Xavier

XAVIER

Roger Noons

a small glass of Ibicencan Hierbas

‘Hola!’

     ‘Hola, Buenas Dias senor,’ I replied.

    He scratched his head, frowning, looking me up and down. ‘English?’

    ‘Yes,’ I said.

    He smiled. ‘It’s not often that English people bother to speak other folk’s language.’

    ‘I think you’re out of date senor. Nowadays, many people from Britain make an attempt to learn a few words in the language of the country they are visiting. Particularly hello: goodbye: please, and thank you.’

    ‘That’s not my experience.’ He looked down at the dog, then back to me. ‘You’re staying at Cas’ Catalá?’

    ‘How do you know that?’

    ‘I recognisze the dog, hola Lucy.’ He bent and tickled her behind her ear. ‘She’s the only three legged dog in Sanata Eulalia. The proprietor of the hotel brings her up to the church from time to time. She often rests here, puts her front foot on the wall, and looks down into the valley.’

    I smiled, at the dog and then at the small, wiry, moustached man who had begun the conversation.

    ‘You speak good English?’ I queried.

    ‘I spent some time in England, in Devon; I worked on the boats.’

    ‘A sailor?’

    ‘No, in a boatyard. I fitted out the cabins and particularly the galleys, which was my specialty, making kitchen units fit into confined spaces.’

    ‘So how long have you been back?’

    ‘Back? I’m not Ibicenc, I was born in the north of Spain, but in 1935, my family moved to the south, near Malaga.’

    I was about to ask further questions, then recognized the clues that told me his family had probably left the Basque country, round about the start of the civil war. 

     ‘So how long were you in Devon?’

    He hitched up his trousers and rubbed the bristles on his chin. ‘Twelve years, no, thirteen, but my wife was unhappy. She became ill, and we were advised by the hospital to move to a warmer, drier climate.’

    It was my turn to frown. ‘You didn’t return to the Costa del Sol?’

    ‘No, I was offered a job here, working in the marina. My boss in England had contacts, he arranged it for me.’

    ‘And now you are retired, and live opposite the famous church Puig en Misa?’

    He looked up at the bell tower of the white painted building and nodded. ‘But only the last two years, since my wife died. Before that we lived down in the town. I had fitted out the priest’s kitchen, and when Mercedes came up here, Padre Antonio asked if I would like to move into this little cottage.’

    When he added no more, I thought to move on, and was about to offer my hand and bid him adieu, when he spoke again.

    ‘I enjoyed my time in your country; people were kind and welcoming. I learned a lot, not only about boats. We used to visit, Lyme Regis. You know, many children were evacuated from the north of Spain to Dorset … after Guernica.’ He looked away, stared down the valley and was imitated by Lucy.

    There was silence between us, but when he made no suggestion that he wished us to part, I asked gently.

    ‘Have you ever been back, to the north?’

    ‘No,’ and he let out a sigh that seemed to go on forever. ‘I’ve never wanted to return, but my grandson, David; he says I must visit before I die. He’s going to take me, later in the year. I am to spend the day of my seventieth birthday, during this millennium, in Euskal Herria, that’s Basque for …’

    ‘Yes, I know. Are you looking forward to the visit?’

    ‘No,” he shook his head furiously. 'I’m scared shitless!’

    I laughed out loud.

    ‘I’m sorry,’ I quickly added, ‘I was surprised by your expression.’

    He shrugged, grinned, and then offered his hand.

    ‘It was nice to meet you senor, thank you for your conversation.’

    I took his hand in both of mine.

    ‘No, thank you, and I wish you luck with your pil …. journey.’

    He grinned again as our hands separated.

     ‘My name is Robert, may I ask yours?’

    ‘Xavier,’ he said. ‘Xavier Elizondo; it means new house … by the church’. He shouted ‘adios Lucy,’ as we walked down the path.   

Bio

Having spent the best part of thirty five years writing reports on such subjects as ‘Provision of Caravan Sites for Travellers’ and ’Aspects of Pest Control in the Urban Environment’, Roger Noons began even more creative 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 and having become addicted, began to pen short stories and poems. He occasionally produces memoirs and other non fiction. He has begun to perform his poems, and has just published ’An A to Z by RLN’, an anthology of 26 short stories. He intends by the end of the year to have followed that up with a novella.

He is a member of two Writers Groups and tries his hardest to write something every day. As well as CafeLit, he has had credits in West Midlands newspapers, The Daily Telegraph, Paragraph Planet, Raw Edge and a number of Anthologies.

          

A59

A59

Jenny Palmer

White Witch

 (a local beer)

 It wasn’t true. You couldn’t judge a book by its cover.

That was one thing Marion had learnt over the years. It probably applied to men too. They were never what they seemed. Take this last one, for instance. He’d seemed normal enough.  He was reasonably good-looking, in a feminine sort of way. His ears stuck out a bit but what did that matter? Looks weren’t everything   He was interested in science and politics. Well, at least he had a brain.

They had met in a country pub just off the A59. The pub served the usual kind of pub grub. Substantial.  Nothing fancy. She’d suggested the place.  A lot of country pubs were serving food these days. They had to get the punters in somehow. There was a live band playing. At least she could listen to the music if all else failed. The band was a trifle loud for her liking but it conversation was still possible, just.  

            They went through the usual formalities of getting to know each other. They both led active lives and compared notes on the number of social groupings they belonged to. He topped her nine with thirteen. He went ballroom dancing. Each to their own.  Interests weren’t everything. He liked discussing politics and current affairs. That was a plus. Why did he have to go and spoil everything?

            ‘I’ve just been to see an astrologer,’ he announced, a propos of nothing. 

            ‘Was he any good?’ Marion asked, instinctively. She’d learnt that things could turn nasty quickly if you cross-questioned people on their beliefs, especially when it came to religion or politics.  

            ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘as a matter of fact, he was.’

            She had known people in the past who believed in weird stuff like that. Some of them were quite sensible people.  He saw that she wasn’t impressed and changed the topic.

            ‘So, you are a writer,’ he said. ‘What do you write about?’ 

            ‘Whatever takes my fancy,’ she said. ‘Quirky stuff, usually. Human nature, mainly. ’   

             He talked about some long-dead Parisian writers he admired who had been into mysticism and the occult.    

