The Envelope

by Jenny Palmer  

wormwood

‘Open the envelope,’ said Leo, handing it to Romaine.

            ‘No. You open it,’ she said. ‘It’s for you anyway.’ 

‘Well, hang on a minute,’ he said. ‘I need to wash my hands first.’

It was an official-looking letter. Leo had an inkling of what it might be. He’d applied for a passport some time ago. After living and working in England all his adult life, he wanted to visit his country of origin before it was too late.  

When he’d first met Romaine, she’d been working in the community café down the High Street. That was in the days when there still was a community, before the area got divided up into postcodes and the kids started knifing each other.

The café had been her home from home. As well as serving food, there was a bookshop, literacy classes, a writing group, and twice a week they dished out free legal advice, which Leo had once had occasion to avail himself of. He’d stayed on to have a meal in the café and ever after that, whenever his shifts allowed.

‘Hurry up, will you?’ Romaine was shouting from the kitchen. ‘Dinner is nearly ready.’

He’d been looking forward to dinner with some anticipation. Of late Romaine had been experimenting with new recipes. She’d taken to watching cooking programmes on television and then trying out their suggestions. It meant searching around for ingredients and, as often as not, she would end up having to substitute them with something else. It defeated the purpose, he always thought. Of late her tastes were getting more and more outrageous. Last week he’d caught her watching a programme about Peruvian cooking, where they were serving piranha fish. The sight of those upturned fish heads on the plate, with their teeth baring, was enough to put anyone off.

The allotment was Leo’s solace. It took his mind off things, stopped him worrying about the sort of trouble his grandkids were getting drawn into. There were so many risks these days. You could be caught in the cross fire. It didn’t matter if you were the innocent party or not. And you could get stopped and searched or hauled into the police station.

When he was still driving the buses, he’d got into the habit of putting a few hours in at the allotment after work. Now that he was retired, he could spend as much time as he wanted there. He’d always grown vegetables, like his grandmother back in Jamaica. The climate had been warmer there and she’d grown all sorts: yams, maize, bananas, mango. Here he was confined to potatoes, courgettes or cabbages. At least it saved Romaine a few trips to the market. 

He’d been thinking a lot about Jamaica lately. As kids they’d played outside from dawn to dusk. He went to the beach most days to meet up with his friends, when his grandmother wasn’t looking. They swam in the sea and swung in hammocks on the beach in the afternoon sun. They were long, hot days that stretched into warm, balmy evenings. Later he sat on the veranda watching the sun go down, while his grandmother chatted idly to the neighbours.  He would have been perfectly happy, if only his mother and father hadn’t gone off to live in that distant land England.

Eventually when he was ten, his parents had sent for him to come too. He’d travelled over with his Aunt Ada. All he could remember of those first few months in London was the feeling of disappointment and the cold that seeped into his bones. England wasn’t what it was cracked up to be. Besides he hardly ever saw his parents. His mother worked shifts in the hospital and his father worked on the buses all day long.

The family had lived in a bedsit then.  Once his little brother had come along, it was really cramped. He escaped downstairs to Aunt Ada’s, whenever they needed change for the electricity meter. Ada was the one who taught him how to take care of himself, how to avoid getting into trouble with the other kids. She insisted on him doing his homework. Once he’d passed his driving test, his future was secured. He’d work on the buses like his dad.

 ‘You could do worse,’ Aunt Ada had said. ‘It’s a steady job and there’s a good pension at the end of it.’

‘If I live long enough,’ he’d said.

His father had died before he’d even got to pension age. After that, his mother and Aunt Ada started going out together. They went up the West End to the Odeon Cinema at Leicester Square or shopping on Oxford Street. They’d been happy enough then. Neither of them considered going back. This was their home now. 

‘Your dinner is going to get cold,’ Romaine was shouting from the kitchen.

She was growing more impatient by the day ever since he’d started planning this trip.

‘It beats me why you want to go off half-way round the globe on some fool mission?’ she said. ‘It’s not as if you have any relatives over there anymore.’

