Waxing Lyrical

by Dawn Knox

house wine to go with the Chef’s Special

Previously: Having avoided a terrifying, badger ambush and a deadly, chocolate avalanche, Sat Nav guides Eddie, Brian and Gideon to Great Puddington - the spy pig’s final destination. So, is this goodbye to Gideon? 

 

  “For once, things are going our way,” remarked Eddie as Monsieur Brioche waddled ahead of them, leading the way to a table by the window.

“Monsieur Guttle reserved ze best table in ze restaurant for you, Messieurs.” The penguin pulled the red velvet chair out for Eddie to sit down and the one opposite, for Brian. There was a pile of telephone directories on Brian’s chair and he helped the muttering monkey on to the top of them.

“Stop sulking,” whispered Eddie when the mâitre d’ had gone, “there’s nothing wrong with being short.”

“And you can’t wait for an excuse to point it out, can you!”  

“Stop being so prickly! Look, we’ve finally got rid of Gideon and after a slap-up meal, we can be off. In a few hours we’ll be in Hummus-on-Sea and we can relax and start a new life. Now, let’s just enjoy this meal. We’ve certainly earned it.”

“Yes, I suppose so. And it is a relief to get away from the sat nav. One more verse of Frère Jacques and I’d have gone mad.”

“There is only one verse.”

“So why did it go on for hours? Every time I thought it had finished, someone started it up again.”

“Messieurs?” said the waiter, “May I recommend ze chef’s special to start, and zen for ze main course, ze chef’s special?” 

“Yes please,” said Eddie.

“How d’you know we’ll like chef’s special?” asked Brian when the waiter had gone.

“Who cares? Gideon’s paying.”

“But Eddie, Gideon hasn’t paid for anything the whole time we’ve known him. He doesn’t appear to have any cash.”

“No, he always pays by cheque,” said Eddie winking. 

“But this is Great Puddington, the place where spies come to train and renew their licences. Don’t you think the folks here might be wise to the old disappearing-ink-on-the-cheque trick?”

“Too late now,” said Eddie, “the waiter’s bringing our chef’s special.” 

“What d’you mean you can’t pay?” said Eddie when Gideon arrived, “why did you book us a table in an expensive restaurant? You know we’re skint!”

“Well, old chap, I must confess, it was a bit of a ruse.”

“Ruse? Ruse?” screeched Eddie.

“Lower your voice! The waiters are looking,” said Brian. 

“Iz zere a problem, Messieurs?” asked Monsieur Brioche, who was flanked by two burly penguins. 

“Er, do you take cheques?” asked Eddie.

Monsieur Brioche shook his head, “Zis iz Great Puddington. Cash only.”

“Well, my good penguin,” said Gideon, “it’s like this. I’m afraid I’m a bit short at the moment and I’m going to have to request Option B.”

“What’s Option B?” asked Eddie.

One of the waiters scuttled off to the kitchen and returned with some rubber gloves. He pulled one of the fingers and released it with a ‘thwack’. 

Eddie screamed, “It’s no good searching me! I haven’t got anything!” he backed away with his wings raised.

“For you,” said Monsieur Brioche, handing one pair of rubber gloves to Gideon, “for you,” he said passing another pair to Brian, “and anozer pair for your excitable friend who iz standing against ze wall. You will find ze washing up in ze kitchen. Zat way!” 

“It’s no good searching me!” mimicked Brian, doubling up with laughter.

“All right, all right!” said Eddie, “I panicked. I’ve seen people use rubber gloves before and it wasn’t pretty. Before you know it, your gizzards are intimately acquainted with your parson’s nose.”

“Well, no harm done, eh?” said Gideon.

“What d’you mean? If it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t be elbow deep in soap suds.”

“I’m very sorry, chaps, I thought the meal would keep you here in case I failed my test and needed a lift out of here. And sadly, I did fail. But I hadn’t quite thought it through. I’m so used to paying for everything with a cheque and I’d forgotten that no one would accept one in Great Puddington.”

“You failed your test?” asked Brian, “What does that mean?”

“It means I have to do a spy’s refresher course but I simply can’t afford it.” 

“Can’t you just resit the test?”

“It’s not permitted if you fail everything.”

“Everything?”

“Yes. Apparently, I’m too fat, too unfit and too slow. I didn’t hit any of the targets at shooting practice and my explosive device failed to go off.”

“Is that all?” asked Eddie sarcastically. 

“No,” said Gideon, “I think I might have indisputably failed when I shot the examiner with my pen… Well, it’s an easy mistake to make.”