            Marion couldn’t help raising her eyebrows this time. 

            ‘There must be something in it,’ he said.  ‘There were a heck of a lot of them.’

            ‘I only believe what I can see with my own eyes’ she said, ‘and only half of that, ’she added.

            ‘But the evidence is all there,’ he went on.  ‘I could tell you something very interesting at the risk of totally losing my credibility,’ he said. 

            Why did she always seem to get the crazies?  It was as if they made a bee-line for her. What was he going to say next?  Something weird, no doubt.  She’d better indulge him. She didn’t feel like arguing. It was supposed to be a night out. She was supposed to be enjoying herself. 

            ‘Did you know that the earth is hollow and there are aliens living inside it?’ 

            That really took the biscuit. She’d thought he was weird but not that weird. Normally she prided herself on being able to spot the mad ones.  Now she was beginning to doubt her own judgement

            ‘Really,’ she said, not wanting to encourage him.    

            ‘Yes, they only come out at night and only in special places along lay lines,’ he said.

            She was in a time warp. She was back in the sixties, having one of those late-night conversations with people, high on drugs, discussing esoteric stuff in a state of heightened awareness. 

            ‘And I can tell you,’ he said, leaning towards her in a confiding way, ‘that one of them came out recently very near here. Can you guess where?’

            ‘I’m afraid I can’t,’ she said, flatly.

            ‘Go on. Try,’ he urged.

            ‘Okay, then Pendle Hill?’ she ventured. If people believed that witches flew around up there on broomsticks why not aliens?  

            ‘No,’ he said, seeming disappointed.  ‘It was on Ilkley Moor.’ 

            ‘Well, I hope he had his hat on,’ she said.    

            ‘What?’ he asked. 

            ‘His hat. You know, the song ‘Tha’s ba-an te catch thee de-ath a cold, on Ilkley Mo-or ba-at ha-at?’  Marion sang.  

            He looked disgruntled. The band started playing at an even higher volume.   It was impossible to hear anything.  He made some excuse about having sensitive ears and left. 

            Well at least that got rid him.

Or so she thought.  

She needed to be getting off herself. It was late and she’d heard there was a storm blowing up.

           

Driving along the A59 Marion mulled over the evening. The conversation had been interesting but then it had turned. He must have thought she was so gullible that she would believe any old rubbish. Then he couldn’t cope and vanished.

            There was car approaching fast from behind. The headlights were shining right through the back window and almost blinding her. It looked like it wanted to overtake. She clicked the catch down on the mirror to avoid the glare. As the car sped past she noticed it was BMW. She remembered him boasting about having a BMW. He’d left before her, surely.  Maniac!

            And all that stuff about aliens. Couldn’t he credit her with more intelligence than that? Surely he could have come up with a better chat-up line?  It showed a distinct lack of intelligence on his part. Of course she was going to make fun of him.  Any sensible woman would. 

            Why did people have to drive so fast on the A59? She’d get off the road, take a short cut. She preferred driving on country lanes at night. You could see the cars coming by their headlights. At this time there wouldn’t be anyone on the road, anyway. It was gone midnight. 

            As she turned off the main road onto the single track road, she noticed some lights flashing up ahead. Something was blocking the road. A policewoman in a yellow hazard jacket was walking towards her. Marion wound the window down. 

            ‘I’m sorry,’ the policewoman said, ‘but you can’t get through here tonight. I’m afraid there’s been an accident.’ 

            She could see a car ahead. There was a branch lying right across it. The roof was all smashed in. 

            ‘Was anyone hurt?’

            ‘That’s the strange thing,’ the police woman said. ‘Someone called 999 a short while ago but when we got here, there was no-one around. We can’t understand it. I’m afraid it’ll be another two hours before we can clear the road. We are waiting for the breakdown lorry to arrive. You’ll have to go home another way.  

             It meant going back on the A59. That was a drag but there was nothing else for it.  She reversed up the road and turned round. As she was moving away she caught sight of the number plate of the smashed car in the rear-view mirror. It read 1MAN AL1EN and the car was a BMW.

Bio: Jenny Palmer

Jenny Palmer returned to her native Lancashire in 2008 after living and working abroad and in London for many years. She has recently published her childhood memoir called Nowhere Better Than Home about growing up in rural Lancashire in the 1950s and 60s and continues to write short stories, poems and local history.

Resolution

RESOLUTION

Roger Noons

a pint of strong lager

 ‘Hey, what are you doing?’

 He had a right to ask, I suppose, as I had grabbed him and pushed him against the wall. I held his shirt collar tightly, in my left fist, pushing it into his throat. My right hand was poised to punch him, but as he watched it, I kneed him in the groin. I saw the pain in his expression and the fear in his eyes.

    ‘You’re Jimmy Roberts,’ I stated, and light began to dawn. ‘I’m Marie Dunn’s big brother, you’ve probably heard of me.’ I paused, as his body visibly shrank, his shoulders drooped and all resistance ebbed away. He knew who I was, and could imagine what was coming.

It was then that I did punch him, just below his diaphragm and his spent air hit me in the face. It was followed by a groan. I repeated the blow, then stepped back and released him, so that he crumpled and collapsed. He tried to turn away from me, but he found he couldn’t move and breathe at the same time.

 I waited until his panting subsided, then kicked him in the ribs. I heard a crack followed by his scream. People were occasionally passing the mouth to the alley, but knew better than to intervene. He became silent and I briefly pressed the sole of my left boot onto his right hand.

 As he began to whimper, I realised that I too was breathing heavily. I stepped back, pretended nonchalance, as I took a pack of Rothmans from my jacket pocket. After I had placed a cigarette between my lips, I looked down at him. I flicked my lighter and without taking the ciggy from my mouth, inhaled the smoke and expelled it through my nostrils.

            He was pressing backwards, against the wall, holding his ribcage with one hand. ‘It takes two, you know,’ he managed to spit out, together with blobs of rich, red blood.

            ‘I’m well aware of that; I don’t need a biology lesson from you. But she’s only fourteen, and being so much older, you should have known better. To take precautions for one thing …’ His expression told me that she had not told him her age. ‘I know she looks older, dresses like twenty-one, but she doesn’t act like it, as you would have learned, if your mind had been on other than what was in her pants.’