‘Well, it’s different for you,’ he said. ‘You were born here. You don’t have the same memories.’

His parents had been invited over as Commonwealth citizens after the Second World War to help build up the mother country. He’d settled in eventually. He’d never wanted to go back until now. And had never known there was so much red tape involved in applying for a passport. He’d sent off everything he could think of to prove his identity: his photo, driving licence, his National Insurance number and copies of his household bills.

Finally, though, the waiting game was over, and it had arrived. He would go down the travel agent’s first thing in the morning and book the ticket. So, what if Romaine didn’t want to come with him? He’d go alone. And it didn’t matter that his grandmother wasn’t there any longer. He could still visit the places he’d known as a kid. Some of his old friends would be around. He was really looking forward to it now. It would be the trip of a lifetime.

The smell of jerk chicken and peas was wafting in from the kitchen. Romaine had come up trumps.  It was his favourite. Soon, he would be sitting and eating with his friends in the old country. It was time to open the envelope.  

‘What is it?’ cried Romaine, as Leo collapsed onto a chair, the blood draining

from his face. 

She picked up the letter and read it out.

‘Unfortunately, we are unable to grant you a passport at this stage. We

require further evidence of your status as a British citizen. Unless you can provide us with your landing card, we will have no alternative but to deport you back to your home country.’

‘But they can’t do that!’ she cried out. ‘This is your home. You’re not an illegal immigrant.’

‘I was a kid when I came here. I’ve never even seen a landing card,’ he managed. ‘They’ve shifted the goal posts. How can they do that?’

About the author

Jenny Palmer is the author of two memoirs ‘Nowhere better than home’ and ‘Pastures New’ and a family history ’Whipps, Watsons and Bulcocks.’ Her new collection of short stories ’Keepsake’ is to be published soon by Bridge House publications 

A Small Lie

by Andrea Williams 

a glass of chilled cider

When I arrived at work on Tuesday, I was called into the office first thing.

“This is your last written, official, warning, Jones.  You’ve been late 43 times since January, and despite you saying that you know how essential your job is to keeping the warehouse running, you keep on turning up late.  Not a couple of minutes, not a missed bus worth, but half a morning late.  So late we have to pull in other people from their jobs. We can’t rely on you.  Well, unless you’re here on time every day for the next month, its P45 time for you.  Is that clear?  Is there owt you want to say?”

“No, sorry, I understand.”  

Silence.  Really there was plenty I wanted to say, but you can’t, so you don’t, do you?  I wanted to say something like ‘Your job is so boring and repetitive and gives no job satisfaction, and I can’t stand the idea of working for such a misogynistic bullying dinosaur who doesn’t value the people or provide any training or encouragement to do well.’ 

But you can’t really say that can you?  So I tried to look sorry, and trudged back to my airless, windowless cubicle to fiddle with the computer keyboard and keep the forklifts moving.  It’s a job, and it pays the rent, and it pays for the fishing tackle, and the bait, and the waterproofs, and if I close my eyes in my cubicle I can imagine I’m somewhere else.  Like maybe out on the point, after a good nor’easter, and the fish are biting, and the surf’s up enough to take the line way out to where they feed on the flood tide.  

“Billy - wake up man,  where’s the next picking note.”  An angry voice called me back.  “You just ‘fish’ out another for me, and stop ‘flounder’ing about. The ‘plaice’ is going to pieces. Get your ‘skates’ on, we’re all getting a bit ‘crabby’ out here, ”  he said, and I could see half the drivers stood round with big smirks - they knew what was going on. 

“Here, five more for you.  You’re too slow, they’re stacking up.”  I said, and went back to daydreaming the day away.  

I managed to get up early and be on the early bus for the next 11 days.  Then I went fishing, off the beach, on a flood tide, and what a night it was.  Ended up in the dark, wearing a lamp to see by, and every time I cast, I seemed to catch something.  I should have stopped sooner, because when I’d packed up and hiked back with the gear, and nearly three stone of fish, I’d missed the last bus.  

