The Tramp

The Tramp

Roger Noons

a generous measure of Asbach Uralt

‘Margery, that old tramp’s here again, in the reading room.’

    ‘What’s he doing?’

    ‘Looking at books.’

    ‘Well, that’s what people come to a library for, to look at books.’ She ticked off two more reservations from the list. ‘What sort of books is he looking at?’

    ‘Art books, I think, big ones with pictures in.’

    ‘He’s not doing any harm is he?’

    ‘I suppose not, but he smells funny. I think he’s spilt thinners or paint stripper on his coat.’

    ‘Has anyone complained?’

    ‘He’s had some funny looks, but no-one’s said anything yet.’

    ‘Let me know if anyone objects and I’ll speak to him.’

***

‘Margery, I took some magazines back and I sneaked a look. He’s drawing as well, copying from the books, on to envelopes; naked women.’

    ‘He’s not defacing our books, is he?’

    ‘No, just drawing with a pencil. But he does smell and he’s very scruffy. I don’t think the others like him.’

    ‘I’ll go and have a word.’

***

 ‘Has he gone?’

    ‘Yes, I suggested that he had perhaps had his money’s worth and he should call it a day.’

    ‘What did he say?’

    ‘He shrugged and said OK. He thanked me for giving him the opportunity to pursue his studies and wished me good afternoon.’

    ‘Do you think he is a tramp?’

    ‘I don’t know, he had a cultured voice.’

***

 The old man left the library and walked the two hundred and fifty yards to a building behind the Co-op Funeral Directors. He slowly climbed the stairs and let himself in through a blue door.

    ‘Jacob, Mr Davies is here. He’s given me the five thousand.’

    ‘Thank you my dear.’ He went through to the studio. ‘Harold, how are you?’

    ‘Good to see you Jacob.’ The two men shook hands. ‘It’s a fine painting, the one on the easel.’

    ‘Thank you my friend. I just need to sign it, and you can take it with you.’

    As Harold Davies watched, his old friend strolled to the easel, selected a fine brush and after dipping it into a spot of red paint, on a small palette, signed L. Freud, in the bottom right hand corner.

Author 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.

Roger is a regular contributor to the CafeLit site and a couple of his stories have been selected for the Best of CafeLit 2012.

The Bath ‘O’ Matic

The Bath ‘O’ Matic

Trevor Belshaw

Water with bubbles

Sir Oswald Hennessy opened the door to his workshop and stood aside to allow his guests to enter.

Once inside, Mrs Henrietta Parkin laid a gloved hand on the arm of her host. 'This is so tremendously exciting, Sir Oswald. It's such an honour to be the first to see your latest invention.'

Sir Oswald took a puff on his cigar and smiled.

'I think this one will prove to be a roaring success,' he said. 'We call it the Bath O Matic.'

Sir Oswald sipped at his brandy and waved a hand towards his latest steam powered machine.

'There are still one or two little issues to be sorted out, but we're more or less ready to give it a thorough testing.'

Henrietta studied the device intently. The machine was gunmetal grey, circular in shape and stood some four feet high. Rows of metal rivets ran around the circumference. There was a double door at the back with a rubber seal and a hole at the top just big enough to allow a head to poke through. It was fed by a series of pipes from a compact boiler in the corner of the room.

'So, this Bath O Matic is … personal bathing and massage machine?' Henrietta was fascinated.

'It is exactly that, madam.' said Sir Oswald proudly. He opened the rear doors to allow his guests to see the interior of the machine.

Inside, there was a small seat and two levers. Fixed to the front wall, about three feet apart, were a pair of foot pedals. Protruding from all sides of the machine were hundreds of tiny brushes on thin retractable handles.

'It works like this,' said sir Oswald. 'The bather sits down and places their feet on the two pedals at the front. I readily admit that this is not a very ladylike position to take up, but we haven't been able to find a better place to situate them.' Sir Oswald averted his eyes from the blushing Henrietta and continued.

'The steam level is set by the use of the two levers. Pulling the right hand lever adds more steam whilst pulling the left hand one will allow some of the steam to be removed from the cabinet. On the top here, to the left of the bather, is a temperature gauge. On the right is a speaking tube, so that the bather can call for assistance if needed. Liquid soap is dispensed through this aperture here. The foot pedals are used to control the speed and intensity of the brushes.'

'It all sounds very complex,' said Mr Parkin. 'Do you really think it will catch on?'

'My dear fellow, I'm convinced of it,' replied Sir Oswald. 'It hasn't been fully tested yet but I'm actively seeking a volunteer. The servants run a mile if I approach them.'

'I'll do it,' blurted Henrietta. 'I love the idea of working on a new invention.'

'I couldn't ask you my dear,' said Sir Oswald.' I was going to advertise for a tester.'

'Oh Please,' cried Henrietta. 'I do so want to help.'