I finished my smoke; threw the remnant into the gutter behind me.

            ‘So what do you want me to do? Do you want me to marry her?’

            I laughed, loudly. ‘That’s the last thing I want, for her to be married to a toe-rag like you.’

‘What then?’

 ‘Nothing!’ I could see that he did not believe me. ‘Except of course, to stay well away from her. I just want you to remember this moment, the next time you’re charming a young lady, with a view to getting her into bed.’

  As soon as the last word had left my mouth, I kicked him as hard as I could. Although aimed at his abdomen, my boot connected with his thigh, but he still yelped. As he reached out to defend his lower body, I again trod on his fingers, and twisted my foot until I felt the bones break. His mouth opened wide, but the only sound was of his stomach contents splashing on the pavement. From the smell, I concluded that he had also suffered an exodus from the other end.

‘Please, don’t … I’m sorry, I …’

My final act was to stamp on his genitals, and then I walked away.

*

    ‘Did you see that Jimmy Roberts, son?’

    ‘Yes, Ma.’

    ‘What did he say?’

    ‘He said he was sorry.’

    ‘Do you think he meant it?’

    ‘Yes.’

    ‘She loves him you know.’ My mother stared into my eyes.

    ‘Well, I don’t think she’ll be seeing him again.’

    ‘No?’

    ‘No, Ma.’

    ‘Perhaps that’s for the best.’ She paused. ‘I’m only pleased that you saw the lad, your father would probably have beaten him up.’

Bio: Roger Noons

Having spent the best part of thirty five years writing reports on such subjects as ‘Provision of Caravan Sites for Travellers’ and ’Aspects of Pest Control in the Urban Environment’, Roger Noons began even more creative 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 and having become addicted, began to pen short stories and poems. He occasionally produces memoirs and other non fiction. He has begun to perform his poems, and has just published ’An A to Z by RLN’, an anthology of 26 short stories. He intends by the end of the year to have followed that up with a novella.

He is a member of two Writers Groups and tries his hardest to write something every day. As well as CafeLit, he has had credits in West Midlands newspapers, The Daily Telegraph, Paragraph Planet, Raw Edge and a number of Anthologies.

The Diary

The Diary

Susan Wickham

Komodo – Dragon Blend

Jean knew exactly what time of day Barbara went shopping. 

It was always nine-thirty on the dot on a Monday.  It hardly ever varied but if it did, Jean was there knocking on her door asking if everything was all right. 

 You could call her nosey or you could call her concerned but not a lot went on in her road without Jean knowing about it.  If Barbara had a delivery of a parcel, you could put money on Jean popping up asking if she needed any help to carry it in.  She was in her absolute element if the delivery van arrived when Barbara was out.  She would appear at the gate saying, ‘She’s out. I can take it in.’ Then she would manhandle the parcel into her porch circling it every now and again trying to work out what it could possibly be.  There were often clues on the label as to where it had come from, or sometimes, with larger objects, there would actually be a picture of what was inside, for example the day Barbara had a new lawn mower delivered.

            ‘I’ve got your mower over here,’ she called out the minute she spotted Barbara arrive

home.

Then things changed.

***

Jean couldn’t get to sleep because the dog had been constantly scratching at the bedroom door.

            ‘We are not letting him in,’ her husband had said firmly, and when he spoke in that tone of voice, Jean knew he meant it. But it seemed the dog just wouldn’t give up.  Finally, Jean crept out of bed and down the stairs followed by the dog sniffing round her ankles and wagging her tail.  Jean smiled; at least someone was pleased to see her. 

They were dog and house sitting.  It was to be a new start, their new venture to get some money together so that they could go on holiday, though why he wanted to spend a fortnight with her, Jean wasn’t quite sure, as lately they hadn’t been getting on too well.  Mrs Percival, the house owner, had left a note.

            Just leave all the doors open and Fluffy will go where she wants to go.

But Roger had said, ‘I’m not having that mongrel on the bed.  She sleeps downstairs.’ So, all right Jean felt sorry for the poor mutt, after all she was used to curling up on the bed with her owner.  Jean looked at the sofa; it certainly looked comfortable enough, just for the one night anyway.  Till she gets used to us, Jean told herself.  She wondered if it converted into a sofa bed.  It didn’t look like it, anyway she decided it would make a terrific racket pulling it out, and then Roger would come down and that didn’t bear thinking about, so she lay down on it and pulled the blanket over her.  Fluffy settled down at her feet and seemed content to just be with anyone. 

It was odd living in someone else’s house, surrounded by their belongings and personal items.  The strange smells in the bathroom and kitchen, someone else’s scents and aromas; though Jean wasn’t entirely sure that she would like someone who used the same chopping board for onions and fruit.   She’d thought she would find it exciting, but longed momentarily for her own comfortable bed.  Her eyes ran along the line of book titles on the shelf.  They looked pretty boring, no romances or thrillers.  All the spines stared back at her, all greys and blacks and she really couldn’t make out any of the titles from where she lay.  She sat up and stared harder, she noticed there was one pink spine which stood out from the rest.  She reached for her glasses, perhaps that was a romance, but then Fluffy roused, her ears pricked up.  Jean got up and pulled it out ‘Diary’ she read.  She felt a tinge of excitement, this could be good.  She liked standing at the bus stop keeping her ears open for other people’s conversations.  Sometimes they moved away when they saw her staring at them, but sometimes they didn’t even notice her, and she managed to hear all sorts of gossip that way. She also liked interrogating the neighbours about where they were going and what they had bought when they were out.  She spent hours at her window watching what people were doing, what they were having delivered and when she saw them go out, she would rush out and make conversation to find out where they were headed to.  She even had one of those post boxes on a stand put up in the front garden, so she could rush out and pretend to be seeing if she had any post.  After all, what was the point of having it delivered through the letter box if she was missing the chance of a chat with someone? 

She thought she heard Roger coming down the stairs and put it back hurriedly and went back to the sofa, but it was nothing.  It was no good, she just couldn’t sleep.  She thought of a hot drink, so went into the kitchen followed by Fluffy, obviously hoping for an early breakfast.   When she went back, all she could think of was that diary, and knew that she was going to reach for it.  She got up again and pulled out the book, telling herself that she expected it was only full of everyday appointments, gardening details and the weather.  She didn’t know anything about Mrs Percival or her life, and Mrs Percival didn’t know anything about them, apart from the impeccable references they had given.  Well, anyone can write a reference.