Next morning, I’d slept in.  Now what?  When I go to work, I’ll get sacked for sure.  I need some excuse that’ll work.  I thought up the best I could think, then phoned in, sounding as if I cared.

“Billy Jones here, Mr Williams, yes, yes, sorry, I know what you said last time, but you’ve seen I’ve turned over a new leaf, and its just, well, you see me Mam died, and I’m at the hospital, and I’d have phoned you, but I’ve just now had chance, and I know what you said, so if you want to sack me, then I’ll understand.”  I thought that that last bit was real good, then I thought fast and added, “and I’ll need to ask for some time off for the arrangements and the funeral too, so just go ahead and sack me if you want.”   There was a silence, his angry remarks at the start had stopped, and his voice had changed.

“You say your Mam just died?”

“Yes Mr Williams, I’m very sorry I didn’t have chance to ask for the time off.”

“Don’t worry about that lad, a bit sudden was it?”

“Yes Mr Williams, she’s been having problems for a while,” and I thought quick again, “I didn’t want to say anything before, in case you thought I was trying to make excuses.”  That got him, his voice softened.

“You should have told us, Billy man, we’d have let you have some time off if you needed it.  Just take as long as you need, and be in on Thursday.”  

‘That’s great,’ I thought, still got a job and a whole two days off.  So I went fishing. 

Thursday morning came, and I made sure to be on time.  Clocked in and went to the cubicle on the far side of the loading bay.  It was full of flowers.  Well, not full exactly, but there were two bunches, and a few envelopes with my name on.  They had sympathy cards, saying ‘sorry for your loss’ and so on.  I’d barely got sat down when Sheila came in from the office.  I like Sheila, well I would if she’d let me, but whenever I’d spoken to her before she did her best to ignore me.

“Billy love, I was right sorry to hear about your mam.  Tell us what happened.”  

I wasn’t ready for that.  Had no story prepared.  I thought I’d just wangled a couple of days off, kept my job, and got away with it, but she wanted details, and seeing as she worked for Mr Williams, I knew it had to be convincing, ‘cos it was going right back to him. I took a gulp and started inventing.  

“Well, she’s been badly for a while,”  thinking to myself, ‘about twelve years since we waved her off at the crematorium,’  “but lately she’s been getting sicker, and I didn’t like to say much.”  And then I had a flash of pure genius.  "It was ‘women’s troubles’ if you know what I mean, and she didn’t like to talk about it, so I used to just say that I’d missed my bus or slept in so as to keep it a bit, well, quiet like - for her sake - you know.”  That worked, I could tell by her expression.  When Williams heard that, I might even get a few credits back.  Then, disaster.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean, Billy, what sort of troubles?”  

Well I have no idea what it could be that could kill her, I only knew that there was a whole area of medicine I overheard bits of down at the pub that were ‘women's troubles’ - I was just hoping some of them could kill a man - well, kill a woman, that is.  

“They didn’t explain, exactly, just said they couldn’t operate or do anything.” and I added  “It was very sudden, and she went peacefully.” 

“Such  a shame for you. How old was she?” 

How old? how old?  how would I know?  If she was 57 twelve years ago when she died, and just died now, she’d have to be… what’s 57 and twelve.. quick.. she’s looking at me… 

“Sixty eight.” I said, then got the right answer, “Sixty nine.” I corrected myself, and thought,  ‘Phew, close shave there.’  Then I realised I could have said forty three or fifty two and she wouldn’t have known, and I might have got more sympathy.    

“And when’s the funeral dear?  I’m sure Mr Williams would like one or two of us to come along and show some support for you.”   ‘Oh no’ I thought, how can I get out of that - play for time.