“But why d’you think we’re going to take you anywhere?” Brian asked, “I don’t want to spend the next few hours strapped in the van seat with you again.” 

“Yeah!” said Eddie, “I think you were the one who kept Frère Jacques going for hours.”

“Well,” said Gideon, “it’s like this, chaps, when we get to Hummus-on-Sea, we’ll need somewhere to live ̶ “

“We? What d’you mean we?”

“Do you have any money to rent a place?” Gideon asked.

“No.”

“I do, or rather I have a cheque book and we could rent somewhere rather nice overlooking the beach.”

“He has a point,” said Brian.

“This is beautiful!” said Brian opening the glass doors leading to the roof terrace, “just look at that sea view! And we’ll have a bedroom each!”

“Are you sure we can afford the rent on this?” asked Eddie.

“I’ve just given the cheque to the agent, old chap. So, the answer is yes, we can. Well, until our cheque scam is discovered.” 

“Let’s order pizza and celebrate!” said Brian, “I’m starving, lunch was hours ago. That chef was a bit stingy with his special.”

“Ah!” said Gideon, “I’m afraid that might not be possible, not unless you can pay.”

“Write the pizza delivery person a cheque.”

“Ah!” said Gideon again.

“What do you mean Ah!”

“Well, I gave the estate agent my last cheque and without a spy’s licence, I can’t get another special cheque book.”

“You mean we haven’t got a bean between us?”

“I think you can count on it,” said Gideon.

“Let’s not panic,” said Eddie, “at least we’ve got an apartment. Tomorrow, we’ll get jobs. It can’t be that difficult. This is a busy town and I’m sure we’ll all be employed before we know it.”

“Hey look,” said Brian holding a ducat coin aloft, “I found it down the back of the sofa! Shall I ring for pizza?”

“No, we need to look for jobs. Go and get some fish and chips. We can read the newspaper once we’ve eaten.”

“You’re going to love it, I promise,” said Eddie the following day as they walked along the promenade, “the pay is excellent and the hours are short.”

“Is it legal?” asked Brian.

“Of course!” 

“Then why won’t you let me see the advert?”

“We’re nearly there and then you’ll be able to see for yourself,” said Eddie turning into a dingy, side street. 

“It’s a bit seedy down here, old boy,” remarked Gideon.

“That’s artists for you,” said Eddie vaguely. “Look, this is the place.” He opened the door and led them into a large studio filled with easels. 

“Greetings, gentlemen!” A chubby cat in a paisley kaftan glided towards them, her bangles jangling discordantly, “No need to be overawed, tiny creature,” she said to Brian, “I may be famous throughout the Isle of Macaroon but I assure you beneath all my talent and flair, I am a mortal, just like you… Well, not greatly like you… but you get my drift.” 

Eddie, anticipating that when Brian spoke, it might not help their job prospects, inserted himself between the monkey and the cat. 

“Leonora Da Finchy! How wonderful to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you and your brilliant paintings!” Eddie said, bowing politely.

“Well, of course you have, and here are a few of my babies,” said Leonora, her bangles jangling as she swept her paw through the air, drawing attention to dozens of framed paintings on the studio wall, “Now, how can I be of assistance? Have you come to buy a masterpiece? Or to enrol in my wonderful painting class? No? Well, a selfie with me, perhaps?”

“Actually, Miss Da Finchy we’ve come about the job.”

“Oh! Well, why didn’t you say instead of wasting my time? You can go in that cupboard over there to change… and then pose over there…” the bangles clashed as she indicated first the door, then two sofas on the raised area in front of the easels. “Class begins in ten minutes. If my students like you, I’ll consider keeping you on, although I only really wanted two models but we might be able to work the tiny creature in somewhere.”

Eddie reached behind his back and slapped his hand over Brian’s mouth.

“Thank you,” he said leading Gideon and Brian to the changing cupboard door.  

“Don’t forget,” she called after them, “every stitch off. I want flesh and lots of it. A nude model should be just that… nude.”

Eddie managed to open the door, push Gideon and Brian inside and close it before the word ‘nude’ ricocheted off the walls and ceiling, followed by the words ‘Not on your life!’ 

“It’s all right for you, Eddie old chap, you’re only wearing a jacket. When you take that off, you’re practically nude. And Brian isn’t wearing anything but a hat. As for me, I’m wearing a tailored dinner suit.”

“It’s not going to fit much longer if we can’t afford to eat…”

“Point taken, old chap. Can you pass me that hanger?”

