one you sent to work up the chimneys. He suffocated on his first day.”

The mill owner screamed again and again as the flames wrapped themselves around his groin. “I'll make it up to you. Please...”

Stumpy smiled as John turned the crank handle again and Cornelius went in up to his chest. His screams died away, replaced by small, whimpering sounds as the flames consumed him.

“Hail the new,” said Stumpy.

Trevor Belshaw is the author of Tracy’s Hot Mail and Designer Shorts. He also writes for children under the name Trevor Forest. His books include Magic Molly, Peggy Larkin’s War, Abigail Pink’s Angel and Faylinn Frost and the Snow Fairies.

Trevor’s short stories have appeared in various anthologies including 100 Stories for Haiti, 50 Stories for Pakistan, 100 Stories for Queensland, Deck the Halls, Another Haircut and Stories for Advent. He is also published by Ether Books on their iPhone app and is a regular contributor to The Pages Magazine. Trevor’s articles have appeared in The Best of British, Ireland’s Own and First Edition.

Website http://www.trevorbelshaw.com

Website http://www.trevorforest.com

Twitter @tbelshaw 

Vincent – A Fairytale

Foolish Things

Jackie Morrissey

Double Espresso with a shot of brandy

Once I realised that he was going to propose, the only thing left to do was to vomit.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, his proposal didn’t make me puke – not directly anyway – but I’d been holding it back for a while, hoping it would settle.  I suppose I just gave myself permission to let go, right then. It worked. All thought of romantic proposals in the moonlight by the Seine – bridges of Paris and all that – vanished.  Mind you, I’ve never really understood the romance attached to Parisian bridges. The only thing I’ve ever met under one was a foul-smelling clochard, clutching a bottle and muttering French obscenities, or something.  And as for the food… I blame the escargot.  I always said I’d try anything, but that trickle of garlicky green stuff oozing from the snail shell was a step too far. Gross. OK, I’m a philistine.  I like my meat fully dead, too, no blood, so there’s no hope for me here.

              Anyway, adding my wine-tinged contribution to the gutter didn’t do any harm, but it effectively removed the romance. Mission accomplished.  Cleaning myself up with a tissue, I asked, wanly, in a performance based on La Dame aux Camelias (see? I’m not a complete savage), to be taken back to the hotel.  Patrick, ever polite, escorted me with conscientious concern.  God, he made me feel terrible.  I probably wasn’t good enough for him, it’s true. If only he had been a bit less of a bloody boy scout, it would all have been much easier.  But he was a nice guy, really, just a bit naive and earnest, and those aren’t necessarily faults, although they are annoying.

 I should explain a bit more.  Patrick, (never Pat or Paddy), and I had been going out for a while.  Nearly four months, a record for me.  We met when I was pissed off my head at a party, so he can’t say he wasn’t warned. It was his nice, gentlemanly quality that got to me that night – I’m a sucker for being looked after when I’m drunk; anybody who doesn’t swear at me develops a golden halo-glow.   Patrick laughed at my jokes, propped me up on my stupid party heels, and got me safely home that night. He stayed, of course.  I’d screw any nice kind man when I’m that far gone, but I can’t remember much about it – too drunk. He was still there next morning though, sweetly making me a cup of tea for my hangover.  ‘Christ,’ I thought, ‘this one is OK’.  

Now, ‘OK’ might not seem too enthusiastic, but my record isn’t good. My last fellow drank more than I did, and could be an aggressive little bollix when he’d had a few.  Not at me, of course – well, not physically.  We had a few loud fights all right, when he called me all sorts of slags and whores and bitches, but I can give that sort of thing back with spades, it doesn’t bother me.  I got rid of him in the end because he began to seem like some sort of old, smelly, stray dog that I couldn’t remember why I was feeding. He never wanted to go home. The sex wasn’t up to much either. He was too drunk mostly, and even sober, he didn’t have much idea.

Foreplay?

Hah! 

Pretty much of the ‘brace yourself Brigid’ variety.  Eventually, after a loud drunken row, I dumped his accumulated stuff into a plastic bag and left it outside his door, along with a note telling him to go fuck himself ( yeah…good luck with that). Then I deleted him from my life, my phone and Facebook.

I attract losers. 