'Are you sure, Old girl?' said Mr Parkin. 'It all looks a bit awkward to me.'

'Do let me, Henry,' said Henrietta.' It's such an exciting idea.'

Sir Oswald led Henrietta to a side room and ordered the maid to bring a dressing gown and towels.

'I'll see you when you're safely ensconced,' he said.

Henrietta undressed quickly and slipped on the dressing gown. A couple of minutes later she walked into the workshop and sat down in the Bath O Matic. The maid closed the rear doors and wrapped a towel around her neck to stop the steam escaping.

The maid left the room and Sir Oswald's voice came from the tube next to Henrietta's ear.

'Right oh, Old thing, start her up.'

Henrietta pulled the right hand lever until the steam gauge read, 'hot,' then she began to pedal.

'It's working,' she called excitedly.

I'll leave you to it now, Henrietta. Call when you're ready to come out.'

Sir Oswald patted Mr Parkin on the shoulder and refilled his brandy glass. 'Don't worry, Old chap, she'll be fine.'

Henrietta pedalled slowly as the soft chamois brushes gently soaped her skin.

'OOH,' she giggled, 'that tickles. Ooh, haha, Oooooooh.'

As she pedalled harder, clusters of tiny brushes began to soap her chest and thighs.

'Ooh I say, this is....Ooh...OOOOOOOOOH.'

Fifteen minutes later, a bedraggled looking Henrietta staggered through the sitting room door. She was dressed in a long, thick dressing gown. Her damp hair hung around her shoulders and her eyes sparkled like wet diamonds. She took a deep breath, puffed out her cheeks and collapsed on the carpet.

As Mr Parkin rushed across the room towards her, Henrietta lifted her head and gasped, 'Henry, you must buy me a Bath O Matic.

Author Bio

To find out more about the author check out these links:

Website: http://www.trevorbelshaw.com

Wordpress Blog: http://www.trevorbelshaw.com/blog

Children's Writing Website: http://www.trevorforest.com

Twitter @tbelshaw

Facebook Trevor Belshaw http://www.facebook.com/trevor.belshaw

Cut to the End

Cut to the End

Charlie Britten

Cafe Au Lait

Earphones are an effective device for blotting out the rest of the world. My mother stands in my room, opening and shutting her mouth like a goldfish. ‘Switch that thing off,’ she says, and I wonder how I know that. Can I do telepathy now?  With my mum?  This is scary, so much so I switch off my iPod, even though I am in the middle of ‘Neutron Star Collision’ by Muse, which is truly amazing.

‘We’re on holiday, Matthew. In France. You can listen to your music at home. Now, are you ready?’ 

‘I told you. I'm not going.’

‘Come on, love. We’re all ready to set off. Dad and Steph are waiting. We’re going to have a nice family day out.’

‘At a museum?’

‘You’ll like it when you get there.’

‘Why would I want to go to a D-Day museum?  Why do you, Mum?’

‘It’ll be very interesting.’  She sits down on my unmade bed and then stands up again. ‘Come on. You can't stay here by yourself.’

‘I'm all right.’ 

‘No.’ She draws in her breath and blows it out again. ‘It’s so stuffy in here. You never open windows, do you?’  Her face has become flushed, droplets of water forming on her forehead.

The sun pours through the dusty casement; a river of sweat trickles down the cleft of my spine, making my black t-shirt cling like a damp cloth to my back and to the sticky patch on my wrist.

‘Change into something cooler, Matthew. Black absorbs the heat. I packed you a couple of light-coloured Ts.’ 

I wince at the word ‘Ts’; is that what they call them in M&S?  Anyway, black is what I wear: black T-shirts, black jeans, black hoody, black hair dye. ‘I'm all right,’ I say again.

We both hear Dad shouting outside, something about a bottle having leaked and ‘made a mess’ in the car. Mum goes out to speak to him, but my sister Steph appears in her place, as if the two are working shifts. ‘Move it, Matthew. Now. They’re waiting.’

‘You don’t want to go to this museum.’

‘I do, actually.’

‘Why?  You’re not Dad. You’re not into war films and all that death and glory stuff. I'm joining CND.’

‘Can you afford the membership fee?  You owe Mum £5 for the last gig you went to. Just get your arse into Dad’s car.’  She reaches for my hand, pushing back the cuff of my black T-shirt.

‘Leave me alone.’  Snatching my hand back, I pull my sleeve down over my wrist.

‘What have you done?’ 

Her eyes scan my room, but my safety pin lies deep in my jeans pocket.

‘I scratched myself on the brambles in the yard.’

‘Yeah, right.’  She looks straight at me but I turn away.

‘If you insist on not going and spoiling everybody’s day, I'm staying with you.’

I suppose I always knew I'd have to give in eventually. I rummage around under my bed for my trainers. ‘I don't know why you come on a family holiday. You’re a student.’