“I feel ridiculous!” said Gideon, “if she only wants two models, why don’t you both do it?”

“Because if we all do it, we’ll have three wage packets instead of two. The sooner we get some money together, the sooner we can find better jobs. Now, are you ready? We need to go out.”

“Just a few more moments, old chap…”

Eddie opened the door and peeped round it. He gulped and closed it softly.

“What’s the matter? Don’t tell me you’ve gone shy!” said Brian.

Eddie gulped again. 

“No, it’s Leonora, she’s… she’s…” he whispered.

“She’s what?” asked Brian.

“She’s sharpening pencils!”

“So, what?”

“She’s sharpening them with an axe.” 

“Perhaps her pencil sharpener has broken? Let me look!”

Brian opened the door and peered through the gap.

“Crikey, you’re right! And have you noticed those paintings behind her desk?”

“No, art appreciation wasn’t exactly on my mind.”

“Well, I suggest you look,” said Brian, shuffling out of the way to make room for Eddie.

“I see what you mean,” said Eddie with a gasp, “on reflection, I think we ought to get dressed and run.”

Gideon seized Eddie and Brian by the scruff of their necks, “Not so fast! You brought us here, old chap, let’s see it through. So, she’s sharpening pencils with an axe and you don’t like her paintings. It could be worse. We could starve to death.”

“You don’t understand!” wailed Eddie, “Those paintings are of beheaded chickens!”

Gideon pushed them both out of the cupboard, “We’re ready, Miss Da Finchy!” 

“Excellent! Some of my students have already arrived, so if the pig and the chicken could drape themselves artistically over the sofas, I’ll take the tiny creature next door. He’s much too hairy for this class. I told you I need nude models, he looks like he’s wearing a fur coat.” 

“Well, this isn’t too bad at all,” said Gideon, “if one closes one’s eyes, one can’t see all those people peeping at one. And I must say, the students seem to be a jolly lot, judging by all the laughter.” 

Eddie glanced at the clock, carefully avoiding the decapitated chicken paintings. “Still another fifty-eight minutes to go.”

“Have two whole minutes gone already?” asked Gideon, “My, my, isn’t time flying?”

“Shh!” said Eddie, “Did you hear that? Someone’s screaming.”

“I think it’s that hedgehog at the end easel, she keeps shrieking with laughter. I don’t think she’s taking this lesson seriously, at all.” 

“No,” said Eddie, “there’s definitely someone screaming… oh, it seems to have stopped.”

Leonora appeared at the door of the studio, pushing what looked like a scrawny, pink-skinned rat in front of her. He had his hands crossed over his modesty and he was glaring at Eddie. 

“There, that’s much better, tiny creature,” she said, “now, go and join your friends.”

“Brian? Is it you?” asked Eddie aghast, “What happened to you?” 

“I will never forgive you for this, Eddie! That was agony! If my hair doesn’t grow back, I’m going to sue. I thought she was taking me into a candle-making class when she started talking about hot wax. But I can tell you, she had no intention of making candles!” 

Links to previous stories in The Macaroon Chronicles series

The Macaroon Chronicles Prologue and the Three Wise Monkeys - http://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2020/01/the-macaroon-chronicles-prologue-and.html

#ChickenInCustard - https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2020/02/chickenincustard.html

The Fine Print - https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2020/02/the-fine-print.html

French for Cheese - https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2020/02/french-for-cheese.html

Porkies and Espiggy-onage (Lies and Spies) – https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2020/03/porkies-and-espiggy-onage-lies-and-spies.html

Nearly Death by Chocolate - https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2020/03/nearly-death-by-chocolate.html

About the author

Dawn’s latest book is ’The Basilwade Chronicles’ published by Chapeltown Books. She enjoys writing in different genres and has had romances, speculative fiction, sci-fi, humorous and women’s fiction published in magazines, anthologies and books. Dawn has also had two plays about World War One performed internationally. You can follow her here on https://dawnknox.com, Facebook here DawnKnoxWriter or on Twitter here https://twitter.com/SunriseCalls 

The Ferryman

Lemon and Ginger Tea

 

By Jo Dearden

The bed felt hard and uncomfortable. She was so thin now, her bony body chafing against the rubber sheet underneath her. She was aware of cold metal bars close to her head, instead of the soft headboard of her bed at home. She felt disorientated. Everything seemed unfamiliar. Wires hanging down around her. A bag of clear liquid hung from a metal stand beside her, linked to a white canular taped onto her left skinny bruised arm.  She could feel the coldness of the liquid coursing through her veins. A machine whirred. She could hear voices nearby but couldn’t make out what was being said. It felt like being at the entrance of a tunnel. She tried to see where she was, but everything seemed hazy. She was stuck in a swirling mist that was gradually wrapping itself around her.

