Lying Eyes

by Robin Wrigley

pink gin & tonic

It was just past midnight when Geoff finally pulled into the car park at the back of their flat. A mixture of emotions flooded through his over-tired mind. Anger, fear, worry and sheer frustration fought to take priority. He switched off the ignition just as the Eagles were singing ‘Lyin’ Eyes’ on the CD player. He had played the album over and over on the day’s long and tedious journey, partly because it was the only one he had in the car but mainly because the songs suited his frame of mind.

     Like many of his great ideas of late, it ended in failure; a pattern printed in his DNA inherited from his father, Henry. The idea was to get on the first chopper from the rig, miss the ritual piss-up in the ‘Drunken Sailor’ and be home before Dawn got in from work. The pile up and ensuing major traffic jam on the M62 put paid to that.

          A quick glance at the parked cars showed Dawn’s car was not amongst them. He was just reaching for his phone when a car’s headlights lit up the car park; it was his wife’s car; she pulled in at the far end. He sat quietly watching her in his rear-view mirror as she walked somewhat unsteadily towards the flat’s entrance and entered the building.

     Now he knew why she was not picking up any of his calls. Continuing to sit as calmly as he could he ran over in his mind what his options were? He played this mind game on a regular basis ever since he got the job on the rig. Discussing it with his best mate Gary during rest breaks in the energy sapping work, it never got beyond being told it was the nature of the beast working off shore.

     He looked at the flowers he had bought at the service station and decided to leave them, pulled the ignition key out and climbed out of the car, locked it and headed for the flats’ entrance and climbed the stairs to the flat and went inside.

     Dawn was sat at the kitchen table a glass of wine in one hand cigarette in the other.

     ‘You’re late aren’t you?’ Was the only greeting she offered as she took a sip of her drink.

     ‘Not as late as you, though, was I?’ Geoff was struggling to control an anger that had been building every time the numerous calls he made stuck on the motorway went unanswered. ‘Where the hell have you been to this bloody time?’

     ‘Nice to see you also Geoffrey,’ she attempted a small annoying smile. A smile that once he would have climbed the highest mountain for, now triggered a smouldering desire to knock it off her face.

   The song carried on his head. 

     Using all the self-control he could muster he turned around and left the flat and returned to his car, climbed in and drove slowly away.

Entering the small street where he grew up, he felt a surge of nostalgia as he pulled up outside his mum’s terraced house. She and Geoff moved there a month after his father almost killed her twenty-five years ago. Looking at himself in the rear-view mirror he said half choking with tears, ‘You see, I’m not the bastard you were Henry, even though the fear that I would be has haunted me all my miserable life.’

     Checking his key-ring to make sure he still had a key for the house, he picked up the flowers and got out of the car. Opening the front door careful not to make any noise he smiled a smile of regret remembering that she would not hear him anyway. His dad’s last beating had left her deaf as a post.

Leaving Home

by Sylvia Patsalides

last one for the road, brandy)

He stood in the shadows by the open doorway.  She had told him not come today. He didn't know why, but looking into the hall caught sight of an overnight bag. Odd that the door was open, she was pretty hot on security usually.  The alarm was off as well.  What was going on?. He tiptoed upstairs. The bedroom door was open too.  The counterpane on the bed was slightly crinkled and one of the pillows was hollowed where her head had been That was odd too, normally there was a rigorous routine of pillow plumping and smoothing and architectural style eyeballing to make sure all were perfectly aligned. He lay down, wrapped in the remnants of her perfume and feeling his toes flex under the the goose-down, dreaming of those times when they were transported from icy cold to a warmth that belied degrees centigrade. 