‘I haven't got any money, have I?  And Mum and Dad offered to pay for me.’

‘When I'm nineteen, I'll be on the road with my metal band.’

‘Right.’

I bump my head on the kitchen door lintel as I walk outside. It hurts. Being tall is annoying.

‘Would you like to sit in the front with me, Matthew?’ asks Dad, as he attempts to fold up the map, but the gentlest of breezes flaps it around his hands like a duvet-cover on a rotary-drier. Taking it from him, Mum smoothes it out in a few firm movements, all the time talking to Steph about how many calories there might be in pain au chocolat.

‘I don’t mind.’  I sit in the back with Steph.

‘All aboard for Arromanches and the D-Day Museum,’ says Dad as he starts the engine.

I cringe. So does Steph.

We drive along straight French roads, through pine forest, families sitting at picnic tables, children running around amongst the trees and scrambling over stumps and logs, as Steph and I used to do in England. For a moment, I feel the springy bracken under my feet, bits of bark in my shoe and dusty mud between my toes. Afterwards we would eat squashed, peanut butter sandwiches, clammy and glue-y, washed down with a little box of Sainsbury’s pure orange juice.

Having parked in one of the many car parks at Arromanches, we walk along the promenade, gulls ‘caw-caw-ing’ above our heads. Then Dad stops dead, thrusting his arm out in front of him, almost knocking off Steph’s sunglasses. ‘Look. Look. Mulberry Platforms.’  He turns to me. ‘You do realise how significant these were, don't you?’  Before I can even draw breath, he tells me - again - about Hugh Iorys Hughes building portable landing platforms so that the Allies could invade France. Blah, blah, blah.

It’s like a demolition site, lumps of rusting metal and concrete on the beach and in the sea. French families swim around them, using them as diving platforms and spreading their beach towels over them. It’s a hot day.

‘Hugh Iorys Hughes was Welsh by the way.’  Dad’s mother is from the Valleys. He bigs this up, has done ever since the World War Two craze took him over.

We have to wait in a queue to enter The D-Day Museum, alongside wall-displays of uniforms stiff with age, yellowed wartime notices in blotchy typescript, gas masks, photographs of men with round, horn-rimmed glasses and brylcremed hair, standing behind bulky pieces of equipment. ‘Fascinating, fascinating,’ says Dad, pushing his glasses down his nose. I move my weight from one foot to the other. It’s all so old, a miasma of Dad-ness. My wrist throbs under new scars. I notice that my cuff sticks to newly dried blood.

Mum and Steph stand together chatting, pointing at things and laughing. They have this joke about generals in war films moving canes over maps and saying in cut-glass accents, ‘We’re-ah here-ah. The enemy’s there-ah. And we’re going to obliterate the blight-ahs.’  It was funny the first time.

Inside the museum at last, a bald-headed Frenchman talks through the events of D-Day, pointing with a ruler at a papier-mache model of Arromanches. ‘Nous sommes ici, ici, et ici, et les Nazis, voila!’  Mum and Steph dissolve into giggles; every so often they press their lips together and look serious, but seconds later their mouths pucker again. Whose side are they on?  

I glance at Dad, but he’s so caught up in it all that he doesn't notice, which is perhaps as well. For a while I'm really pissed off with them. We’re doing this for Dad, aren’t we? It’s his thing, isn't it? But the museum goes on and on, more and more rooms and exhibits, another storey, yet another video. Dad has to see everything.

At last, lunch, open air and sunshine, cafe table legs scraping against the pavement. The waitress furrows her brow as Dad orders in English; he gets cross when she brings tiny cups of espresso, instead of what he calls ‘proper coffee’. I tighten my knuckles under the table. Mum leans across the table murmuring, ‘Grand’, but Dad shakes his head at her. ‘Bigger.’ He draws his hands apart as if he were playing the accordion. ‘And... With.... Milk.’

‘Cafe au lait,’ I say to my feet.

‘What’s that, Matthew?’ Dad turns on me, raising his eyebrows.

‘Nothing.’

‘Better not be.’  As we finish eating, he takes another brochure out of his pocket and opens it out on the table. ‘Now, the ‘Arromanches 360 Cinema’. It says here that ‘This circular theatre with nine screens shows the film ‘The Price of Freedom’, which mixes contemporary news-reel images from war correspondents with pictures from the present day. There is no spoken commentary, just the sounds and noise of D-Day.’’

I don’t say anything. All I do is curl my lip about a millimetre.

Dad leaps out of his chair and storms out the cafe, leaving Mum to pay. In the car park, he shouts at me, ‘What’s the matter with you?  What were you going to do this morning that was so much more interesting?’ 

Silence.

Dad’s furious eyes bore a hole into my face. ‘Well?’

‘I don’t know.’ 