Someone was trying to lift her head. ‘Good girl. Easy does it,’ she heard a voice say. She tried to reply, but she couldn’t make her mouth move. She could sense her daughter sitting near her, holding her bony hand. Perhaps her son was in the room too. She wasn’t sure.

A bright light appeared to be getting closer. After a while it seemed to be right over her. She tried to stretch out her arms, but they stubbornly remained by her side. She felt her body rising. She was sliding through the tunnel, the light flickering at the other end. She closed her eyes.

She was walking along a seashore. Waves gently lapping, almost touching her sandaled feet. Wet shingle glistening in the sunlight.  She saw a family laying out rugs and towels. A wicker picnic basket sat nearby with its lid open. Two children helped themselves to a sandwich each and ran towards the shore. They threw some stones into the water laughing and shouting.

A long open boat suddenly appeared from nowhere.  She hadn’t noticed it until it was nearly upon her. An elderly woman and a young boy sat in the boat as it bobbed alongside. A ferry man clambered towards her, offering his hand to help her aboard. ‘Do I have to come with you now?’ she asked. The ferryman nodded, his long grey hair wafting in the breeze.

She stepped into the boat and sat next to the young boy, who looked about 8 years old. The old woman sat opposite. She looked back towards the beach. No-one seemed to have noticed the boat.

The ferryman began to row. The oars effortlessly cut through the waves like a knife through soft butter. ‘When will we get there?’ the little boy asked.

‘That depends,’ the ferryman said. The oars swished back and forth. ‘We might have to collect one or two others first.’

‘What happened to you?’ she asked the boy.

‘My football ran into the road. I didn’t see the car. It hit me before I had time to get out of the way.’

‘Oh dear,’ she said, putting her arms around him.

‘That was bad luck. I expect there will some other boys like you where we’re going,’ the old woman said.

The boat turned towards the shore again. A middle-aged man stood waiting patiently. He stepped into the boat and sat next to the old woman.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Nice to have company. I didn’t know what to expect.’

The ferryman started to row again. ‘Do you ferry people every day?’ the little boy asked him.

‘Yes, there are a few of us who can do this. I used to take people across an estuary in Devon before I got sick.’

‘Do we have to pay you?’ I haven’t brought any money,’ the little boy persisted.

‘No, this is a magic boat. You have to be very special to be allowed on it,’ the ferryman told him.

The landscape started to change.  Everything was bathed in an ethereal light. An eerie silence fell over them as they all gazed in wonder at their surroundings.

After a while the boat rose out of the water. She held the little boy tightly as the boat flew through the air until it was a tiny speck in the sky, disappearing into the clouds.

Back in the hospital, the machine stops whirring. A nurse places a sheet over her lifeless body. Her daughter sits on a chair next to the bed with her head in her hands.

About the author

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

Light, Light, Light, in the Llight

           By Chitra Gopalakrishnan    

fruit juice        

I see her first at the club as the luster of the afternoon gives way to a blurry evening in late November. Just as the sturdy, silver squares of sunlight on the clubroom wall stretch themselves into a sequence of muted grey rhombuses. She is sitting quietly, with a dream-like, delicate strength, watching the shadow play on the surface of the wall.

I see her look of delight as the rhombused-wall gathers an underwater quality to it. As the shadows of sunlight twine with the plants on the opposite end and throw them up in deceptive forms of seaweed, kelp and anemones who seem to shimmy wildly undersea with a sense of wanton freedom.

Watching the supple play of light and shadows at this elite club in New Delhi has been a favorite pastime of mine for years, one that comes to me naturally as a photographer. I have always immersed myself in the experience, one that is exceptionally tactile for me, yet until today I have never encountered another soul who has watched the shadow show on the wall with any kind of interest. So, naturally, I am intrigued.

This colonial, old-world, club, with its elegant dining rooms, bars, coffee shops and card-playing rooms, is my regular haunt where I meet my clients to discuss, negotiate and seal projects. I wonder if she is a new member or a guest of a member. The thought of whether I should introduce myself to her intrudes.