It was amazing what you could learn about someone by just looking around their house. It was almost an open book.  She could see Mrs Percival was evidently quite house-proud, no cobwebs in the bathroom in this house and yet the dog was allowed anywhere. It didn’t make sense.

She sighed and knew it would be hard work cleaning up before they left, especially with the dog.  She opened the diary and soon sat up when she started reading.

Monday

My arms are covered in scratches and old scars.  This is something I can feel.   I run my fingers over the marks, and I can feel the bumps and lumps all over. Afterwards I hid the craft knife at the back of the kitchen drawer so that he cannot find it, and then changed into a long sleeved t-shirt to cover up my battle-scarred arms.  He never notices anything I wear anyway.  Why can’t I feel anything, any emotion?  Other people laugh, cry and feel compassion, I feel nothing, but when I cut myself I can feel something.  It makes me feel normal, at least it is something I can feel.  Today was a bad day and I am empty.  I just want to feel so much.  Surely I should feel something for Peter, and my two girls – but I don’t.

Thursday

I decided this morning I wasn’t going to do it anymore, but then I took Kate to school for her first day.  All the mothers were sniffing and I could see by their faces that they were choked up at leaving their kids but I couldn’t feel anything.  I pretended and kicked my toe on the brick wall which brought tears to my eyes.  One of the mothers put her hand on my shoulder.  I couldn’t wait to get home to actually feel something. So I failed again.

Friday

Today, I actually did something about it.  Something really stupid, I know.  I’ve just come back from the police station.  I don’t remember much about it, but they say I did it so I must have done.  I remember going to the library with the youngest one in the pushchair.  She’d fallen asleep on the way and as I pushed her through the double doors, a man held them open for me and smiled at me.  I remember thinking, thank you, thank you for recognising that I exist.  I pushed her into the children’s book part and the next thing I remember was standing at the bus stop alone.  I’m not a fit mother. I went home and waited for the police to arrive. They say I left her in the library and will be charged with neglect.  Their faces stared at me not understanding how a mother can leave her child.

Saturday

I told the police I don’t care what they do to me.  It’s all a big front really.  It’s the only way I can cope with life.  I can’t feel guilt or anger; I can’t be sad or sorry for what I did.  I see mums cuddling their children and kissing them.  I wish more than anything to be like them.  They are so lucky …

          

‘What are you doing?’

Jean jumped and looked up – Roger was standing in the doorway. 

            ‘I couldn’t sleep, thought I’d come down and find a book to look at.’

            Roger turned round, shaking his head and walked back up the stairs.  Jean picked up the diary again.

 … A cry for help, I think that is what it was.  Why can’t they see that?  They say that I can’t see the children any more until I can get some help.  I hope they can give me some help.  Something needs to be done.  I think that something has happened in my childhood which I have blanked out and I am hoping that they will give me some therapy.  I have a probation officer now, she seems nice enough but had one of those low cut tops on. I once went to the hospital asking if they would take me in but they turned me away and told me to go and see my doctor.  I have been so many times but they just say I am depressed.  I know it is not that.

Monday

I did some painting today, I find it’s the only thing where I can really lose myself.  A letter arrived to say I had an appointment with a Mrs Medgett, so here’s hoping she can help me.     

          

 Jean felt herself nodding off and got up and put the diary back on the shelf and settled down for a sleep.  The next morning, she was woken by Fluffy and decided to take him for a walk before breakfast, but she couldn’t get the diary out of her mind and at the first opportunity, sat herself down to continue reading.

Tuesday

Horror upon horrors, it was in the local paper.  Headlines ‘Mother abandons child in library.’  Oh no, I felt so ashamed.  How could I have done it?

Friday

Appointment with Mrs Medgett today, she tells me I can have no access to the children and have to leave the family home for a while.  Do I feel anything when she tells me this news?  I am not sure.  I ask her where I am to go, and she mumbles something is being arranged.  I tell her I am a good mother and try my hardest to copy the other mothers.  She smiles and nods.  She says she will try and help me.  I hope she is telling the truth.  I go back to the house and pack up a few belongings.  I check the children’s rooms, I know Peter will look after them, he is going to take them away for a week. The house is strangely quiet.

           

Jean was so engrossed she didn’t hear Roger come in until he spoke.

‘Don’t you know we just can’t snoop about in other people’s houses,’ he shouted.  ‘We have to show an element of trust or we’re not going to succeed in this business.  We don’t look in their cupboards and read their personal stuff.’                                               

            ‘No,’ replied Jean, ‘I know it’s wrong, but I couldn’t help myself.  You know she…’

             ‘Don’t tell me anything, I don’t want to know.  You’ll never give up your snooping, will you?’        

            ‘Sorry,’ said Jean.  ‘I just couldn’t help myself.  I thought perhaps if I knew about Mrs Percival’s problems, maybe I could help her. ‘        

            ‘You can’t help her,’ said Roger.  ‘Don’t even think it.  How can you possibly help her?’

            ‘I don’t know,’ she replied.

            ‘You’re just being nosey again.  I thought by getting you away from our neighbourhood, you would be better, but you just can’t seem to help yourself, can you?’

            ‘Come on, Fluffy,’ she said, ‘time for another walk.’

            Roger had retired from work but his pension wasn’t enough to live on and so when Jean had come up with this latest scheme, he had agreed.  Jean had said it would be like going on holiday. Jean couldn’t believe her luck when he said ‘yes’. 

Monday

Well I told her, I got pregnant when I was fourteen and was made to have a termination by my parents. I wanted the baby so badly, afterwards I think I shut down.  People called out things after me in the streets and the kids at school ignored me or called me names.  Mrs Medgett tells me we have to go back to the past, revisit it and sort it out.  It’s the only way to deal with it.  I hope she’s right. It is so painful. I don’t know that I can do this.