“I…, I…, I’m not sure yet, they want to do a post mortem, so I can’t say when, yet.”  Sheila gave me a bit of a look, so I thought I needed to add some more, “There was something about it being so sudden, like, so they just needed to find out more.”  Her face cleared, almost, and she turned to go, then said, over her shoulder,

“Well, as soon as you find out, be sure to let us know, so we can arrange something.”  and she left the cubicle, which suddenly seemed to got very hot.  

Anyone know where can I find a spare funeral at a couple of days notice?  

About the author

When not writing Andrea makes furniture, repairs dry stone walls, and enjoys Northumbria.  

 

Blood Work

 by James Bates

Red Rasberry Sun Tea

I watched the blood swirling around in the sink. "My god, there's a lot of it," I thought to myself. "Way more than I expected." I took hold of the bar of soap, lathered my hands and kept washing them, extra vigorously this time, trying to get more of the blood off. The bright red color running down the drain looked like the aftermath of my ill advised decision to let my son chose the color of his bedroom walls many years ago. 'I'd like blood red, Dad,' he'd said. I had agreed, much to the disappointment of my wife. And anger. I never did get that roller brush clean. And, as I recall, it took three coats of Glidden's Sea Green semi-gloss to cover it all. (Plus the entire next weekend.)

       Anyway, the blood wasn't washing away very quickly. Where did it all come from? I'd read a lot of books on crime. In fact, I was sort of a student of the macabre, so I knew that the human body contained around a gallon and a half of the stuff (about the size of the bucket you might use to wash your car) and it seemed like that's the amount I was washing off my hands. Man, I'd never expected there to be so much.

       I was in the bathroom, right off the kitchen. The sink was porcelain and the raspberry juice red of the blood contrasted with the sink's sparkling white. I wondered briefly if the blood would stain it. Shit. Once more thing to worry about.

       The more I washed and tried to clean my hands, the more of a mess I seemed to be making. Blood was splattering everything: up around the faucets, against the white tile backsplash and down the sides of the sink, dripping onto the pristine white tile floor. Geez, I'd be cleaning up forever.

       I glanced in the mirror as I washed. My face looked every bit of its age of seventy-one. My eyes were tired looking, bags drooping underneath. The hair on my head was thin, nearly gone, my beard was wispy and scraggly. I looked the kind of guy who would be washing blood from their hands after committing a violent crime. Not the best image to be confronted with at this stage of my life. Not at all.

        Suddenly, there was a pounding on the door. Bam! Bam! Bam!

       "Grandpa. Grandpa. What are you doing in there?"

       A grin appeared on my haggard face. "There's no one here," I said, talking to the closed door, still scrubbing furiously, "No one here but us vampires."

       Giggles on the other side from Lari and Lori, my nine-year old twin granddaughters. It was Thursday afternoon, my day to stay with them after school until my son and his wife got home from work.

       Lori called out, "Grandpa, please, please, please, what are you doing?"

        "Yeah," Lari said, "Tell us, tell us, tell us."

       I decided to come clean (pun intended) and tell them, "I'm washing off that blood we got at the hobby store. I'm sort of making a mess in here."

    "You mean fake blood, don't you, Grandpa?" says Lori, "It was fake blood that we bought."

     "Let us see. Please, let us see," Lari called out. Then, more pounding. Bam! Bam! Bam!

    I could picture them jumping up and down outside the door in joyful glee. It made my heart glad. They were good kids. I cast a quick glance at myself in the mirror. At the sound of their voices, I swear my eyes became brighter and the bags under them seemed less, well, baggy. Even my beard seemed fuller. My granddaughters had that way about them, making me feel younger. (Looking younger? Well, that surely was all in my imagination.)

     "Just a second." I grabbed some paper towels from under the sink and dried off my hands, leaving red smears and smudges all over the place. "Come on in," I opened the door.

     The girls are identical red heads. They've got long hair, green eyes, freckles, the whole bit. One thing they enjoyed doing together was playing practical jokes. Today after they'd gotten home from school we'd gone to our favorite store, Phil's Magic Emporium, and made some purchases. The plan was that we were going to surprise their parents when they got home from work today with something to do with fake blood. We'd also bought some other things.