For a while now she had been making lists. Not just to log appointments, make sure that she knew her pincodes, renewals and payment dates, but to be able to use them to remind her of those moments that had been special. To capture the times she did not want to fade into obscurity forming the part of the haze that was now everyday living. She had been thinking about their experiences. Which elements would make it into her life top ten?  It wouldn't be the exotic destinations, suites with the infinity pools,  Michelin starred restaurants.  She smiled with a fondness overlaying the sadness now brushed over her face.  The most precious; it would be his grey salted chestnut hair curling into his neck as he inclined his head towards her, the way he put his eternally cold hands against her body till they warmed and they lay together glorying in the glow that came with that sort of closeness.

It was time now. She didn't want him to see her with parchment thin skin, faded, and tired. She was surprised that he had not noticed the ranginess of her body, the slightly defeated angle of her shoulders. Good make up and clothes - she guessed, or maybe just male lack of observation.  Anxiety did bad things to the body. .What to say to him though. How to end it. A dilemma.  Tell the truth, tell a lie, compose a good story that spared the feelings of all parties.  Still not sure.  She had set up a timed email to send. If she changed her mind there were a number of drafts she could choose.  Which one, would surely become clear but she had to be certain that he would not come after her.

But now it was time to activate the plan. Goodness, she had invoked enough disaster recovery exercises in her time. Stress testing. It was for real now.  Move on.  Plan A/Plan B. Hypothetical. This was the reality check.  Now she wasn't quite sure if being the archetypal completer finisher was a good thing.  I's dotting and T crossings. 

She shook her head to clear it, slightly dizzy as she picked up the bag and clicked the door behind her "Don't look back - you are not going that way!" If only she could. go back, turn back the clock with the benefit of hindsight. All the platitudes flooded in.

The plan had been decided for quite a while. Even before the final confirmation.  Her oldest friend Daphne was going with her. They didn't see much of each other now, but as only true friends know that didn't matter and whenever they met it was if they had never been apart. Meeting in airport check in queues, to go away for a weekend to chat and eat and drink, they would link arms and pick up mid sentence about a topic that they were discussing a year or so ago. They instinctively knew how each other was feeling, whether they were fit or fat, whether they preferred lime or lemon or grapefruit with their gin and tonic.  It was simply that ease of friendship, even in a serious scenario. 

She was driving to pick up the paperwork - that would make things easier in general.  She had arranged to leave the car and Joe the mechanic would pick it up, under the guise of taking it for a service and MOT.  In fact it would be stored for the time being. The keys would be at reception desk in an envelope with all the documents and change of keeper completed. There were a few explanatory notes.  

Then it would be to head the airport to meet Daphne,  The tickets had been long since bought and it had been agreed that Daphne would travel back by train, if only to cover her tracks. That sounded like a joke - train and tracks. Once they got to Switzerland, it should all be simple. 

She only had a few things with her, but had included a note to be mailed about the crucial papers in the chocolate box.  How many times had she joked about the beauty of the Edwardian chocolate box - silk and velvet and gold leaf to showcase the confectionery. That was so the way to make a gift special .. borne out by the fact some hundred plus years later it was still in existence, albeit slightly faded but now about to hold another set of secrets. These days chocolate was so everyday, Green & Blacks, Hotel Chocolat, lactose free aka plain, high percentage cocoa, novelty eggs, truffles, shells, belgian, free trade, organic. Bring back the elusive man who delivered Milk Tray  - what had happened to that.  How appropriate that Switzerland was such a choco capital! Trivialities - always useful in a life threatening situation. She smiled. It was time to get on with the final journey.

He woke with a start. it was dark, how long had he slept for? He shook his head to clear the fuzziness. His phone bleeped - an email.

Crossings

by Roger Noons

a glass of Schwarzbier

Ralph tired of entering East Berlin through Checkpoint Charlie. Initially his permit filtered most problems but when the Russians took over the administration, the situation became extremely trying. The final straw came in July 1966 when on his return, because he had no receipt for having spent three Ostmarks, he had to undress in front of a Rosa Kleb look-a-like. She smirked as she studied his genitals. He told Heinz Werner later, ‘Even Casanova would have been embarrassed in such circumstances.’ H-W merely smiled.