Jean could see Roger walking up and down in front of the window and the smell of the grass wafted in.  She pulled out the diary again but this time she took out another book and covered it up with that one.  If Roger came in suddenly, it would appear she was just reading a book, which was all very well until her arm jerked and her tea went all over the pages.  She froze for a while, thinking what to do.  Mrs Percival would surely know now that someone had been reading her private thoughts.  She dabbed the brown stains with a tissue but the page was all soggy and the print was disappearing rapidly.                     

            ‘Right that is it,’ said Roger, coming in catching her trying to mop up the brown tea stains.  ‘This is just not going to work.  After this weekend, we will have to find some other way to earn some money.  I can’t live with you doing this snooping all the time.’

            Jean sighed and lay down the book.  He would just have to accept that they didn’t get on any more.  She wasn’t even sure she wanted to go on holiday with him anyway.  The thought of spending two weeks solely in his company was beginning to suffocate her.  He didn’t like doing any of the things she did.  She liked talking to everyone but he told her – ‘Don’t keep smiling at everyone, why do you have to keep talking to all and sundry?’

            Oh well, she thought, no-one reads their own diary.  She should have taken it with her, or hid it in a better place if she didn’t want people reading it.

            ‘Sit down here,’ said Roger waving his hand at the settee.  ‘Now I want you to just listen.  I thought it would be a good idea to get you away from our neighbourhood, now I realise it was a great mistake.  You’re just being as snoopy as you always were, and I don’t think I can take any more.   No, let me finish.  In fact, it’s worse because you’ve been entrusted with someone else’s house and you still can’t stop.  We will finish out our time here and then when we go home, we will decide what to do.  Now you will give me that diary and I’ll put it away somewhere before you violate any more secrets.’

            ‘I’m only …’ started Jean.

            ‘No, enough, I mean it this time,’ said Roger holding out his hand.  ‘Now go and walk the dog or something.’                                                           

            Meekly, she handed over the diary.  Now she would never know what happened to Mrs Percival’s life.  Still, there weren’t many places he could hide it, she smiled to herself.  She would look for it when he went out.       

***

‘Hello,’ said Roger, answering the phone.

            ‘Hello, is that Roger?  This is Sophie Percival.  I just wanted to warn you that I‘ll be coming back tonight to pick something up.  Will that be all right?  I didn’t want to inconvenience you.’

            ‘Of course not, it’s your house. We will see you tonight then.’

            ‘Good, is everything okay?’

            ‘Yes, of course.   We will see you later.’

            ‘Thank you.’  She rang off.

***

Jean thought it odd when Roger said he was going for a walk.  It was dark after all; he never went walking especially at night.  When the doorbell rang and Mrs Percival, or that’s who she said she was, stood at the door, Jean was never more surprised.

            ‘I rang before, spoke to your husband.  Said I would be round to pick something up.  Hope that’s all right?’

Jean stared at her.  Who would have thought it?  She didn’t look a bit like she’d imagined.  She stood back and Mrs Percival walked in, going straight up to the book case.  She swivelled round and spotted the diary lying on the settee.  She looked at Jean. For once, Jean was lost for words and said nothing.

            ‘Get out now, get out of my house!’ she shouted.  ‘I’ll report you.  I’ll ring up the agency tomorrow and you’ll never work in anyone’s house again.  Get out!’ she shrieked.            Jean grabbed her coat and bag and ran from the house.  Roger had known about this and let her in for it.  She known he’d done it on purpose.  She would never forgive him.  She caught a bus back home and she was glad she did, for there sitting in Barbara’s drive was a large cardboard box obviously containing something exciting but now she would have to wait until the morning to find out what it was.  Then she wished she knew what Roger was doing.                                                                                                                                                     

Bio:

Susan Wickham is now retired and has been writing on and off since her twenties.  She has won a runners-up prize for poetry in Writers Forum, had several articles published in magazines including Family History and The Lady, and won a runners-up prize in a short story competition.  She is at present working on a non-fiction book and enjoy entering writing competitions. She recently obtained an Open University BA (Hons) degree which included Creative Writing and Literature.

Two Mothers

Two Mothers

Julie- Ann Corrigan

Mother's Ruin

 Even at thirty I still love my mum to smooth a stray curl and push it lovingly behind my ear.  Her rhythmical touch is both mesmerising and meditative, never failing to send me off into a much-needed sleep.

My mother though, has been dead for sixteen years.

I’d spoken only to my younger brother of her visits.  I began recounting our mum’s late night drop-ins from the time he was a baby, and as he grew older it seemed natural to continue.  Jason never questioned me; he always believed. It brought a closeness that was sometimes, lacking.

Theresa Molineaux died giving birth to Jason.  I was fourteen and been waiting for a sibling for most of my life.  Often I would wonder that if I hadn’t talked incessantly of wanting a brother or sister, my mum wouldn’t have had another child.  And wouldn’t have died.

‘We both wanted another one, Angelina … it just took a while for the whole conception thing to happen to us a second time,’ Dad had said.

I was never sure if I believed him.

With Jason in my arms, I cried silently at mum’s funeral thinking, if you weren’t here, Jason, Mum would be alive.  But I loved him, which was just as well because in all but name I became his mum.  As I threw the wet, sticky soil onto the wooden box that held mum’s body, I promised her that I would look after him. 

And that was the first time I felt the smooth cool fingers of my dead mum, pushing a rebellious brown curl back behind my ear.  Afterwards, this only occurred at night, in bed, with the lights down and me in the twilight zone of semi- sleep.  It always happened then.

I wish I hadn’t listened to anyone.  Giving up work at three months pregnant wasn’t a good idea.  I was healthy, full of energy, with far too much time – time  that led me deep into my head.  And that was a place I didn’t like visiting too often, because here was where I questioned my ability to be a mum.

I’d never been one for ‘going for coffee,’ but boredom and restlessness changed my habits.  I was grateful when a group of women befriended me.  It was the beautiful Brazilian, Giselle, who after pouring green tea suggested flippantly we try having an Ouija.  As we all gulped the murky liquid, only I appeared reticent.

I don’t know how it happened, but it was decided that we ‘have a go’ around my house the next day.

Mum had visited every night since her death; but she didn’t visit the night before the Ouija.

My new friends arrived, making themselves very comfortable very quickly.  They seemed at ease with each other, but suddenly my own home felt uncomfortable.

‘Shouldn’t we have done this in the evening?’  I asked.