     The girls looked at the mess in the bathroom and let out a collective, "Yuck!"

     "I know," I said, "I think the fake blood is going to be too much of a mess to work with. What do you two think?"

     While the girls pondered my question, I finished washing my hands. Then I gave them each some paper towels, got some spray cleaner and we cleaned out the sink as well as everything else within a five foot radius. (I ended up using a lot of spray bleach. A lot of paper towels, too.)

     When we were done, Lori said, "I think you're right Grandpa. I don't think Mom or Dad would like the blood."

      "But we did get some other stuff at the store. Remember Grandpa," Lari said, starting to get excited all over again.

       "Yes, we did. They are so cool. Should I go get them Grandpa?" Lori asked.

      I'd been so busy trying to clean up I'd forgotten. I'd let each of the kids pick out something else, just in case the blood idea didn't work out, which obviously it didn't.

     I played along, joking with them, "I'm getting old and forgetful. What else was it we bought again?" I scratched my chin to emphasize my forgetfulness.

     The girls ran into the kitchen, giggling and pulling me along. On the counter was a shopping bag and they opened it, each taking out a treasured purchase.

     "Here, Grandpa," Lori said, holding up a rubber slab of fake vomit.

     "Here's mine," Lari said, holding up a clump of fake dog poop.

     I laughed. They were just the kinds of things I'd have bought way back when, back when I was their age. God, I loved my grandkids.

     I warmed up to the task at hand, "Those each will really surprise your parents," I told them, laughing.

     They both grinned back at me, "Will you help us put them someplace, Grandpa?" Asked Lari.

     "Please," Grandpa, "Lori said, "Someplace special. Pretty please?"

     "You bet I will," I told them, "Let's go find a couple of really good places."

     "Goody, goody," they both said in unison.

    Then they each took me by the hand and off we went, and all I'll say is this: We were able to find a couple of really good places; their parents were truly surprised later that evening when they got home from work.

    Oh, and all three of us are grounded from the Magic Emporium for the next six weeks. But what the heck, it was worth it.

About the author 

I live in Long Lake, Minnesota. I enjoy walking, gardening, bird watching, reading, writing, bicycle riding and playing with my fantastic grand kids. I'm retired after working many years as a sales and technical development and training instructor. I have been writing for a number of years: haiku, poetry, short and long fiction. My stories can be found posted on my website: www.theviewfromlonglake.wordpress.com. 

 

           

Il Palio De Siena

by Kim Martins

orange juice

The great Sienese horse race - Il Palio de Siena - has always been a matter of contention in the Bruschelli family. Whenever they gather for a meal of fat-flecked salami, streaky prosciutto and hot, crusty bread, Giuseppe Bruschelli talks about his thighs. "I've got good thighs. It was my thighs that won the Palio."

Laura Bruschelli first heard about her grandfather’s thighs when she was seven years old. She loved to hear his stories of bareback riders who flew around the Piazza del Campo, their horses whipped into flight as though the Devil himself were after them.

"And speaking of the Devil," Giuseppe would remind the family. "On that oven-hot day in September, nineteen forty-five, he would have preferred inferno itself to the kind of weather Siena greeted us with for the race. And that scoundrel, Luigi, tried to knock me off my horse as we approached the first bend. But I hung on. It was my thighs, you know."

It was always at this point in Giuseppe's reminiscences that his wife, Assunta, would rise from the table, her generous curves hugging the coarse black material of her dress.

"Nonsense Giuseppi. Luigi had already rounded that bend and was way ahead of you." She would emerge from the kitchen minutes later carrying castagnaccio, the chestnut cake Giuseppi loved because Assunta spiked it with orange rind and fennel seeds.

Laura's brother, Paolo, always arrived late for these gatherings. "Sorry, Trenitalia," he'd say, as though blaming the tardiness of the national railway was a sufficient excuse for his obvious reluctance to visit.