    Ralph began to use the route which had been set up to get children out. His initial visits to the East had been under the umbrella of his profession - Drainage Engineer, specialising in sewerage systems. When he began to advise the Authorities in Dresden and Magdeburg, he had been welcomed with open arms. It became more complicated when he moved to Berlin. 

    One of his first projects was to overhaul a pumping station which was used to divert sewage over the River Spree. There had been talk in the West of blocking all drainage from the other side, Willy Brandt however, convinced his political colleagues that it would be playing into the hands of the East German public relations machine. The small unit was in Grünberger Strasser, in the south east of the city.

    The border comprising the Spree was relatively unguarded. There was no wall and the watchtowers were two hundred metres apart. It never occurred to anyone that there was a route through the sewers without getting drowned or suffering contamination leading to disease. At the Station, which served a mainly residential district, a pump could be turned off briefly without affecting the flow, particularly in the early hours of a morning. When Ralph wished to cross he would send a coded message, by pigeon. Usually he would choose two thirty or three o’ clock, enter one day and return the next. At that time he would have up to ten minutes to scurry across, dragging behind him a holdall containing treasures to be used as either bribes or rewards.

    The first girl Ralph smuggled out was three years old, the niece of the Pumping Station Manager. An essential stratagem despite there being more deserving and lucrative cases. The rest of the staff was female and it was for them that Ralph filled his pockets with hosiery, costume jewellery and perfumes. The husband of one of the women owned the pigeon loft. Everyone concerned prayed that no-one would be moved or dismissed.

    It was a hot night in August when it had been agreed to go in and out as a single operation. There was no rehearsal and timing would need to be spot on. The child was only two and even her parents  knew nothing of the plan. A significant fee had been promised by the boy’s grandfather which would not only buy items to take in, but bribe the necessary officials in the West. All went well until Ralph’s return. The manhole cover had been lifted and he passed the child up to waiting arms. As he was being helped out, the cast iron lid collapsed smashing his right leg. It took more than two years to complete reconstruction, thus concluding his smuggling career. 

    He still lives in Berlin. In Wilmersdorf, if you see a man who could have been a jockey, walking with a stick, he will tell you his name is Ralf Kindermann. He will tell you nothing more about himself, but smile if for some reason you mention tunnels or subterranean passages. He meets his old boss Heinz Werner Weber three times each week at Finnegan’s Irish Pub in Bergstrasse.

About the author

Roger is a regular contributor to Cafe Lit with 130 of his pieces having been published

A Remedy for My Doctor

by Nanette Tamer 

energy drink

                                                                          

            My dog and I got sick at the same time.  She got well very quickly.  I’m getting there.  Dogs are different, to be sure, and so --- I have learned---are dogs’ doctors.

            I began to notice a difference, beyond the obvious, while sitting with my dog in her doctor’s waiting room.  One whole wall was a cork board covered with notes and cards thanking the veterinarian for curing a pet, accompanied by photos of the animal fully revived, or thanking the veterinarian for helping the parents of the incurable to cope with the loss.

            No such thing in my doctors’ waiting rooms.  On their walls were only standard issue pseudo paintings.  My doctors’ offices had, like most doctors’ offices, a row of diplomas on the wall. 

            Except for one doctor, my surgeon.  His office wall was completely covered with ALL his diplomas: preschool graduation, kindergarten graduation, on through medical school and related accomplishments.  What could possibly motivate him to display a kindergarten diploma?  Surely his patients would assume he had passed kindergarten, if it ever occurred to them to think about it.  Perhaps his young children, young at least in the only family photo on his shelf, thought they belonged on his wall, and he indulged them.  Perhaps he thought it was a funny thing to do and would make his patients aware of his sense of humor which was never otherwise in evidence.

            I began to think that a change was needed.  In my dog’s doctor’s office or examining room a few diplomas would be encouraging.  I would like to know that that my dog’s doctor was truly a doctor and had undergone rigorous training somewhere.  Conversely, I would like to know how many people my doctor had cured or at least eased into the next world. 