My friends say I have a bad attitude to men, but all I can say is that the ones I end up with have a bloody terrible attitude to me. That’s why Patrick seemed such a novelty.  He was clean, presentable, considerate and working. I spent the first few days trying to figure out what was wrong, but he seemed the real deal. A bit dull, I suppose, but that was a novelty in itself – a man who turned up on time, not drunk, and waited for me.  He could even cook.  The sex was OK too, if a bit predictable.  He’d read the right manual, and twiddled all the bits in turn, systematically.  It worked, mostly, although he was not a man to leave a proven system for anything new.  Hints were wasted on him, as were outright demands.  Slapping his hand on a non-prescribed spot, shrieking ‘oh yes! Yes! Yes!’ never seemed to get more than a puzzled  look, before he went back to the blueprint.  I suppose after all, I expected too much – he was an accountant in the making.  

But I am being a bitch.

At least he knew that foreplay meant more than  three cans of lager and a shoulder of  vodka. 

I felt I ought to stick with this one, like a sort of rehab. (Did I tell you about the one who wanted to lick my toes? I didn’t mind, but that was pretty much it.  The rest of me was superfluous to requirements, which didn’t do much for my ego).  Anyway, I won’t bore you with a list of my exes, except to say that they were all, in their individual ways, complete wastes of space.

Patrick.  Ah, Patrick.  Not a loser, in most terms. He liked figures, and wanted nothing more than to complete all of his exams and become a fully fledged accountant. (My mind boggles, but then, I’m innumerate, and dropped out of college after first year.  University College Dublin. English and Philosophy. I work in a bar at the moment, but with those subjects, that was pretty much where I was headed anyway.  I have plans, though).   He lived at home, which seemed a bit loserish at twenty-four, but his ma doted on him, the house was plush, and I suppose I could see the attraction. At least he got to keep his money for better things than rent – me for instance. He was generous enough – always willing to pay for a nice meal out or a fare. The trip to Paris was just the sort of thing he’d do – ‘Look, I’ve bought these cheap Ryanair tickets, it’s all booked, you have to come.’ 

            Like I’d turn down a free holiday. 

That was my mistake, though.  

So there I was, that Saturday night, in my Parisian hotel bed with my back to Patrick and my eyes tight shut. Lying uncomfortably on the bed I’d made for myself – the moralists would love it.  I’d misjudged everything.  I should have said no.  He was beginning to bore me anyway, so what made me think a weekend would work out?  On the other hand, I had no reason to suspect that he was planning a proposal.  He never gave me any hint.  He knew my lifestyle. What made him think I would be interested? Bloody male ego.  

I had actually decided about a week before the holiday that I would dump him.  We were having decent-but-dull sex in the afternoon in my place when it dawned on me – his textbook sex just mirrored his approach to me in general.    I was a woman. Women like meals out, and flowers, and cups of tea in bed…  He was good with theoretical women, but he’d never really shown much interest in me, if you know what I mean –  like, who I was, my story, all the crap people usually want to know in the early days of a relationship. Maybe it was the only child thing. He liked having a girlfriend, I was it.  What more was necessary to know?  I knew all about his only-child heavenly home, his dad (deceased), his squeaky-clean, perfect mum, his good career prospects.  Me? He flinched from the more interesting bits, patted my hand sympathetically for the sad bits before changing the subject, and gave no general indication of actually remembering anything I told him, afterwards. 

  All too familiar, I thought.  This guy was as much a lost dog as the last one, just a cleaner, better-bred version.  I felt sure somebody would take him in. 

Not me though. 

  I’m more the ‘mongrel with character’ type, really, even if they do sometimes turn out to be a bit aggressive, or have odd habits.

  I know what you’re thinking.  I shouldn’t have gone to Paris.  Yes, yes, but it was one last trip.  He’s already bought the tickets.  I did like the guy, really, I wished him nothing but well. I was planning to let him down gently, over a period of about a month.  That seemed the kindest way.   One last fun weekend didn’t seem too much of a problem.

What a weekend.

 It was hard work, I’ll tell you.

 I realised my mistake on the Friday evening.  The conversation was just drifting a certain way, you know?  I hoped I was wrong, but when he bought the rose with added cheap perfume from the gypsy in the restaurant, I knew I was in trouble. From then on, it was a battle of wits. Or my wits against his witlessness, more precisely. 

          
            Christ, the stress of that. 

Do I look like I’m ready to become a suburban housewife?  I’m twenty-three.  Jesus!  Ok, he’s only twenty-four, but age is relative, and he was born middle-aged, so twenty four years on makes him a pretty dull old fart by any standards.   

 I was beginning to really hate him by Saturday.

The mental effort of trying to keep all conversation away from romance was giving me a migraine. I found that a bit of gratuitous swearing worked – he hated swearing.  A dirty joke or two also froze him up. Once, in desperation, I deliberately flipped off a supercilious and watchful French shopkeeper, just to change the subject. 