"Paolo, you are more Roman than Sienese these days," Assunta would greet him with a kiss and a crinkled smile that told him all was forgiven. Giuseppe was more forthcoming with his grandson. "You could have represented your district - your contrada - in the Palio if you hadn't shot through to live in Rome."

"Oh God, we're not talking about the Palio again are we?" Paolo's memories of the race were crowded with the snorts of frightened horses and the sound of legs kicking and snapping in the chaos that was ten horses, thundering along a narrow sand track, rounding tight corners at breakneck speed. "We Sienese are a crazy lot,” he said.  “The Palio should be stopped, it's too dangerous."

"It's a matter of honour and tradition." Giuseppe would always retort. "Our district has won thirty-four times, including in nineteen forty-five." Rebuked, Paolo would look to Laura to save him from their grandfather's story of his thighs and his hope that Paolo would ride in next year's Palio. But Laura didn't share her brother's distaste for the horse race.

Her memories were filled with her first kiss as a fourteen-year old. Tangled tongues and awkward groping down some alley near the Piazza on a hot September evening as the Palio was about to start. Their father wearing the white, black and orange colors of the she-wolf - the contrada Lupa - steadying his horse and his nerves at the starting barrier, and praying to Saint Rocco the Confessor for victory.

The sixteen-year old boy who had tried to put his hand up Laura's skirt rode in the Palio a few years later. "Come with me to the church Laura,” he said. “My horse will receive a special benediction. And you know what they say? If he happens to do his business in the church - tanto meglio - more luck."

Paolo had accompanied her to the church that morning, where the horse was led in and expected to remain quiet while the Priest recited, "Dear God, protect and defend today and forever your servant, Giovanni Atzeni, and his horse from every risk and danger." God wasn't listening that day though for Laura's first love was thrown from his horse and trampled by impatient hooves, striving for the finishing line.

Late in the afternoon of Bruschelli family gatherings, Sylvia Riggaci would always enter with a flourish and Giuseppe would mutter something about a she-devil. For his sister, led by her heart rather than family honour, had married Aldo Riggaci. Giuseppe referred to it as a mixed marriage for Aldo was from a rival contrada - the Chiocciola or snail, the name causing sniggers about slow horses and small riders.

Assunta ignored her sister-in-law's familial indiscretion for she admired her artistic talent and wondered when Giuseppe would relent and welcome Aldo into the Bruschelli family fold. Sylvia had been chosen to design and paint the Palio banner a few years ago. A great honour for the family but not in Giuseppe's eyes, for the Chiocciola contrada was victorious that year.

"You study your rivals. You get to know all the contradas and try to get in everyone's heads." Giuseppe, warmed by mulled wine and thoughts of ninety forty-five, spoke into the pale apricot sunset descending over Siena.

Sylvia loved the Palio and the painted silk scarves that fluttered around the necks of young girls who were more boy-mad than horse-mad. She had been one of those young girls once. Her eyes set firmly on Aldo as he waved a large flag to the beat of drums and the roar of crowds. She cheered for the Chiocciola contrada and secretly cheered for the strong muscles Aldo had developed from his flag waving.

"I was nearly unhorsed by that Luigi." Giuseppe slurred and Sylvia knew the day had come for they were not getting any younger. "That's not what happened Giuseppe. The Palio in nineteen forty-five was won by Giocchino Calabro for the Dragon contrada. Your thighs had nothing to do with it."

"In the days before the Palio, you dream a lot. But during the dream, you never get to victory." Giuseppe raised his wine glass and the Bruschelli family knew they had not heard the last of Old Giuseppe's thighs.

The Boy from Woodbury Hill

Jody Durkin

old wine 

His distinctive chuckle filled the air; the room once clinical and white was immediately transported. He was back on Woodbury Hill and I was carried there too. I could almost smell the coconut sweetness of the gorse and hear the song of the skylark hanging in the air as he spoke. He wasn’t talking to me, he was reminiscing about Joan and their wartime adventures in the little farm house in the valley below .