Should I disturb her soft, diffused, meditative silhouette show? Her miraculous gratitude for the sights on the wall? Her enjoyment of moments that have taken her into a different realm both inside and outside of time? A voice of caution whispers softly not to break her spell, her elevation beyond the ordinary materiality of the world.

So I don’t invade her privacy in this very public space but continue to look at her. Though I am hidden from her direct view by a pillar, I can see past it and have a direct view of her.

What I observe is this. Her face is not beautiful or extraordinary but it is most certainly chiseled. Her dark skin is radiantly clear and even-toned, almost translucent and minus make-up. Her eyebrows are intriguing thick, eyes small and alive, nose well-proportioned for her face, ears dotted with diamond studs, mere pinpoints, hair tousled but not messy and her lips curl upward when she smiles.

In her simple black suit, white silk top with soft folds along the neckline and simple black leather pumps, she holds an indescribable, electric lure for me. I feel different. Why? After all, I see and shoot multitudes of attractive women as a fashion photographer, a handful classy, some flamboyant, others trendy and a host of them simply hovering on the edges of style.

I think what draws me to her is her lack of trying for any effect and her poised assurance of who she is. I allow myself the credit of being able to cut past the scrim of her outer self to see who she really is, knowing fully well that many will smirk derisively at these presumptions of mine within moments of seeing her.

But, more so than others, I know beauty reveals as much as it hides. The lines of Blair Packman’s song flows into my mind. “If I were asked to define her, on a questionnaire or quiz, I’d take the path of least resistance: She just is.”

I’ve been making my living as a photographer for over ten years, and have accumulated a variety of gear over time. I have the latest Canon and Panasonic Lumix cameras, an entire complement of lenses, strobes, light stands, tripods, gels, filters, soft boxes and even some video and audio gear. But the one thing that often makes the biggest difference in the quality of my portraits is a simple reflector. I never leave for a shoot without it. This, as for me, and I assume as for all photographers, the quality of the light is first and foremost at a photo-shoot.  I see my art as making colors look natural to the point that viewers should not be able to tell if the source of light is artificial or not.

Why do I tell you of my reflector obsession now? My fixation for lighting? Because my mind is seriously toying with the idea of photographing her in the outdoors, preferably in a leafy garden. Seeing her obvious delight with the play of light and shadows, I want to chase the technique of chiaroscuro, the use of strong contrasts between light and dark with perfect timing to create a perfect composition. And I want my final images to have a high dynamic range and detail in the extremely shadowed and highlighted areas.

Pursuing this type of light and shadow play as also the perfect timing to give context to photos of hers is beginning to have an enormous hold of me. Should I use a reflector to salvage bad light or out it to ingenuity by turning prosaic light into something magical? Should I position the reflector at the bottom to fill in shadows, or from above to block distracting light? I love bouncing the sun from the silver reflector to create the main light, or alternately using the reflector with a black side to create deeper shadows and selectively adjust saturation. Should I try the first or the latter? Or both? I am keen on capturing a subtle catch-light (reflection of the reflector) in her eyes. For me, lighting design and photography move in parallel both as art and a science.

Then I agonize: should I use the reflector to flat light her face so the light falls directly on her features? Or attempt broad light where she is at an angle and the well-lit side of her face is closest to the camera and the shadow falls on the backside of her face? Or should the reflector be used to go with the opposite of broad light, short light, in that her face is at an angle and the shadow falls on the side of her face closest to the camera? What about my reflector and I toying with split lighting where the light hits her from the side at a 90-degree angle? Or should it be backlight where the light comes from behind her? 

I decide on placing her in a position where the light hits from behind and then use a reflector to bounce the light back into her face. This for a nice soft light on her face and dramatic rim light on the back of her head. I resolve to keep a shallow depth of field and jack up my shutter speed at 1/1250th of a second at f/2.0, with a 50 mm lens to allow for a wide aperture. It would also be great to play down the ambient lighting and throw the focus on her face, I reason.

In another, I determine, I will position her against a tree and have someone reflect a spot of sunlight on her from about ten feet away. At this distance, the light from the reflector will look more like it is coming from a grid spot and it will be a dramatic beam. Then I will find shady light under a tree and capture her against its muted backdrop. When a strand of sunlight escapes, my reflector will block it. After all, using both the right color temperature white light and the use of light sources with high color rendering capabilities is key.

Caught in my reverie, I am startled when Sachin, my friend ambles along to say hello. With my muse in tow. “Meet Arunima, my guest at the club, her photogram exhibition is currently showing at Gallery Art. She has pushed camera-less photography to its logical extreme using photo-sensitive paper directly to light to elaborate her ideas.”