‘Why are you like this?  What do you want?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know!  You don’t know anything!’  I jerk my head backwards; it’s what I always do when I'm told off, even though it’s uncomfortable. ‘Get into the car!  You will see this!’

In dreadful silence we drive about a mile, to a bunker-like building half-submerged in cliff top. I wander away from the others, across the grass area which slopes down to the sea, grateful for the offshore breeze blowing on to my face. An elderly couple smile at me and say something in French. They must think I'm normal, but my wrist still smarts. I touch the safety pin in my pocket.

Inside the ‘Arromanches 360 Cinema’, it’s standing-room only, with metal crash barriers, like an old fashioned football ground, but our family and that elderly French couple make up the whole audience. The screen extends almost all round the auditorium, so when the lights go out, images of D-Day bear down upon us from everywhere, truly 360 degrees, soldiers in khaki and the tat-tat-tat of gunfire, buildings dissolving in smoke and fire, the view from an aircraft with the ground rising up and down. Makes you dizzy. I reach out for the metal crash barrier. Dad jerks his head round to stare at me.

They ride through a field, which changes into a modern town. Germans in grey uniforms surrender to teenage Allied soldiers, watched by ragged French villagers, who cheer and cry at the same time. In the auditorium, I hear a gulp: the elderly French couple are sobbing, easy tears flowing down their cheeks unchecked. She taps me on the arm and points to her chest, saying in stilted English, ‘Me, I... was... here.’

I nod, my father also; he draws in his breath to say something in reply but doesn't.

More images of Allied soldiers now, scared faces under their round metal helmets, dirty and exhausted. For a moment I think I recognise one of the sixth-formers at school. Seventy years ago, this is what sixth-formers looked forward to. This would have been me if I had lived in the 1940s.

My father is still watching me, but I don't care. It’s all too much, in the same way that listening to ‘The End’ by ‘The Doors’ blows your mind, because you know you can never create anything as big, never do what they do, only glimpse at something massive. With my finger, I trace the outline of that safety pin, the loop at the bottom, the rounded catch at the top. The soldiers’ faces have scratches on their faces, but they didn't do it to themselves, because they were bored, or because their family weren’t cool.

We leave the ‘Arromanches 360 Cinema’ in silence, Dad walking on ahead of us, his shoulders sagging, his head cast down. I quicken my pace, about to join him, but he doesn't look at me.

‘Let's have another coffee,’ says Mum, forcing a smile.

‘No,’ mutters Steph, ‘not that again.’ 

Nevertheless we follow her across the road to the nearest cafe. Leaving them hovering outside, I walk into the gloomy interior, pushing past wooden chairs with tired paint and bare tables with just ashtrays on them. A waiter polishes glasses behind the bar, his eyes intent on the television in the corner, watching a games show with lots of canned laughter.

‘Café du lait, s’il vous plait,’ I say. ‘Quatre.’ 

Nodding, he reaches over to the coffee machine. ‘A la table?’

‘Merci bien.’

I rejoin my family outside. Dad peruses one of the leaflets we picked up today, pages rustling as he turns them. Mum and Steph have stopped chattering; I wish they’d say something. Anything. The sound of my heart pumping blood around my body is deafening, throbbing through the scratches on my wrist, which have reached the smarting, sore stage. I pull down my sleeve.

Then Dad raises his head. Simultaneously Mum, Steph and I draw in our breath and hold it.

‘You’ve ordered?’ Dad says.

‘Yeah,’ I reply, exhaling again.

‘In French?’

‘Obviously.’

‘Well done.’  He smiles. ‘You’re a good linguist, you are.’  He holds the smile until his face muscles must've ached. He looks down at what he had been reading, then at me again. ‘What did you...? How did you...?’  He taps the brochure.

‘It was okay.’

Still smiling, he nods. ‘Yes. It was okay. Wasn't it?’

On the way back to the car, I throw the safety pin into the gutter.

Author Bio

Charlie Britten has contributed to ‘FictionAtWork’, ‘The Short Humour Site’, ‘Mslexia’, ‘Linnet’s Wings’, CafeLit, ‘Radgepacket’.  She writes because she loves doing it and belongs to two British online writing communities.

All Charlie’s work is based in reality, with a strong human interest element.  Although much of her work is humorous, she has also written serious fiction, about the 7/7 Bombings in London and attitudes to education before the Second World War. 

Charlie Britten lives in southern England with her husband and cat.  In real life, she is an IT lecturer at a college of further education.