            The only information available about doctors for people is on websites for evaluating them.  There I find only complaints about the office staff or, in a few cases, compliments about the doctor’s manner of speaking.  Where were the testimonials from humans they had cured?

            I decided to start a new trend, so while my dog and I were waiting for her check-up, I chose a thank you card for the excellent care given to Ralph who was now happy and healthy, as opposed to a card from the parents of Fifi who wrote a little too specifically about the ailment that had plagued her tail.  I slipped the card into my pocket along with its tack.

            On my next visit to my surgeon, when he turned to his computer to type me up a prescription, I tacked Ralph’s owners’ thank you card to his wall, among his multitudinous diplomas.

            On my subsequent visit, still being unrecovered, the card was still there.  Perhaps it had gone unnoticed, or perhaps the doctor thought the office staff had posted it and they thought the reverse.  Thus encouraged, I added another, heisted for that purpose from my dog’s doctor’s waiting room when I stopped by to pick up her usual anti-flea treatment.  This card was about the remarkable rehabilitation of an animal named Fred, apparently an iguana from his depiction in the accompanying photo which I left tacked to the cork wall with a nearby card so that I could bring along the tack.

            My dog was totally well and needed nothing from her doctor, so I had no more opportunity to purloin another thank you card.  Instead, I had to write one of my own, thanking my doctor for his persistence and patience in trying to determine my diagnosis and a cure.  This one I sent through the mail in my own name.

            During my next appointment, when it was my turn to go into his office, I saw my note tacked up next to Ralph’s and Fred’s under his Eagle Scout certificate.  But not a word did he say about it before or after examining me and prescribing my next set of treatments.  Perhaps he had not seen it if a receptionist or assistant who opened and sorted his mail for him had observed the other two notes and assumed he had made the decision to display them and added it to the others.

            Soon enough, on my next return visit, I saw two notes on display that I had had no hand in.  Still, the collection was skimpy compared to the vet’s.  My convalescence was clearly an opportunity to right an injustice in the world of medicine.  I began construing patient names and vague maladies from which my doctor had rescued them in various ways.  I mailed them sporadically to maintain the illusion that they were from actual patients.

            I was eager to see my doctor’s office wall at my next visit.  There were the cards I had brought or mailed---along with many others joining the collection and beginning to crowd out the diplomas that preceded medical school.

            Some of my friends prodded me to seek a second opinion about my illness from another doctor.  After all, if the thank you cards were any indication, my doctor had not cured nearly as many patients as my dog’s doctor, surely a better basis for selecting a doctor than a Junior High Honor Society induction certificate.  Though as for my dog’s doctor, I have to assume that her cards are bona fide and not written up by her aunt in order to inspire patients’ confidence.  Surely my idea was unique.

            Now I am nearly as well as my dog, and my illness was not in vain. I hope that I might have started a trend.  If other patients join my thank you card method, human patients will have a better means of deciding upon a doctor than the internet complaints about long waits or ugly carpets.  If not, at least I am buoyed by my accomplishment of advertising that my doctor was almost as good of a doctor as my dog’s. 

                     

Burgundy

By Lynn Clement

 Burgundy

The thing I most liked about Sherrington Woods was the colour in the fading sun of late autumn. Copper and dun woven together to lay a patterned carpet along our path. The early mornings, when Jack had waved his spiky fingers, crisping the edges of each rustic leaf. Where white webs that were woven overnight, wrapped themselves round our faces, sticky and clinging and complex. It makes me shiver now. But it was the surprise of the hoary headed mushrooms, unexpectedly emerging through the earth in the damp shade of the leaden oak, which reminds me of you. And what was.

‘Hello Jessy, how are you?’ A voice interrupts my thoughts.

‘I’m good David,’ I reply.