I recognize the click in my brain. The click that acknowledges a kindred soul. I know now my instincts about her are not unreasonable or illogical. It is no coincidence we are both photographers of sorts and that her name means the first rays of the sun and mine simply means the sun.

“Aadit,” I introduce myself.

 “I know your work,” she says. Dismissively or not, I cannot tell.

“Tell me about yours,” I appeal to her. “My exhibits titled ‘Her Garments’ is a series of silver gelatin photograms made using women’s garments worn when they were raped,” she says. “Tears, stains, cigarette burns on the garments tell stories that women are perhaps unable to say. I have tried to visualize the experiences of the women who wore these garments, not their faces but the images of their violation.”

“Do try and come,” she adds. I watch her walk away. I notice she is willowy, her pace unhurried, her back straight. There is nothing, I know, that will stop me. I arrive at her exhibition the next day, carefully timing my arrival at a little past noon so my sprite does not scare her. Today, she is all in white. A long top, cigarette pants, a light shawl and silver hoops in her ears as the only adornment.

The light in the gallery is soft and filtered as if it has been passed through a soft box and the exhibits are displayed on the walls between windows that have diaphanous drapes. The effect is stunning. The images of garments are ethereal and three dimensional even though they are framed under glass.

“My art has come of women’s struggles and moves from a world of things to a world of ideas. I want it to change how people see and understand rape. I want the viewer to find the story of the woman who has been violated. The gendered power-play behind it all. The destruction of her selfhood. That is why I consciously connect with the idea of light. A reminder to people to see things from a different light.”

I can’t say about others but her works have definitely caught my imagination.

“I hope you don’t think that I, as a fashion photographer, am bound by an appeal of the ephemeral. For making my viewers  believe that women and men will never grow old. I do photograph the travails and natural shocks that the flesh is heir to and I would like very much for you see these portraits that remove people from the false timetables of fashion,” I say.

“I would like that very much,” she says restrainedly, in her well-modulated voice. “But what I would like right now is to have lunch, if you are free.” She is disarmingly unaware of her own charm. My heart goes into a crimson space. A deep, fiery, dark-red place of excitement and joy, an excellent foil to the pearly skies and cold, moist air outside.

As we walk from the gallery, green light filters through the leaves and highlights the foliage around. Everything, like me, seems alert and alive. A light breeze loosens her hair making wisps of hair stray to the sides of her face.

At lunch, she steadily tells me of her abiding interest in art, literature and photography, her parents, her growing up years and of her finding her feet in the world of visuals. I love the luxurious warmth of her tone and I notice her lips have the faintest tinge of a burnished brown and that her neck is really long.

I barely see the other diners, a table of businessmen and many tables with couples. I am drawn instead to her hands, her unpainted nails. And I delight in the stillness to our afternoon, a sense of calm, both visual and sensual. “You are beautiful,” I tell her without preamble. “But not as glamorous as your photography subjects,” she says pertly. “Far more,” I convince her.

The progression of our where and when begins that day. We meet regularly, several times in one day and I photograph her in every which way the lights falls on her in a range of settings. And both of us get free with the details of our life. I show her my work, my art, travel, aerial and landscape photographs that I am proud of and she flatters me with attention and compliments.

”I know from papers that the women you have dated before are all passionate, insanely flammable in their temperaments and come from worlds twisted on its axis and a place of un-convention while I am singularly serious, self-contained in my emotions and steady in my habits. It is not as if my placidity is undisturbed or that I am not capable of profound and lucid madness but that’s on display for few people. And I don’t entertain passions within that don’t dazzle and blaze,” she confesses to me.

“Your temperance binds the glow of your passion and I am in awe of this ability of yours,” I convince her.

The day arrives when I feel its right to tell her. Ask her. A day in March, four months after our first meeting, when the sky is smudged with clouds and the half-light around makes me feel part of a watercolor landscape, a Monnet landscape. I know she likes days like this as well where even the appearance of the day shifts every moment and it’s only its surroundings that lend it constancy and meaning.

On this day, when the luminous effects of sunlight shows her up in a flattering light, I say to her softly, “I love to be the light that finds you.”

There is silence.

I wait aware of time, second by second. The slight tilt of her head, the tightening of the muscles in her neck makes me fear and think of closing apertures.

This until she responds, “I too would love to be the light that finds you.”

I say to her, “You have bereft me of all words, lady,” honoring my favorite Shakespearean lines and using the only words that I know to say of how I feel about her.