Charlie’s blog, ‘Write On’, is at http://charliebritten.wordpress.com/

Bad Boy

Bad Boy

Yezall Strongheart

Black Tie

A traditional Thai Iced Tea, which is a spicy and sweet mixture of chilled black tea, orange blossom water, star anise, crushed tamarind sugar and condensed milk or cream, with a double shot of espresso

It was one of those really hot days, when the air was so thick it was hard to breathe.  I lay in bed with a fan aimed at my face.  Every window and door was open, and I could see all the way to the front door.  There leaned with his back against the door jam, was Marco smoking a cigarette.  I hated it when he smoked; it made his mouth taste bad.  Sweat rolled down his tanned cheek from his hairline, dripping on the shirtless bronze chest of this Greek god of a figure.  When his hand came up to take the cigarette from his mouth, the muscles rippled in his bigger-than-my-head tattooed bicep.  His jeans hung slightly slanted at his hips; maybe it was the way he stood.  The jeans were so tight that you would be able to bounce a nickel off his ass, and he didn't have to be hard for you to know what else he was packin'.  No shoes and I watched as his toes rolled a bottle cap on the concrete of the stairs, aimlessly.  He stared out into the bright sun, squinting a little, smoking.

        Our life together wasn't bad, we didn't have a lot, but we had each other.  Marco did odd jobs, worked on people's cars, whatever he could find.  I did nails and hair for the neighborhood, I charged way less than the salons, it was enough to cover some supplies and still make a little money. Between that, food stamps, and the local food pantry, we almost always made our rent on time.

          We would try to stay cool until the sun went down.  Then after washing the soot of the city off of us, we would meet our friends in the street.  In the dark by the streetlight, we'd gather.  The boys would tell stories, real or imagined, as they kept an arm possessively around their girl. All of us were poor, and yet somehow, there was always money for beer. The boys would get louder and more aggressive as the night wore on, depending on how much beer they could buy with the money they pooled together.  The fight was usually over something very stupid, and thankfully, it wasn't every time that someone was hurt.   It was either that or the girls would get put on display in some fashion, as if to say, ‘Hey man, look what I got to take home.’  A grab of a breast or an ass cheek was the usual exhibit.  Our self-respect was determined on how our men bragged about us sexually.  Emotions were raw on the street; little was left to the imagination. Some of the girls were embarrassed inside, but they would never show it.  They had to laugh along with everyone else when their man demonstrated how she sounded in bed.

        It was when the night ended that I sometimes became afraid.  When Marco had too much to drink, he was mean.  He would imagine that I smiled at one of his friends, or whispered to them.  Those nights he would run his fingers into my hair and ball his fist.  He would lead me home by my hair, yanking his hand and swearing.  I had to be very careful to keep my eyes down when we were around the other boys.  The littlest thing would set him off, thinking I disrespected him in front of his boys.   Most of the time he gave me bruises where no one would see, but he has been careless before and left me with a swollen eye more than once.

        On other nights, he couldn't keep his hands off me.  He would stop to kiss me several times on the way home and shove his big hands up my sides under my shirt.  I was embarrassed and saw people looking.  He told me that they were just jealous; I don't know maybe they were.  He was so drunk one night, and in a good mood, that he had sex with me on the outside stairs to our building. I remember the concrete stair step cutting into my back, as he forced his way inside me.  He said nobody saw us.  He was quick that night so maybe he was right.

        I hope this day will bless us with a breeze or rain and cool things down. This is a special day.  I will wait until darkness cloaks the city again and our world condenses to the street where we live. I need the intimacy it brings. I will make him a special dinner of his favorite, mac and cheese with hamburger. I planned this for a Thursday, because tomorrow he will have money and he will use it for beer. I have to be extra careful today and make sure he doesn't drink too much.  I need him to be in a good mood.  Not for the reason you think.  I have news for him.  He's going to be a father.

Author Bio

Yezall Strongheart is an independent self-published author, having nine books to her credit on Amazon from how to build your own corset to young adult, and erotica. Having published her tenth book with Horny Devil Publishing, she is now more of a hybrid author. After winning first place in a poem contest early in her writing experience, she was captivated. A majority of her books end with a happily-ever-after, but it's the journey to get there that makes each book a rich experience. She lives with the love of her life and their three furry babies in Texas.

Website http://yezallstrongheart.weebly.com

Neanderthal Man

Neanderthal Man

Jenny Palmer

Mann's brown ale 

Jackie had been working on the idea for some time. She’d done all the research. Technology had worked out that they were shorter and stockier than us, by and large. Their heads were a different shape, less rounded.  The bone structure on the right arm was thinner than on the left. This was due, it was currently thought, not to their habit of throwing spears, as had previously been thought,  but because they used their right arm for scraping animal skins which they then wore as clothes.  A woolly mammoth’s skin would certainly be warm, Jackie thought. But they’d have to kill one first. No mean feat.  

            Jackie had embraced the idea that European humans and Neanderthals shared up to as much as four percent of their genes, whereas Keith didn’t like it at all.  It meant that the two species must have interbred at some stage in their evolution. But he’d agreed to do the genetic test, reluctantly.

            ‘I don’t like where this is going,’ he said, when the results of the genetic scan finally came out. Jackie suspected that what he didn’t like was the revelation that his Neanderthal gene count, at three and a half percent, was higher than hers at two and a half per cent.