‘It doesn’t matter … does not have to be dark.’  Giselle scanned my lounge.  ‘Might be an idea to close the blinds though.’

‘Giselle, I’m not sure about this …’ It seemed a few of the other women had felt the same way.  Only Giselle, Florence and Florence’s au pair, Miriam stood in my lounge.

‘Oh, stop worrying.  It’s not serious.  Now girls, is there anyone you want to get in touch with?’ Giselle said.

No one said a word.  Giselle looked at me.

‘Angelina, seeing as you’re the hostess – you should go first.’

The other women nodded in vigorous agreement.

‘But I don’t know what to do … might be better if someone else goes first?’

‘No, we insist.’  Her gaze took in the other two women.  ‘You first.’

 It dawned on me this was the real reason I’d agreed to something I knew was wrong.  I wanted my mum to speak.  I wanted more than an ethereal touch.  I thought of Jason and what he would say, bloody hell, Ange, you don’t mess with stuff like this.  Sensible Jason.

Giselle ignored my hesitance, understanding my deeper need.  She was already pulling out the board from her designer metallic bag.

‘Have you got a wide-rimmed glass?  Giselle asked.

I rushed into the kitchen, beginning to understand how domineering she really was but obeying anyway.  I wanted to tell them to go, to leave.  But I couldn’t.  Forever the follower.  My hand touched my growing stomach.  I hadn’t wanted a baby, not yet, but everyone told me it was a great idea, ‘something of your own.’

      My lounge looked eerily different with the blinds closed in the middle of the morning.  Giselle produced a candle from the bag, placing it next to the Ouija.  She then lit it.

‘We all need to be quiet.’ Miriam said, theatrically.  The silent au pair was now leading the show.  Because for me it was a show.  That is what I kept telling myself, trying hard not to feel apprehensive.  I thought of my motherless night.  Mum never said anything on her visits.  She didn’t need to; I knew it was her by the blast of spicy perfume that I’d grown up with; the calming presence and the sublime serenity I felt in the moments that she moved my hair.

Why hadn’t she visited me the previous night? 

The four of us sat down and placed a hand on the glass.

Miriam’s face was blank.  The flame of the candle grew in size.

Giselle’s face became animated.  I realised I knew nothing about any of these women who sat on my floor, used my house; understanding with a jolt of familiar emotion, which I hadn’t felt since my unhappy school days, they were using me and my home.

‘I can feel it, I can feel it,’ Miriam said.

The flame of the candle was now massive and the colour a strange green hue – as if someone had added sulphur.  The aroma overpowered the strong smell of the Lavender flowers that sat in my windowsill.  I got up to open the window; Giselle pushed me back down roughly.  Then the flame returned to normal and the smell disappeared.

I looked up from the board.  Not wanting to.  Terrified of what I might see but hoping I would see my mum again. 

And standing motionless at the back of my lounge there she was.  My mum. 

I took an intake of breath, trying to smell spicy perfume.  But I smelt nothing, only the burning aroma of candle and a hint of sulphur.

The loneliness of the past sixteen years overwhelmed me and I registered my sorrow at what Jason had never had – our mum.  But she was here now.  Standing so near.  Finally, I could admit her nightly visits were real.

Her upper body was shadowed by something that didn’t appear to exist.  I was desperate to see her face and rose from the floor.  The others were silent but when I glanced at Giselle, I saw a slow smile beginning to spread across her chiselled features.

       My hand touched my stomach.  I’d been waiting weeks for the first movement; then I felt my baby.  The wriggling became persistent, almost punching me from the inside.  I was aware of my baby’s distress.  With a surge of quickening love I talked to my baby, using the same calming voice my mum had used with me. 

But what was wrong?

Because something was wrong.  Very wrong.  As much as I needed to believe this thing in front of me was my mum, everything inside of me was telling me it wasn’t. 

Whatever had been shadowing her face had now disappeared.

I didn’t want to look but I did.

I looked directly at her face and stepped back in sickening panic as I peered at what seemed to be … an undefined image of myself.

There was no spicy smell, no calming feeling.  My baby moved rapidly inside my body – as if trying to escape.  Although the feeling of dread was palpable – the fourteen-year-old girl in me waited for the apparition to raise an arm and touch my hair.  It didn’t.  And when finally I peered into the soulless, empty eyes, I knew why.  This wasn’t my mum.  The smile was alien; the demeanour unlike anything I remembered.

I looked towards my supposed friends.  They smiled knowingly.  They had done this before and knew how dangerous it was.  I was their entertainment.  Pampered women’s entertainment.

I yelled at them, and at the thing.

‘Get out, get out of my house.  Leave me, and my baby alone.’

 My baby moved violently again.  The dim light began to fade.  I had finally said what I wanted to say and inside my head told my child I loved and wanted it.

But then I lost sense of all reality.

*     *     *     *     *

I woke up in a small room.  I knew I was in hospital – the melange of antiseptic smells was too strong for me to be wrong.  My husband slept in a chair.  I moved my hands towards my stomach.  The memory of the demon, and the women, clear in my memory.

I had lost my baby. The demon had taken it. 

And then in the room’s half-light I smelt the spicy smell.  My sadness a thing alive and living within me.

For the first time in sixteen years I saw the face of my mother.

She sat on my bed and slowly stroked my lank hair.

‘Don’t worry sweet Angelina, everything is fine.’

I smiled through tears, ‘Mum, it really is you.  This time it’s you?’

‘Yes, my darling.  It’s me.’  She continued stroking.

‘My baby, mum, – it’s gone.  Everything is my fault.  Letting those women in my house … ’

She placed a hand on my stomach, ‘No, your baby is still here,’ she patted the mound, ‘and happy – happy that you will be her mother, Angelina, as Jason has been happy for you to be his mother – you’ve done a good job with him, Ange.’  Her use of Jason’s name for me made me smile.

‘But what about the demon…?’ 

‘The demon doesn’t exist – only in your head – the demon is you, and maybe your so-called friends.  It, and them, represent your fears and anxieties, your insecurities.  You won’t be seeing it, or them again, I can assure you.’

My mum visited me only once more after that night.

It was five months later.  I watched as mum stroked my daughter’s unusual mop of hair.  The spicy scent much milder than I remembered.  No word was spoken.