Patrick didn’t see that of course, but he experienced the full blast of an irate, Parisian Anglophobe letting rip. Quite an experience.  His curses followed us down the street, as he stood in the shop doorway, gesticulating Frenchly.

 With somebody else, it might have been funny.  Not with Patrick.  He was so shaken by the experience that we went back to the hotel to recover. 

Saturday night was the night of the almost proposal and the puking.  That got me through to the last day.  Flight home, six pm.   We walked through the park at Les Halles, listened to a busker singing some old fashioned jazz tunes, and took photos peering through the giant hand sculpture outside the Church of St Eustache.  I began to relax and enjoy it.  The singer was like Ella Fitzgerald, and I’d always liked the song:

A cigarette that bears a lipstick’s traces

 An airline ticket to romantic places

 And still my heart has wings

 These foolish things remind me…

He got me when I wasn’t expecting it. 

 ‘Marry me,’ he said. 

I just stood, trying to think of an answer that wouldn’t be too cruel, but also wouldn’t give him hope.   My inner ‘bitter bitch’ was in full flight, bewailing the fact that he’d ruined the trip, we had an afternoon to fill in yet…   The ‘nice’ voice, the one I try to present to the public, was quickly rehearsing the options: ‘I need time to think…’, ‘ You caught me unawares… ;‘ It’s too soon…’

Patrick filled the silence: 

'I know you don’t see yourself as a married woman, but I know you’ll settle down when we are married.  You already drink less than you used to and your lifestyle is much better.  I know it would work…’

 Too much.  ‘Bitter bitch’ exploded from her cave, her hag-mutter becoming an outraged shriek.

  ‘When’ we are married? I’ll ‘settle down’? Don’t I get to say yes or no about that?     Well, listen up, I think I’m fine the way I am, and a lot of people like me like that.  What gave you the idea…?’

I stopped, afraid of what else I might say.

‘You’re my girlfriend,’ he said, wounded.  ‘I love you. You have to marry me.’  

Looking at his earnest face, I wanted to slap him, but also felt horribly guilty.   ‘Good girl’ reasserted herself.

 ‘Look, it’s just a bit unexpected, I need time to think.’

 ‘But you will marry me?’

 ‘I didn’t say that, I said I want time to think about it.’

He looked annoyed.

 ‘I don’t see what there is to think about.’

 ‘Well I do.’ I said.  ‘I’m not sure I want to get married to anybody. I don’t know what made you think I did…’

 His silence made me feel terrible, like a mother who slaps a toddler without apparent reason.  After a minute, I touched his arm.

 ‘I really do like you, you know that, but really, we’ve only gone out together for a few weeks, we’re both young …’

 The silence continued.

 ‘I feel terrible for upsetting you.  I’m sorry, I’m really, really sorry…’

His hands were deep in his pockets.

 ‘I told everybody,’ he said.  ‘I told everybody at work that I was going to propose.’

 By now I felt so guilty I would have done anything to make him feel better, short of marrying him.  At the same time, I felt pretty pissed off at being guilt-tripped like that.  Why should he be so sure of himself that he could tell everybody, without ever thinking that I might refuse?  I ignored my evil inner voice, however, and reached out my hands towards him.

‘Please. Let’s just walk around the park and not talk about it now. We have all day before the flight.’

 I was hoping some hard-headed, practical bit of his brain would see that this was the way to go.  I was wrong.

 ‘Fuck you.’ he said.  ‘You’re just a drunken slut.  I can do better.  Just piss off and make your own way home.’

 And with that, he marched off, leaving my consoling hands flapping in the breeze.

  I should have known better than to trust that fake ‘nice girl’ daemon. The ‘bitter bitch’ was always more me, really.

 Well, I sat for a while in the pallid spring sunshine, then went and got my stuff from the hotel.  He’d gone ahead of me.  The bill was paid, but he had taken my plane ticket.  

 The perfect gentleman.

It might have been an accident.

That airline makes its fortune on emergency tickets.  I think mine cost more than the whole weekend, accommodation and all. I looked out for him on the plane, but he must have transferred to an earlier flight.

 

I met him again, about a year later, at a party.  He was with a cat-faced law student, who looked me up and down and made smirking eye contact with him, as if sharing a joke.  I guessed he had told her about me.  We were polite. I wondered how long it would be before they moved to the suburbs to breed little legal calculators.