            Jackie was not deterred. She had been working towards this final manifestation for years. It was all so amazing. Scientists had finally cracked the Neanderthal genetic code. Why wasn’t Keith interested? They could calculate the age of an individual from its teeth of all things. They could see how much a tooth had grown from one week to the next, from one day to another, even.  Neanderthal babies grew at a much faster rate than those of Homo sapiens.  That was because they had to survive in harsher conditions while humans could take their time and learn things on the way.  It was why our brains had developed more.

***

Keith had always thought of himself as the cleverer in the relationship. He was a historian, the older of the two and had been the first to get his professorship. 

            ‘Men have come a long way since the days of cave men,’ he had commented when he’d first met Jackie at the Faculty party. She had seemed suitably impressed and one thing had led to another.  

            That first encounter with Jackie had set off a train of thought. Keith had started including gender roles in his articles. The territory wasn’t exclusive to women. Men had something to say about the development of the human psyche since the days of hunting and gathering.

            These days they often weren’t the main breadwinner. He had experienced it himself when Jackie had started earning more than he did. She was guaranteed a job because her subject was more popular, he told himself.  He’d written about how human lives weren’t determined by biology any more. It was good to hear a man saying it and his article had gone down well with the public. It had proved that historians weren’t just stuck in the past. 

              He’d followed it up with an article about the effects of the industrial revolution on women, on how it had liberated them from the drudgery of housework and the slavery of the kitchen. He’d written about how the First World War had helped women get the vote. When they had stepped in to do a man’s job they had proved themselves trustworthy and showed what they were capable of.   His articles had showed how much gender roles had changed in the modern world. He’d thought Jackie would be pleased but she’d barely commented on them.

            All Keith ever heard about these days was Jackie’s work.  Why couldn’t she leave it at the university like everyone else? She was for ever telling him about the latest developments in her field.  He’d never said anything for fear of causing an argument but sometimes it felt like she was, well, boasting. It was like she wanted to rub it in how well she was doing.  It was enough to know her work was in the forefront of science and technology. He didn’t need to hear about it all the time.  

            So he’d gone along with the genetic test. She’d never have let him forget it if he hadn’t.  But constructing a life-size facsimile of Neanderthal man on their kitchen floor was, in his opinion, a step too far. To add insult to injury Jackie had actually asked him to pose for it.

            ‘It’s just to get an idea of the proportions,’ she’d said. 

            ‘How can my proportions help, for God’s sake!' he’d protested.  ‘Surely they could have come up with something in the computer graphics department.’

             But Jackie had insisted.

            ‘It’ll make it more life-like,’ she’d said. ‘There is only so much we can do on a computer. We can guess the bone structure but we have to put the skeleton together and stick on the clay by hand.

            ‘Yes, but in our kitchen?’ he’d protested.

            So there the thing was in the middle of the kitchen whenever he came down to breakfast. It wasn’t that bad while Jackie was still working on the torso but once she’d put the head on, it had started to feel weird.  It was as if the creature was watching his every move: putting his cornflakes in the bowl, pouring on the milk, chewing even.  It felt as if he couldn’t do anything without being stared at. 

            ‘You’re just being paranoid,’ Jackie told him. ‘It’s only bone and clay when it comes down to it and a bit of Plaster of Paris.’

            When Keith analysed it and finally pinpointed the problem it was the fact that the creature bore an uncanny resemblance to himself that irked him. Surely Neanderthal men were structurally different from humans. He had this over-riding sensation that Jackie was trying to supplant him in some way by creating another version of him, one that she could mould and shape as she wished.  She barely even talked to him these days so intent was she on finishing the project.   She’d get home from work and start straight away.  She’d devote the rest of the evening to her creation. . She never cooked these days.  He had to get his own meals.   

            It was this last episode that finally clinched it.  She’d already covered the creature’s body in skin from head to toe. All there remained to be done was to insert the hair. One night when he was just dropping off to sleep, he caught her with a pair of tweezers about to pluck out the hairs from his chest. 

            ‘What the hell do you think you are doing?’ he shouted. ‘This has gone quite far enough. It’s Neanderthal or me.’

             And without further ado he marched into the kitchen, grabbed the first thing he could lay his hands on and set about demolishing his likeness.

  

Author Bio

Jenny Palmer returned to her native Lancashire in 2008. In 2012 she published her childhood memoir called Nowhere better than home  about growing up in rural Lancashire in the 1950s and 60s. She continues to write short stories, poems and articles on local history.  

The Last Laugh

The Last Laugh

Alison Peden

Cointreau and Lemonade (Mum’s favourite tipple)

Abandoning my car in front of the A&E department, I raced in. She was already in the resuscitation area, hidden behind a curtain. I heard a nurse say, 'We've got a DOA'. I'd watched enough TV programmes to know what that meant. My heart lurched as I realised there was more than a curtain between me and the woman who had given me life.