“She was blown clean out of the bed.” The chuckle began again in earnest.  “The blast was so strong, the front door came off its hinges!” 

I ventured a question, not wanting to lose the moment. “Itt must have been close to you then?” 

“No, no, it was down at Wareham crossroads. It was strong though.”

He stared distantly out of the window, coal tits fighting were fighting over an almost empty bird feeder. He wasn’t, he was up on the hill again looking at his mother waving from the farm at Lower Woodbury, buzzards circling above, their distinctive cry breaking the silence, his sister Joan standing by his side once again.

“They left me outside the shop for three hours today you know.” His frightened words suddenly broke the silence. 

“Who did Ken?” 

He stared straight ahead anxiously wringing his hands. “The carers, then they locked me in a cage when I got back.” 

I knew once again we had lost those happy childhood memories and he had returned to his terrifying living nightmares. I consoled him. “The staff here are wonderful. They wouldn’t have treated you like that.” 

His face softened.  Joan was with him again, holding his hand, guiding her beloved brother across the hill out of harm’s way. The fear subsided once more. “I went for a walk with Joan up on Woodbury Hill this morning.” He beamed.  

“Did you Ken?” His excited Dorset drawl sounded almost childlike “John came too; we talked about the football and caught up with all of the news.” 

“Just like the old days eh Ken?” I ventured. 

He smiled at the memory and nodded.

I knew I didn’t have long to share these conversations with my old friend. Dead loved ones and friends were gathering to share their stores once again. Up on Woodbury Hill they were waiting.

About the author

I am a primary school teacher from Dorset. I love mountain biking, walking and very loud music. I am new to writing and do it purely for fun.

A Difficult Meeting

Mari Phillips

fizzy water

Sophie sat with her arms crossed tightly over her hunched body; one of her feet betrayed a nervous tap under the seat. She wanted the large cushioned chair to swallow her up so that she didn’t have to answer the question. “Where shall I start?” she asked, with rather more confidence than she felt.  

“Wherever you want to,” answered Jenny with a nod. The first meeting was always hardest, as the reality of the situation began to emerge, however Jenny understood that this one might be particularly difficult.

How I can say anything to this woman, Sophie thought to herself, she won’t understand. “It’s all a mistake,” Sophie mumbled. “I shouldn’t be here”. A heavy silence lingered in the air. Sophie had always found silence awkward, she would fill it with words, chatter, gossip, but not this time. The lump in her throat seemed to get bigger and her eyes welled up; she didn’t want to cry but she couldn’t help herself. Jenny leaned forward and pushed the box of tissues towards Sophie and sat back in her chair and waited.

“I suppose,” said Sophie, hesitatingly between her sobs “at the moment I just don’t know what to do. I think I know what I ought to do, but don’t know if that’s what I want to do, or even if I can do it. He said he loved me…” her voice tailed off.  

“I think it started when I got pregnant. I was so happy and I thought he was too. We went out to celebrate-well he celebrated-of course I couldn’t drink anything and had to make do with fizzy water, and I was feeling sick. Then he didn’t want me to tell anyone, not even my mum. That was ok at first, it was so early I agreed, but even when I got to five months he still didn’t want me to say anything. I thought it was rather odd and didn’t like having to make excuses to my mum. I had been looking forward to sharing my pregnancy with her, and I knew she desperately wanted to be a grandma.

It got a bit difficult then.  He didn’t want me to tell people at work and when I had a take a few days off sick, I couldn’t say why. Then it got worse. He didn’t want me going out, he said I shouldn’t go in my condition. I didn’t understand that, what condition? I was pregnant not sick. When I had to go to see the midwife at the clinic or the doctor at the hospital, he insisted on coming with me; every time! He drove me there, waited with me, and even came in with me. And he stopped me doing the shopping. If he couldn’t do it I had to order online, you know-click, click, click, and then it all turns up on your doorstep. He said it would be too much for me. At first I thought he was being thoughtful and caring. I just didn’t see what was happening.” Sophie’s voice faded away.