Later that night, when he’d had a few drinks, he followed me into the kitchen, and said  he remembered how good we used to be together.   His face had what a drunk considers a meaningful look, but the rest of the world knows is a leer.  He suggested that we should meet up again, for old time’s sake.   I deduced that bitch-face wasn’t sleeping with him, so scratch that suburban idyll.  Not such a perfect gentleman after all.   I thought for sure now that he hadn’t forgotten that airline ticket in Paris. 

I wasn’t remotely tempted to pick up where we left off.  I remembered that Saturday night in Paris, and all I could think of was some old saying about a dog…  ‘As the dog returns to its vomit, so the fool…’ Whatever.  I can’t remember the whole thing. 

Old Dog’s Vomit.  Bitch-face can have him.

Not me.  I’m not foolish.  I learn from experience.

I kept cracking up when I thought of it.  I tried to explain the joke to a guy I fancied, but I was pretty drunk, and he was stoned, so I don’t think he got it.  He came home with me anyway though, but that’s a completely different story.

Bio:

Jackie Morrissey lives in Dublin and works in adult education. She has had work published on Irish Radio, and in a variety of journals. In 2004, she won the Molly Keane Memorial Short Story Award.

The Doctor's Wind

By Geoff Steckles

Cinnamon & Almond Hot Chocolate

A strong wind had sprung up off the sea. The tide was still out, but white plumes were blowing off the waves in foamy confusion, lining the water’s edge like meringue. In Jamaica he thought, they’d call it the Doctors Wind, blowing directly from the sea fresh and clean with that faint salty taste. But this was South Devon, so it wasn’t called anything except maybe a nuisance. He thought the Jamaicans had it just about right.

The wind eddied and blew dry sand down from the dunes, which moved across the beach like a fine mist, sand blasting his legs with a sharp bite like a faint electric shock. It kept him company and continued to eddy around his bare feet, playing with his toes as he walked towards Sand Point, still over four miles away. The air felt exhilarating and facing the sea, his eyes streamed and his skin felt like it had been sucked through a vacuum cleaner. He gave quiet thanks that the beach remained deserted.

He rested, the sun helping to evaporate his memories. He dreamed of the wind and ships at sea.

Surprise shook him when a land yacht went flying by, making a mockery of his tranquil day, a huge blood red sail at full stretch.

Unexpectedly, instead of sailing off into the distance, the yacht made a huge gentle turn and started back towards him, the sails and small boom, swinging into the wind as it changed direction. A huge almost perfect circle appeared in the virgin sand as it pulled around and started to lose speed. He half expected the occupant to throw out some kind of anchor but the machine slowed seemingly of its own accord. He saw that cleverly, the sails were being used in the wind to slow the machine and the yacht stopped effortlessly by his side. The red sail flapped noisily, suddenly redundant. A tiny skull and crossbones flag tied to the mast fluttered wildly in the breeze, which seemed to match the scene perfectly.

She sat regally in the single seat, her hair, the colour of straw, blew wildly around her face although she didn’t seem to notice. She was deeply tanned, with wide blue eyes and wonderful teeth and she wore small diamond studs in her ears which caught the sun as her head moved; each ear seemed to wink at him in the strong light that he found distracting somehow. She wore an old fashioned man’s white shirt, one of those with a detachable collar, except there was no collar attached. Her sleeves were rolled up to the elbows and the shirt tail hung loose. Surprisingly the shirt, unbuttoned almost to her waist still covered her breasts but she made no move to button the shirt now that she had an audience.

She looked directly at him, smiling and asked if he flew like a crow, what would be the quickest way to Sand Point. He remembered silently raising his arm in the general direction, suddenly unable to speak and feeling particularly stupid because of it. She asked how far in a voice so soft, he had to strain to catch it in the strong wind. He leaned closer almost without thinking and was surprised that even on this wild day, he could smell her body, like lavender and the sea mixed together and immediately wondered if sunlight could smell, would it be like this?. Finding his voice at last he managed to croak ' About four miles from here'. She smiled again and thanked him and made to move off, then hesitated looking directly at him once more, and asked if he would like a ride. He nodded, silent again and she invited him in.

He knew that as a single seater, space would be limited and felt a gratitude to God, which he hadn’t felt in a while. He managed to squeeze in by her side and had the satisfaction of having to sit almost sideways facing her with no room to sit any other way. A small space forward allowed him to stretch out, and being over six feet tall, he could at least move his legs. But his knees touched her legs as he wriggled into a more comfortable position and he hoped that she understood that this intimacy for the moment at least remained accidental. She released the brake and moved off swiftly, giving no indication that she’d even noticed that he’d squeezed in next to her. Her face set in concentration and her eyes moved to the sail as long slender fingers pulled at the rigging and a strong arm grasped the tiller.