Butterflies

by Jenny Palmer

a glass of elderberry wine

It was a mystery to me how they got in. I normally keep all the windows closed from September onwards.  Yet sometimes in the middle of winter, they’ll collect at the window, frantically try to get out. This year they were particularly persistent. I opened the window as much as I could, without letting in too much cold air. It was still frosty outside. However much I coaxed them to exit, they just wouldn’t budge. They rested on the windowsill, fluttering about, hesitating, content to stay in the warm, for as long as I’d let them.

I read on Google that red butterflies are supposed to be a symbol of passion or a promise of years of happiness to come.  I would be happy to settle for the latter. In some cultures, they are a sign of evil or danger. In Scotland they were once believed to be witches in disguise. Other cultures thought they appeared when people needed to be careful and prepare for the unexpected to happen.

At first, I thought mine were Red Admirals, but Google claimed that there are only two varieties of red butterflies that come into houses to hibernate: the small Tortoiseshell and the Peacock. The Peacock can easily be identified by the large spots on its wings, so they weren’t that. The small Tortoiseshell is often confused with the Red Admiral because it has black and white tipped wings, but it also has yellow stripes and is more of an orange than a red. I settled on that.

The small Tortoiseshell enters houses in late summer or early autumn to hibernate for the winter when it’s warm outside. Our houses are cool, sheltered and dry. They’d happily stay inside all winter, but the trouble is, when the heating comes on, they sometimes get tricked into thinking that spring has come early and are desperate to escape and start feeding again. Hence the fluttering.

Whenever I see a trapped creature, my first instinct is to help it to escape. I’ll put towels in the bathtub so that spiders can scurry up them, rather than be washed down the plughole. I’ll scoop us slugs with a shovel from the kitchen floor and carefully deposit them outside, even though I have a horror of them. I once untangled a sheep from the fence, when it got its horns stuck in the wire. I can’t stand feeling trapped myself. If I need to stay indoors for any length of time, I go stir crazy. So self-isolation was always going to be a challenge.

 Of course, I’d take the government’s advice. None of us wants to die. If staying indoors would stop the virus spreading, then I was all for it. For me, it was simply a case of replenishing my already well-stocked larder.  I always have a two-week supply of food in the house, just in case it snows.  I’ve been caught out like that before. I’d buy in some extra tins of soup, and some milk and bread to freeze. I had enough of everything else. I wouldn’t be doing any panic-buying of toilet paper or anything like that.

The first couple of weeks would be a novelty, I imagined, a bit like being on holiday.  I could watch all the programmes I’d missed, on catch-up, and read the books I’d never got around to reading. There were lots of jobs about the house to be getting on with, like putting up shelves for  the extra books I’d bought, tidying up my papers into neat piles or sorting out clothes, ready to be taken to the charity shop. I’d keep in touch with the world via the Internet.  And there was always the phone, if I felt like communicating with the human voice.

To avoid being bombarded by news, I’d restrict myself to one news programme a day and perhaps one of analysis. To keep myself in the loop, I could try upping my Facebook usage, by liking more posts from friends. It would be hard because I’ve never been able to understand why people insist on posting so many photos of their cats, and I usually avoid signing petitions, on the grounds that they are presumptuous. 

There are three stages of development in the butterfly: the caterpillar or pupa stage, the chrysalis and the final adult stage. On average, the lifespan of the adult butterfly is only two weeks. In summer they live on the sap from trees, fermenting fruits and nectar from plants. There was plenty to eat on my garden as I’d made a point of planting nectar-rich plants such as buddleia, sedum and lavender to attract them. 

It’s a natural inclination for any living creature to be outside in spring. When I saw the butterflies struggling to get out, I couldn’t help but assist them.  I wafted them towards the window with a newspaper, careful not to damage their fragile wings. It took a while. As they approached the open window, they’d just fly back inside again.  Finally, I was able to release them and watched as they flew off in all directions. I’d done my good deed for that day. 

Only later did I learn the correct way to deal with butterflies that have woken up inadvertently in winter. You should catch them, put them in a cool cardboard box where they’ll settle down and then you can re-house them in a suitable location, in somewhere like a garage or an outdoor shed. There they’ll peacefully see out the remainder of their hibernation. Without nectar to feed on and with the cold, frosty nights that ensued, the ones that I’d freed, would not have stood much of a chance, and would most likely have died of starvation or the cold.