‘I’m loving your painting Jessy, it’s really taking shape now.’

‘Yes,’ I say.

David means well, but he doesn’t understand. No one will ever understand.

‘Do you have all the colours that you need?’ He asks.

‘Sure,’ I give.

Red is red, is red; I think - except when it’s scarlet.

I need David to leave me alone now. He usually does, wafting off to go and help some other deserving soul. I have to get this bit right. His eyes dart around the room, he does this all the time. Today there are only four of us, so he shouldn’t be so uptight. Lauren is sick. And that’s the truth. Unfortunately that means he’ll have more time for me.

Yellow and red makes orange, like fire. The story of our relationship really. You mellow yellow and me blood red. Then you turned grey. Fungus like. Sucking the colour out of me.

I bought a cherry red hair dye, just like in that photo you secreted in your bedside drawer. The one with the scarlet lipstick kiss on it.

But you didn’t like it. ‘It’s not you,’ you said. It’s not her, you meant. So I went back to black, and made vermillion lines on my arms instead.

‘Does the pallet knife help with the texture, Jessy?’ David again from across the room.

‘Yes, thank you,’

The broad blade spreads the thick claret colour across the sienna, just like it did that day. Oozing and mingling and pooling on the orange and brown, rusty splashed carpet.

I can see David approaching from the corner of my eye and I know what he’s going to say.

‘Oh, you’ve spoiled your painting, Jessy,’ – just as I’d anticipated, so I lift the knife.

He hits the red button, and they come for me.

I’ll start the painting again, next time I’m allowed out.

Sherrington Woods was so lovely.

A Summer Morning in 1976

 Alex Womack

freshly made tea

The young woman in the small bare room was waiting. Out of the window was a bright sky. Another great day. People talked of drought.  She’d been on a late the day before and this was an early start, but she had the weekend off and it was easy enough sitting with this old fellow. 

 

He’d been in some sort of institution most of his life. He allowed the attendant to wash, shave and brush him; dress him, do his shirt buttons, help with the waistcoat. He’d appear for meals and eat cautiously.  Just enough.  He was thin, likely the weight he’d been when, chivvied by pals, jingoism or patriotism, he joined up.

He inhabited dull routine day after day. Come bedtime, pyjamas buttoned tidily, the night staff tucked him in tightly. Sometimes his thready voice cried out of dreams. They gave him the sedative he was written up for and he’d settle back into a flinching sleep. Like he was now: muttering and wincing slightly.  

His story was that he had no story. Card after card in various hand-writing and inks summed up his life with the repeated word ‘Neurasthenia’.  Now it was ending and she was to sit with him until it was over.  

He was one of the men, a ghost of one, whose nerves were wrecked by war.  She remembered war poems she’d done at school and that book by Vera Brittain.

His soft thin hair gave his head a vagueness. His skin was blue-white, pale and smooth over bone.  His fingers had stopped fretting with the sheet now and the troubled whispers were fainter.

She daydreamed about going to Mike and Gill’s with her boyfriend. Somehow take one of the kittens home on the bike.

Something brought her attention back.  Silence. He’d gone. 

Although he was unknowable, she felt sad for him, his lack of life, his long years of distress.  

He would miss a beautiful summer, another in the decades of lost summers.

 

A Walk in the Snow

by Michal Reibenbach 

hot chocolate

When I was a young girl my family was poor so that enjoyable outings were virtually non-existent. One winter vacation, after a few days of falling heavily, the snow had finally ceased. I was outside in our front garden endeavoring to build a snowman, when my stepmother Andrea came trudging by, accompanied by the neighbor’s au-pair. 

“We’re on our way up the hill. Do you want to join us?” asked Elka the au-pair, exuberating positive energy. 

Andrea scowled at this suggestion, for she’d wanted Elka’s company all to herself. 

I turned to her hopefully, “Please can I come along, please!?”

“Well I don’t know,” said Andrea, “I hadn’t planned on you joining us.”