The medics continued to work on her empty, lifeless body. Eventually I could no longer watch and I begged them to stop.

'Just one more try,' pleaded my aunt, who had joined me behind the curtain. We held hands, gripping tightly to each other, as if fearing that letting go might result in one of us being drawn closer to death.

The medics pushed and pressed her body one more time, but we all knew it was futile.

Once it was all over we were led away to a private area; other members of our family had collected in there expecting the worst.

We hovered, unsure of the correct protocol, still shocked and confused by the events of the evening. Eventually a nurse called us into another room. On a small white hospital bed, covered in a thin, green blanket, my mother lay peacefully, with no evidence of the trauma she had endured. All of us sat around the bed, whilst she lay in her final place of rest. She looked asleep, and we spoke in quiet tones, as if afraid we might disturb her.

Over time the volume of our voices increased, as the situation became more normal. We stopped going over what had happened that night and began to reminisce about happier times.

There was a gentle knock at the door, and a young policeman poked his head round, clearly anxious not to intrude on our grief. He checked his paperwork was in order and asked if we wanted him to remove my Mum’s wedding band. I nodded and he began to pull, gently at first, then more forcefully. The ring was stuck fast and he looked flustered and concerned. A voice piped up from behind me],

“If you suck her finger, that will make it easier to slip off.”

The complete horror on his young face was enough to send a ripple of laughter through the room. He hurriedly finished his paperwork and practically ran away.

All the time in that room, I had a strong sense of my mother’s presence, and I know she would have enjoyed the warped humour so typical of our family.

Too soon the nurse informed us it was time to go. I left reluctantly, feeling that I was abandoning her, so powerful was my belief that she was there with us enjoying the last laugh.

Author Bio

Alison Peden is married with three daughters, a stepson and a beautiful granddaughter. She spends much of her spare time writing short stories.

A Different Kind of Breakfast

A Different Kind of Breakfast

Olivia Smith

Double vodka and coke

Tapping my nails on the bar, one of them instantly snaps off. The bare nail now exposed, just sad traces of glue left clinging to it. Darren always says my acrylics look cheap, with football shirts and a beer belly being the only fashion statement he’s made recently, his style advice goes on ignored. I realise the girl behind the bar is purposely ignoring me, she’s a sad looking thing really, mousey brown hair and an outfit fitting for a librarian. In a thinly veiled attempt at getting her attention, I loudly clear my throat. She pretends not to hear. Every man in this place is looking at me and yet I have to go out of my way to get this virgin’s attention.

‘Excuse me, sweetheart,’ a saccharine smile etched on my face. She sidles over, head pointed to the ground. ‘I’ll have a double vodka and coke please.’ She stares back at me blankly.

‘Maam, its 9:30 in the morning.’

‘Fine and a bowl of cereal then,’ I sarcastically respond. Embarrassed, she pours my drink in silence, over compensating with the amount of vodka poured, I think I like this girl after all.

Sensing a pair of eyes boring into me, I turn round to trace their owner.  Across the bar stands a man; flashy suit, orange tan and veneers that threaten to blind. I politely smile; he unfortunately mistakes my good manners as an invitation to come over. Briefcase in hand, he may as well have ‘wanker’ scrawled across his face.

‘Hi,’ he remarks. Tired of him already, I make no efforts to acknowledge his presence. His eyes travel down to my chest; the ogling eyes making me wish I hadn’t put quite so much padding in my bra this morning. ‘How are you?’

‘Good,’ I force myself to reply. He quickly turns his head, presumably to check he’s not being watched.

‘How about you let me buy you that drink?’ My early morning alcoholism apparently not a turn off.

‘No, thank you,’ I reply. He produces a £50 note from his pocket and slides it in my direction. Sexual propositions practically a part of my daily routine at this point.

‘You know, it really is a shame you won’t let me buy you that drink.’ He thumbs the note that so offensively rests on the bar top. I stand up straight, towering over him in my six inch stilettos.

‘Dear, the only real shame,’ I whisper delicately into his ear, ‘is that your mother decided against your abortion.’ Mouth hanging open, he goes to say something then thinks better of it, promptly putting the money back in his pocket and heading to the door.

My phone starts to buzz; I read the message on the screen. It’s Darren saying he’s almost here. I feel oddly calm, maybe it’s my inner confidence shining through... maybe it’s the double vodka. Either way, I feel ready for what’s to come. In he walks; I can tell he’s attempted to make an effort, a checked shirt presumably purchased at Primark and jeans that, for a change, don’t have any holes in them, just a noticeable ketchup stain right down the front.

‘Hi Sweetie,’ I say, kissing him on the cheek. I lean in to kiss him again on the lips but the gesture is not returned. Staring at me, I can see him trying to quash his annoyance.