Me, I’m staying put and focusing on keeping myself occupied until the coast is clear.  I buy a newspaper, whenever I go out shopping, just to keep abreast of the situation. If the epidemic follows the normal pattern, the scientists tell us, it will peak in a few months’ time and eventually die out. I hope I can hold out that long.  The worst thing is not having someone close-at-hand to share it with, and the feeling of unreality that engenders. But when I start to feel like that, all I do is remember the butterflies and the feeling soon passes.

About the author

In June 2019, Jenny Palmer published her first collection of poetry called ‘Pendle Poems.’ She has also  published  two memoirs  ‘Nowhere better than home’ and ‘Pastures New’ and a family history book ‘Whipps, Watsons and Bulcocks.’  They are all available from the Pendle Heritage Centre, Barrowford and from No 10 Literature and Lifestyle, Ciitheroe. Her collection of short stories ‘Keepsake and other stories’ was published by Bridge House in 2018, and is available on Amazon in paperback and on Kindle. Many of her stories are on the Cafelit website.    ‘A59’, ‘Fatal Flaws’ and ‘The Visitors’ are in the Cafelit anthologies 3, 5 and 7. ‘The Visitors’ is also in the  Bridge House anthology ‘Citizens of Nowhere.’

The Journey (Sequel to It’s Your Time)

by Jenny Edgerley

pink lemonade

Mabel opened her eyes and found herself enveloped in swirling white mist, which smelt faintly of pear drops. She coughed, wafting at mist in front of her face. It slowly cleared to reveal a bus stop. Mabel was confused. She had no idea where she was. In the distance, she heard the rumbling of a large vehicle approaching. A vintage red bus came to a standstill in front of her. The doors slowly creaked open to reveal a liveried driver behind the wheel. 

“Morning love, you getting on then?” he asked cheerfully. 

Mabel paused for a moment, then climbed aboard. 

“I don’t have any money for a ticket,” she said, feeling embarrassed. “I seem to have lost my handbag.”

“No matter, madam. You don’t need a ticket for my bus,” the driver replied kindly. 

Mabel thanked him and made her way to an empty seat towards the rear. As she passed them, the other passengers smiled at her, which was surprising. It had been years since she’d travelled by bus and it had never been this friendly back then. She sat down and gazed out of the window. She noticed a young face staring back at her. It took a moment to realise it was her own reflection. This didn’t make any sense. Mabel knew she was an old woman. She had memories of living in a care home, she could remember losing her beloved husband Doug and the heartbreak she had felt so how was it possible that she was a young woman again.

Before she had a chance to question it further, the bus juddered to a halt. The doors protested noisily once again as they opened to allow a young woman to climb aboard. She didn’t have a handbag either, Mabel thought to herself. She didn’t buy a ticket and she looked bewildered at the other smiling passengers, which made Mabel smile too.

As the bus continued its journey, a flamboyantly dressed man appeared. He was wearing a white shirt with a ruffled collar, beneath a purple velvet suit and a pair of black patent Cuban heels. 

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, I am delighted to welcome you aboard the number 21 bus to the Pearly hotel. My name is St Peter but you can call me Pete. I know you will have many questions but hopefully the welcome brochure will answer all of them for you.”

“Excuse me sir,” interrupted a young man sitting a few seats ahead of Mabel. “I didn’t receive one?” Neither did I, she thought. 

“It’s in your hand, dear and please, call me Pete.”

Mabel looked down and sure enough in her hands was a bright and glossy brochure. Her heart raced as she read the front cover. Welcome to the Pearly Hotel - Your guide to heaven. “What?!” Mabel whispered, disbelievingly. 

“Now, I appreciate that this may come as a shock to you” said Pete sympathetically, “but please be assured that you are in very safe hands. We will be arriving at our destination, the Pearly hotel in an hour so please have a read and try to relax.”

Mabel was dumbstruck, but as she read, she began to feel calmer, especially when she came to the page about the hotel’s fantastic facilities.

Mabel sat back and relaxed. Out of the window, she saw occasional glimpses of the sea glistening in the sunshine,beyond the rolling green fields. It reminded Mabel of the first holiday she and Doug had spent together. She must have fallen asleep, because the next thing she knew, the bus had stopped. She opened her eyes and saw the most beautiful building set in glorious gardens.

She made her way to the front of the bus where Pete helped her down the steps. “There’s someone waiting for you over there,” Pete whispered in her ear. Mabel saw a young man sitting on a bench holding a bunch of carnations. She gasped and ran to him. He smiled and stood up to greet his beloved wife.