 Elka quickly tried to persuade her, “Oh do let her come with us, she won’t be any trouble.” 

 “Well alright,” conceded Andrea, “But you’ll have to go and put your coat and boots on first, and what’s more you mustn’t bother us.” 

I obediently rushed indoors, struggled into my coat and boots then grabbed hold of my gloves and hat; before dashing out again, so that we were soon on our way. Behind our cottage, with only a small field separating it from our place, rose the awe-inspiring Bluebell Hill. It was far too steep to climb vertically, and so there was a path which wound itself snake-like up the hill’s side through an evergreen thicket. It turned sharply up to the left before turning sharply up to the right, and so forth until it reached the hill’s summit about an hour walks distance later. The three of us plodded along through the fresh snow, while on both sides we were enclosed by trees, which were laden down with white glittering snow-crystals. Andrea and Elka ascended the path ahead of me. They clung closely together to help each other along, while all the while chatting animatedly. Occasionally they would laugh and squeal with delight, for they found the snow invigorating; and also the feeling of adventure it evoked! I trudged along about five yards behind them, for I was being careful not to bother them. At the same time, however, I was also thoroughly enjoying myself; and I was thankful that I’d been allowed to join them. Eventually, Andrea and Elka arrived at the end of the path leading to the hill’s summit, and there they stopped short and stared out ahead in stunned silence. I soon caught up with them and curiously peered over in the direction in which they were staring. 

At first, I only saw that on top of the hill there was a woodland of trees that were not evergreens. The trees looked strangely naked without their leaves; snow was sprinkled on their branches and they cast spindly shadows on the snow-covered ground. Then finally I noticed what they were gaping at. Under the trees, two squirrels were chasing each other about, and as they did so they leaped up and down in the snow. Suddenly they scurried up one of the trees and disappeared out of sight. Now that the squirrels had scampered away, the stillness and the quiet all around us felt very profound. The complete absence of other people was strange, and I mulled over as to how the hill had taken on a frost like quality so that it had been so utterly transformed. When “wearing its summer clothes” Bluebell Hill was so green, and grown over by an abundance of wildflowers. While in the spring the undergrowth was covered in bluebells, and the hill was vibrant with people coming and going. Now from where we stood spellbound, it almost felt as if we were on a visit to another planet. 

After a few minutes of us being thus transfixed, Andrea broke the silence, “Weren’t those squirrels most awfully sweet? But now I’m getting very cold,” she said as she rubbed her gloved hands up and down on her arms. 

“I also feel freezing cold, let’s go back,” said Elka. 

Obviously trekking down the hill was much easier than climbing up it, and therefore was even more fun. When Andrea and I eventually arrived back at our cottage and were discarding our wet clothes in the kitchen, she turned to me with sparkling eyes. “That was absolutely wonderful, seeing those adorable squirrels. The climb was strenuous work, but the snow was marvelous, so invigorating!” 

“Yes, it was,” I agreed eagerly, for I reveled in her attention, and was thrilled that she was including me, permitting me into a small niche of her world. 

Once we’d finished spreading out our wet garments over a couple of chair-backs, “Andrea said, “Anna, go off to your room now.” 

I felt saddened by this statement since it made me understand that she was tidying me away so that I wouldn’t clutter up her life. I didn’t blame her for in my precociousness, I realized that she was probably much too young to be burdened with a stepdaughter; in addition, I knew that our life of poverty was hard on her. I went off to my room feeling quite pleased with my day; after all, Elka had stood up for me, and Andrea had been considerate. Above all, I’d enjoyed the walk in the snow, and the sight of the squirrels playing around in it tremendously.

Ultimately, if one doesn’t have very much in one’s life, even a little outing in the snow can be a special event. The memory of that track up Bluebell Hill would remain in my heart and in my memory forever.    

About the autho

The author is a paraplegic as the result of a car accident.

She has two sons and six grandchildren.

She lives in Jerusalem.