I didn’t see or smell her again.  My peace exonerated her from further visits.  But she was always there, somewhere, on the edge.

Bio:

Julie-Ann Corrigan has had a number of short stories published including one in Bridge House Publishing’s Devils, Demons and Werewolves. Two of her stories were chosen of the Best of Cafelit 2011 and she has been shortlisted and commended in short story competitions. Her first historical novel is currently seeking an agent and she is currently working on her second novel.

The Answer

The Answer

a chalice of poison

Debz Hobbs-Wyatt

You said it would rain. You said it always rains.

Words spoken by a gypsy in a fairground when you were ten years old. Words you later repeated.

You said she wore a scarf draped around her head, sunken cheeks and hoop earrings that made a moment dazzle when it should have been grey. Your mother pressed silver coins into her begging hand and asked for a miracle.

“Save me,” she said.

But it was too late.

The world begins and ends with rain.

It was raining the day she died, the day she tasted the offering you pressed to imploring lips and uttered goodbyes through a veil. It is raining now, each drop as if to realise the prediction. Or perhaps it never stopped.

What of the rain?

Not soft gentle summer rain.

Not leaf dripping hazy rain.

Hard fierce unrelenting rain.

Lion’s roar rain.

You wait in a doorway, close enough to touch it, but held back as if something stands between you and it. You become the hunted. A finger poised in a moment. It is a slice of time as thin as the fracture in the sky where a lip of white light cuts the world in half. As thin as the draught that stirs coldness into time like drips of venom. Are you the sculptor of your own demise? The composer of your own requiem? Are you the author of your own eulogy?

Are we all?

You beg for one more moment, stealing only what you claim is still yours; clutching it to your breast. But it’s not yours – is it?

But still you hold on.

Until it’s gone.

Until all that’s left is mist.

And now you have it. The answer.

But what you leave behind is the question.

Debz Hobbs-Wyatt

Debz is a writer/editor/publisher and she also edits for CafeLit. She says she would not normally publish her own work here, but came across this that was written a long time ago and thought it seemed apt for Halloween.

She says she has no idea where it came from and why she wrote it or indeed what the answer is. She says it’s not 42. She wonders if she was possessed at the time she wrote it.

www.debzhobbs-wyatt.co.uk

Blog: http://wordznerd.wordpress.com/

Fighting Mr Fat

Fighting Mr Fat

a rich glass of port

 Dianne Bown-Wilson

I first realised that things were serious again when I came home unexpectedly early to find Alison, my wife, standing chubbily naked in front of the full-length mirror. She had drawn two dotted lines in thick black marker pen down the length of her body – one on each side; she looked like one of those cut-out paper dolls.

    I raised my eyebrows; she glared at me.

    'I'm trying to get an idea of what I would look like if I lost all the weight I need to. I have to motivate myself somehow!'

 Knowing it was more than my life was worth to comment I merely nodded, as if what she was doing was the most natural thing in the world, closed the door and slunk off.

Downstairs, the dog cowered, reflecting the mood of the house. Cruelly, I added to his misery by curling my lip and growling at him. Why shouldn't he suffer too, especially as the raison d'être of his existence: Alison, good food, and a quiet life – so closely mirrors mine? All the signs indicated that for the foreseeable future this nirvana would be a pipedream. Alison is preoccupied; dinner – if it appears at all – will be late tonight, and the atmosphere is as fragile as glass. Unless I'm much mistaken, the fight with Mr Fat is once again on.

Trust me, I'm not usually a heartless rat but when it comes to Alison's weight loss, mind-boggling boredom doesn't begin to describe my reaction. Mention the word 'calorie' and like a mad dog I positively froth at the mouth. Years of  being wed to my well-upholstered sweetheart have turned  me  into an  encyclopaedia  of nutritional values, an absolute wunderkind  of  weight-loss plans  -- and all against my will. The problem is that although age will no doubt catch up with me in time, encasing my ribs in a duvet of pudding-related padding, for now I can eat what I like. Tasked with supporting a body that's well over six feet tall my hollow legs gratefully absorb whatever comes their way. Unfortunately, by contrast, Alison's tiny frame is less accommodating – her weight is her Achilles heel and a constant source of misery in our otherwise almost perfect life.

Since his arrival during her unhappy childhood Mr Fat, as we know him, has been her constant and unwelcome house guest and like a troublesome relative she seems incapable of either banishing or ignoring him.  While the world at large considers her no more than curvaceous, her self-esteem nevertheless bears the deep scars of their endless bitter wrangles.  Alison was pleasingly plump when we met and since then I have loved her unreservedly whatever her size.  So it was not for me that she lost three stone for our wedding although I was delighted for her that on the great day she was as slender as a lily. But, unfortunately, the discarded weight bounced back as swiftly as a boomerang and within months our new household was facing our first joint skirmish with Mr Fat. This time the weapon of choice was a strict, calorie-controlled diet which worked for a while, but then.

A year or so later, I sadly concluded that this relentless pattern probably would form the fabric of our lives for the remainder of our years. Up to two weeks of hell, then total despair, a binge with the chocolate biscuits, ice cream, or chips (usually all three) and suddenly it was all off. I could relax again – until, of course, her next new fancy came along. Oh yes, over the years she's flirted with dozens of diets including Gary-Grapefruit,  Sylvester-Steak-and-Salad, and Derek Dukan – not to mention good old Fred-Fibre: boring,  predictable,  but ever-so-dependable in the fight with Mr Fat.

However, on the day of the paper-doll incident I saw no more of Alison until later in the evening when, although dinner was served to the dog and I (while Alison ate salad), I judged it expedient to let the episode pass without remark.  Nevertheless, the atmosphere confirmed that there was something my beloved wanted to share.

'I'll be away for the night,' she said finally, quoting a date some two months hence. I wondered why she was telling me now as being a management consultant, she travels a lot.

  'A school reunion.'  The words  rattled  out  like  dried  peas on a table top. 'I've been asked to speak to the sixth form at St Catherine's. You know, living proof that fame and fortune can happen to an Old Kat.' 

'Well, well. That rather knocks your theory of never having achieved enough on the head, doesn't it? Obviously you're one of life's great successes if they're asking you to do that!'