The low tide had left the sand hard and flat and his eyes closed against the glare. There was almost no sense of movement, no jolting as they accelerated. The large red sail filled quickly and he felt power grab the machine like a giant lung inflating. A sensation of flying over the ground at speed like some great bird of prey that had just seen lunch awed him. He thought that life should always be as exciting as this; otherwise it became just a bunch of days and he prayed that it continued for the rest of today at least.

A great roaring filled his ears, which made talking difficult, but he couldn’t resist the inevitable question. ‘How fast are we moving?’ he yelled into her ear. She placed her face next to his and he heard the words ‘about sixty’ faintly in the roar. He suddenly had an almost irresistible urge to rub his nose gently on her cheek. So close yet so far he thought, but instead he just nodded whilst she was busy being captain again. He relaxed resigned to his fate and perhaps another moment.

They tore across the sand like two lovers escaping from a vengeful father, until she spotted a group of Gulls on the beach ahead of them and he felt the yacht gently turn in their direction. They took flight well before the vessel reached them and he could hear their calls and mews above the roar as they scattered effortlessly like rag dolls in a blizzard of wings. Two birds remained stubbornly, gliding above the mast keeping up with the yacht and he wondered if they thought there were fish on board. Looking up at them it seemed like they were standing still, wings outstretched, floating above like two guardian angels.

Both birds disappeared suddenly when without warning, she veered again, this time into the shallows and a huge spray flew into the air and blew across them both. In seconds they were soaked and his breath left his body with the shock of the cold water. She threw back her head and laughed out loud. He suddenly forgot the cold and joined in and soon they were both caught up in the wind and the spray and given a choice this felt right and he suddenly didn’t want to be anywhere else.

He tried to speak again but the wind caught his throat and he nearly choked. Deciding to keep his mouth closed seemed like a good idea so he just relaxed and enjoyed the sensation. His eyes streamed once again and the sail towering above them sang as the gale played with the rigging. She suddenly yelled at him to lean in to her and he didn’t need telling twice as she turned the yacht once again in a full circle. So sharp was the turn however that they were suddenly partially off the ground and in danger of going over and he leaned away from her body trying to prevent them from capsizing, one hand on the hull and the other gripping her arm like a vice. Did he scream, he couldn’t remember but she yelled something and laughed and when he next opened his eyes they were back on course and she seemed serene, as though nothing had happened. Her face calm and relaxed and he noticed freckles across her nose, which he hadn’t seen before.

All too soon Sand Point came into view and he knew they could go no further. He saw his house on the point and the yacht slowed, the sails deflating suddenly. They pulled into the end of the beach nearest the road and stopped. The silence deafening, his face felt as though it had been in a mould and set.

She didn’t look at him but simply sat letting the sun warm her face. Salt had begun to crystallise on her cheek and it made her tan seem the colour of age like old newspaper dipped in time. He felt unsure, afraid somehow and reached across to touch her face, to reassure himself. But before he could, she turned to him and smiled and he immediately knew it all. She had allowed him to see it again from the beginning. He didn’t know why. She was the same and that was all that mattered.

That was the start of it, their life. He remembered everything now, their love, their life together. She was not afraid of gentleness, although passion made her unkind sometimes. He never minded any of it though and thought it a good thing and revelled in her company. He never dominated her, preferring the journey instead. He was never afraid of her, only of losing her. They lived and loved and the land yacht became their centre, their escape. The beach below the house, their playground. Like two wild children their summer never ended. But three years after they met their summer did end and she died as excitingly as she had lived, in the land yacht. Out alone one day the wind had capsized the machine at speed and she had been flung onto the sand, her neck broken. The beautiful red sail covered her body like a shroud.

There had been a shadow deep in his soul that had threatened to destroy him and he knew that her beauty and his loss were one and he could not help himself. He forgot to remember to forget and he walked aimlessly up and down the beach, not knowing why, afraid to ask, aimless and lost.

'Thank you' she said.

'What for' he whispered,

‘For remembering me, for loving me'

’That was easy'

‘It’s been hard for you I know' her voice was in his head.

‘Yes’

‘Not any more'

She moved her hand towards his face and he felt a whisper, a sigh that released him suddenly. He slept then.

He woke on the beach in front of the house, not knowing how he’d got there. The sand virgin again, blown clean by the Doctor’s Wind, his shadow, his grief lifted. But at his feet was a child’s sandcastle with a tiny skull and crossbones flag stuck in the top. He smiled and remembered.

Bio.

I'm an amateur creative writer who just enjoys trying to tell a story.

I live in Somerset and love everything about the sea.