‘What are you wearing?’ he blurts out, catching me off guard.

‘What? You told me to make an effort for your parents.’ I say, attempting to defend my dress and heels.

‘No, that’s not what I said. I said don’t come dressed as a tart and here you are looking like a bloody prostitute!’

‘A high class one though.’ I joke, trying to change the mood.

‘Look, my parents are already having a hard enough time dealing with this. You don’t need to rub it in their faces.’ I can feel myself turning red under the mask of makeup I so generously applied.

‘I guess I could go home if you want,’ I say, staring at the floor, ‘I could get changed.’

Darren realises he’s upset me. ‘No, no it’s fine. You look cracking, it’s just me, I’m just nervous that’s all.’ He takes my hand and guides me out of the bar, I grab him tightly.

The taxi ride is silent, with the driver seemingly preoccupied, staring at us both in the mirror. I catch his gaze; he just smiles back looking somewhat embarrassed. As we pull up outside of the restaurant; I spot the breakfast buffet through the windows. ‘Maybe you could just wait here for a moment.’ Darren says, staring at the floor of the taxi, a discarded ten pence piece resting there.

‘And why would I do that?’

‘Look, just please. I’ll just go in, say hi to them and then you can follow. Please.’

I shrug my shoulders. ‘Fine then, I’ll just wait outside like some scruffy little dog.’

Darren makes his way inside. As I stand on the pavement, a deafening wolf whistle is sounded in my direction from a passing car; the blaring sound recently becoming the accompanying soundtrack to my life. Deciding Darren has had long enough to prepare his parents, I saunter on in. I can hear the clicking of my shoes against the floor. Sat in the corner I spot them, a fairly unfortunate looking couple to say the least. Darren’s father is the spitting image of his son, with the exception of a greying moustache and a slightly more protruding stomach. His mother, oh my, a plump little thing whose mere presence makes you feel a bit sad. The kind of woman you presume has so little intimacy in her life she classes visiting the gyno as a date.

‘Mr and Mrs Lloyd it’s an absolute pleasure to meet you both.’ I stretch out my hand for them to shake, ‘And can I say you both look lovely.’ A bold red lipstick and an ability to lie being a must have for any social occasion.

‘Mum, Dad,’ Darren chimes in ‘This is...’

‘Oh,’ Darren’s father awkwardly laughs, ‘I’m sure we can guess who this is.’ Unsure how to take that comment, I take a seat instead. Everyone shovels food into their mouths, grateful for the opportunity not to have to speak. I watch as Darren’s fathers eyes move up and down me, finally resting on my neck and staring intently.

‘So,’ I say, desperate to abate the hideousness that is this breakfast. ‘What is it you both do?’ They desperately look at one another, hoping the other will answer first, as the silence grows increasingly more uncomfortable Darren’s mother ends it.

‘Well, we’re both retired now, so not a great deal really. And what about you? Do you work?’

I pause for a moment, contemplating how to answer this. ‘I did yes, I worked as a nurse for many years but due to recent changes in my personal life they decided it was best to let me go.’ His parents don’t let their intrigue get the better of them. Both politely nodding but showing this is as much as they are willing to hear.

The four of us exit the restaurant, leaving behind half eaten croissants and prying eyes. We stand there awkwardly unsure how to act. I take the lead and grab Darren’s mother’s hand. It seems so tiny compared to mine as I cup it, delicately.

‘It was lovely to finally meet you.’ She smiles at me, the same fake smile that I too have mastered, so perfectly, over the years. We exchange pleasantries and move like puppets, social expectations being our guiding puppeteer. Darren’s father bobs his head at me.

‘Well it’s been good meeting you. In all honesty I’ve never met one before.’

‘He means we’ve never met any of Darren’s previous partners before.’ Darren’s mother interjects. I choose to dismiss the comment and promptly hail a taxi.

Later that night we start getting ready for bed. I take off my makeup, the wipes transitioning from white to a combination of peach and black. I observe my reflection, the strong jaw line and crooked nose. Rifling through my wardrobe I finally find an outfit to wear for the next day’s job interview. Darren walks in and sees the clothes on the bed.

‘Looks like a good choice.’

‘Looks like bull shit if you ask me.’ I can’t hide my resentment, I blame it on the clothes but I know my anger rests with the situation. The grey pants and blazer, a hideously dull shirt and tie. Darren puts his arms around me to cheer me up.

‘Let’s go to bed, ay? Big day tomorrow.’ We get in bed, his warm body cuddling into mine.

‘Good night Darren.’ I say kissing the nape of his neck.

‘Good night Martin,’ he delicately replies.

Author Bio

Olivia Smith is an aspiring writer in her final year at Salford University, studying English and creative writing. English has been a passion of hers since a very young age and she aspires to be a published writer.