“And what was happening”?  Jenny asked.

“Well it felt as if I was being smothered,” said Sophie, still struggling between sobs. “But then I didn’t want to go out.” Sophie sniffed. “… didn’t want people to see…”  

“See?” Jenny probed gently.

“Well in the winter it had been ok because I wore everything with long sleeves, but when the weather got warmer, it was harder to cover them." Sophie slowly uncrossed her arms and slipped off her jacket-the scars were clear for Jenny to see-a mixture of old bruises and scars-some of them looked like old burn marks.

Jenny looked at Sophie’s arms and then directly into her eyes. She didn’t flinch at the mess in front of her. “These must have been painful” she said. Jenny knew this was the moment that she must stay calm and focused; this brought back painful memories. “So what happened next?” She asked.

“I had the baby,” said Sophie, and her eyes welled up again. “She was early- but no surprises there-we had an argument one evening and I fell down the stairs."

“Fell, " echoed Jenny. “What happened?”

“He said I fell," answered Sophie. “I don’t remember. I woke up in hospital and that’s what he said; that’s what he told the midwife and the doctor. But he was so pleased it was a girl-she was so tiny and had lots of tubes everywhere and I wasn’t able to cuddle her. I wanted to tell her I was so sorry…”

“What happened next?” Jenny asked.  

“I went home. They wanted me to stay in with her until she was bigger but he said no; that I would be better at home and we would visit every day. We did that for a few days and then we stopped; he told me she had died and there was no need to visit anymore. I just couldn’t believe it-my beautiful little girl. He blamed me, but I didn’t understand and I got very depressed; I didn’t even go to her funeral, my own baby. I didn’t want to go out or do anything and he became very angry with me again and then packed up and left.  He said it was all my fault and he couldn’t stay. He took all his stuff, and all the baby things and went…cleared out. It was awful.”

Jenny waited as Sophie gathered her thoughts before continuing. “But one day I didn’t feel quite as bad as the day before and decided I would just try and take a walk. It was a warm, sunny day and I decided to walk along the river near those new houses. I saw him, it was the first time in months, but he was with someone else, another woman, and they were pushing a pram. It looked like the same sort of pram as we had chosen for our baby. I couldn’t bear to look, I was so upset so I ran home."

Jenny breathed a sigh of relief. Sophie hadn’t recognised her. It had all worked, but it was a difficult meeting.

Grief

Roger Noons 

a small glass of port wine.

‘How long’s it been?’ Heather asked.

    ‘Seven months.’

    ‘Are you still grieving?’

    Alex stared through the window. ‘You’ll probably think me hard, but I don’t do grief. I’ve always believed it to be associated with guilt.’

    When he looked back to his former colleague, she was frowning.

    ‘Most of what’s described as grief is regret, that you didn’t do as much as you should or could have done for the person while they were alive.’ When she said nothing more, he added. ‘In forty two years I did everything Rosy asked. She adored flowers, so I managed the garden so that at least one plant was in bloom every day of the year, even if it meant allowing dandelions to seed. She never learned to drive, so whenever I could, I would be her chauffeur. She always had first choice of where we went on holiday.’

    ‘I know you were a good husband, but you must miss her?’

    ‘Of course, but that’s sadness not grief. I wish she were still here, but not in the sorry way she was during those last months. When she died, it was her wish and a release for us both.’

    ‘Okay, I think I understand.’ She smiled. ‘How about you come to supper one evening?’

    ‘That would be nice thank you, do you have a date in mind?’

    ‘Any time to suit you … in fact you could stay over if you like?’

    He stared, believed her expression offered more than food and wine. ‘I don’t know Heather. I may not be grieving but I might think I was being unfaithful.’

    She shrugged. ‘Your choice, Alex, the offer’s there.’

About the author 

 Roger is a regular contributor to Cafe Lit and earlier this year his volume entitled Slimline Tales was poured by Chapeltown Books.