There was no nod of acknowledgement – and modesty wasn't the reason.  I've known my darling long enough to realise that there was more to the story than had so far emerged; something was definitely wrong.

  'Clare Seagle has been invited too.' She spat the words out. 'Can you imagine the two of us on the platform together?  We'll look like a porpoise and a whale!'

 An image of the blonde and reed-like Ms Seagle as seen on TV every evening flickered into my mind but I was careful to prevent any hint of approval from crossing my features.

            Alison stared moodily into the distance and I looked beyond her, non-committally. Another thing I've learnt over the years is that in our house silence is like a big hole in the road. One way or another it has to be filled, and swiftly, or you'll come a cropper.

  'What really gets me is not that she's held up as the TV presenter with the personality of Mother Theresa and the brains of Einstein,' she sighed, eventually.  'That's rubbish – and I can live with that. What I can't stand is that she's thinner than me and always was.'

Another hole opened up in the road. For a matter of moments we sat and surveyed it.

  'At school she always hated me because I consistently did better than her in every single subject and she couldn't get out of second place – not that I was bothered. So at our leaving ceremony she was upset because I'd  scooped the  annual prize yet again and just as we were leaving the hall she turned on me, in front of everyone,  and said: 'I'm glad I'm not you, because whatever you do  and  however clever you  are,  you'll  always  be a fat ugly cow.' And look at me - she was right!' 

 I didn't need to lie. 'Of course she wasn't. But if she makes you feel like that, just avoid her. Don't go to the reunion - tell them you're not available.'

 'It's too late.  I'd already accepted before they told me that she'd be there.  I can hardly  back out now.'

     'No.'

 Silence descended again and inwardly I heaved a sigh and resigned myself to a further hour or so of providing comfort and reassurance to my beloved. Not that it was difficult, the comforting. After all, Alison Pringle is not a fat cow; at thirty-four she is sexy, sophisticated, warm, witty and alarmingly talented.  As I say, we've been through all this before - again and again – and  the  format always  is that I tell her how wonderful she is and how her weight problem is a figment of her  imagination and she cries and eventually starts to feel a bit better and then starts to tell me shyly, as if describing a new lover, about this fabulous new diet and what do I  think, should she give it houseroom? And we agree that maybe this will be the one and a new peace descends upon her and calm is restored.

But this time was different. Before I even had time to draw the  deep  breath  required  to launch into my standard words of comfort, she abruptly stood up and swept from the room, dry-eyed, and (I wondered if I should tell her by way of encouragement) decidedly thin-lipped.  This was obviously a new type of skirmish and as a man not keen on living dangerously I decided to hold my counsel.

 As the weeks went by, I found that I was still holding it. For once she didn't seem to want or need my advice; something had definitely changed. Prudently, I waited to see what – and as the weeks passed what became apparent was that, without any fuss, bother, or bosom-beating, the lovely Al was slowly disappearing before my eyes. The grim persistence which until now had always reserved itself for every sphere of her life was obviously at work.  I knew to my cost that faced with this mindset the only reaction was to stand clear and let her get on with things: untrammelled, uninterrupted, and definitely uncommented upon. But finally my curiosity overcame me.

 'Are you still going to that thingy next week?' I asked in an offhand fashion as we sat coordinating diaries as we do most Sunday evenings. In all the weeks that had passed no more had been said about the dreaded reunion so I was keen to know.

    'Of course. And by then I'll have lost another three pounds; the suit I'll be wearing is a size 10.'

 I made a sort of noncommittal clearing of the throat noise, but said no more. Strangely, she hardly seemed in celebratory mood although in view of what she had achieved she should have been on the phone ordering the champagne, brass band and dancing girls. Even in her Sunday night t-shirt, leggings and no makeup, she looked fantastic. Witty, sexy, sophisticated, talented, and now fashion-plate slim. 

And mine.  Oh lucky, lucky man. Even the  vision of the forbidden but secretly lusted-after  Clare Seagle  had now been banished  from my disloyal brain, bleached out by  the  beauty of  my beloved. I had loved her cuddly. I would love her huge. But slim …. she was the apotheosis of every man's dreams, the walking fulfilment of all desire.

Nevertheless, she was prickly with it. As I say, when she has her determined head on it's like she's encased, mentally and physically, in a suit of armour. It takes a brave or foolish man to bother her until it comes off. So I didn't. I knew enough to hope that all this was the build-up to the reunion and once it was over, the barriers would be down. It'd be a great success of course, she'd come home in triumph – and then, relaxed and victorious she would, in all her new loveliness, be mine.

And I was right. 

The day after the event she was home waving the invisible conqueror's sword. Modest as always, even with the gleam of victory in her eyes, she said little, but I was itching to know.

             'How was it, then?' I asked casually finally cornering her in the kitchen, having given her time to change.

 'Good, I think. Yes, very good. The girls seemed really impressed and they honestly seemed to like me. We connected; it was fine.'

    'And did Ms Seagle turn up? How was she?'

    'Mmm - she was there but the reaction was quite subdued really. Perhaps people have seen too much of her already. She seemed surprised to see me though – said she hardly recognised me. Actually, she looked quite haggard. I think it's all that TV makeup; they say it's very ageing.' 

 So that was it.  The battle was over; paradise regained, peace in our time. Inside, although I tried not to make it too obvious, my joy knew no bounds and I reached towards her, a happy, happy man. But victory in battle doesn't win the war. Armadillo skin shed,  my winsome wife smiled provocatively in  return but neatly sidestepped my outstretched arms,  reaching  instead  into  the  cupboard behind  me  for  a  packet of her favourite double chocolate chip cookies.

    ‘Want some?' she purred, simultaneously pouring out a large glass of full-cream milk and lapping the crumbs of the first two rapidly consumed cookies from around her mouth. 

   From behind her eyes Mr Fat smiled his gleeful, disingenuous smile.

Bio:

Dianne Bown-Wilson is a freelance writer and management consultant. She is fascinated by people – as demonstrated by the fact that she has a first degree in psychology and a PhD in organizational behaviour. To date she is a published non-fiction author but her real love is fiction in which is now striving to make her mark.

Dianne was born in England, grew up in New Zealand and now lives in Oxford where she has a partner and an elderly cat. Her grown-up daughter has flown the nest.