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.

The Meeting

The Meeting

Roger Noons

A large gin

‘It was such a surprise, when I met him. He was nothing like I’d expected. Of course that’s often the case. I’d read all his books, articles about him, even heard his voice on the radio. A feature of his publicity was that he always refused to be photographed, so I had no way of knowing anything of his physical nature.’

    ‘It was not that he was the opposite of what I expected, not a case of me imagining tall and him being short or anything like that … for example, I would have put money on the fact that he would be wearing spectacles, and he was not. I hoped he might have a beard, I like a beard on a man, and his writing seemed to call for it. He was not so much clean shaven, as having skin that looked like it had never been introduced to a razor.’

    ‘No, he wasn’t wearing a suit, or a tie. Smart casual, sort of country, that’s how I would describe him. You know, checked shirt, cords, what we used to call Chelsea boots … oh yes, all quality stuff.’

    ‘Smell? No he didn’t smell … Oh, I see what you mean. Yes, there was a scent, a hint of refined musk, a manly aftershave, but not over done. Just nice, tasteful … mature … sophisticated. I’d used my newest perfume, After the Rain, from Aran Aromatics, it cost me twenty-five pounds, but I believed it to be a good investment, after all, it’s not every day that I get to meet …’

    ‘Say? What did he say? Do you know I can hardly remember, it’s all a bit of a haze now. I know one thing … he spoke quietly, I had to lean forward so I could hear. His voice was deeper than I had remembered.’

    ‘Yes, we chatted for quite a while, well I mainly listened. You see there was no-one else waiting, I was staggered, I thought he would be inundated, after all …’

    ‘What? Really? William James next week? So who …’

    ‘James Williams? Who’s he?’

    'Oh my God!'

    ‘Oh my God!’

 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.

Letter to Albertine

Letter to Albertine

Angela South

Bitter Espresso 

December 1946

My darling Albertine,

I know it is some while since I visited or wrote to you at Chartham Hospital and I have no excuse for my tardiness. The doctor in charge of your mental well-being has kept me informed of your progress and I think about you constantly. Indeed when I return to England, I hope to visit you very soon.

Time seems to be racing ahead but whether this is because I am older or busier, the jury is still out. Please be assured I still find much affection for you and think over the many happy memories we shared from our early married life. Do you remember the time when Dad fell in the fish pond? I think he gave the fish quite a scare. Unfortunately there are no fish in the pond now as our house has been empty for some years.

My darling, this is not an easy letter for me to write but it would be most unfair to you if I did not tell you what is happening in my life as soon as possible even if you are unable to understand all its meanings and I am currently unable to tell you in person. Life, as it habitually does. has moved on and I need to explain my current circumstances not just to you but also to organise my thoughts for my own sanity for what a truly mad world this is. I do not even know if I will send this letter but it needs writing.

          I hope you have safely received the French books I managed to acquire and perhaps you are able to comprehend some of it or find someone at the hospital who is able to interpret this for you. I will be sending another parcel very soon. Do you remember the winter evenings when we sat together by the fire and read? My French certainly improved.

          I am sorry you have had to spend so long in the asylum and I had sincerely hoped your condition would improve but the doctor tells me you are still very “noisy”. I am not sure what that means except you are still unwell and need the care the hospital can give and I am unable to.

I thought there would be no more horror in Europe after the turmoil and chaos of the Great War but I was wrong. Would you believe at the grand old age of forty -nine when the Second World War broke out I was deemed too old to fight? Nevertheless, I found a niche for myself working as a civil servant in the War Office so it was essential I left our lovely home temporarily to live in the capital.

London suffered badly during the almost nightly bombing raids. The civilian bombing was very intense and I am sorry to say our precious dog, Whistler, was killed when a bomb hit my Holborn flat in 1943 while I myself only suffered an injured foot, which is still painful. I am pleased to say our home in River remains unaffected but, of course, it is at present an empty shell and not the loving home it once was.

Unfortunately, our family had two sad losses during 1944, which we kept from you at the time in case it made your condition worse. My father died in December at the age of seventy-six but he had a good life and you will recall his frequent visits to us at River and how well we all worked together in the garden with Whistler constantly getting under our feet. Dad felt great affection for you.

Our young nephew, Laurence, was also taken. I remember you were always fond of him when he was a small child and he loved you in return but he was never in the bloom of full health. It’s hard to believe it is over ten years when you took him out for his first picnic but I remember how excited he was and how much he enjoyed it. Pneumonia resulting from his diabetes and epilepsy caused his premature death. He had been unwell for some time and I am glad you were spared the unpleasantness of seeing him so ailing. Not having children myself I cannot begin to imagine the anguish his parents must be suffering although it must be tinged with the relief that his suffering is now over. I went to visit Sid and Rita recently and as there are no more children their tiny bungalow seemed very empty.

Do you remember the pretty little church at the end of the road? Well that is now Laurence’s final resting place and when I went to visit found it tranquil and beautiful. Unfortunately, Sid and Rita have been unable to afford a headstone but we all know Laurence is there so that is all that matters.

I am living and working in the British sector of West Berlin and my beautiful green England seems so very far away. I miss our lovely home we shared in River particularly our joy at tending to our garden. I am afraid, my love, that the garden will be very over-grown by now and need some intensive care.

After the Allies’ success Berlin was divided to help Germany govern itself eventually and to oversee peace in a bid not to repeat the terrible mistakes of 1919. Naturally, I am living and working in the British sector, which is in West Berlin.

As you would expect Germany today is in total crisis and home to a hungry, depressed and demoralised population of mainly women, old men and children. Hitler decreed the Germans must fight to the bitter end and this decree they faithfully carried out even though they only had the most basic of weapons and it was obvious the war had been lost by them months previously.

This ensured that little infrastructure remains in place particularly in Berlin. Barely any buildings are still in their original state and those that are left standing have walls or roofs missing. Domestic pets and the magnificent zoo animals were utilised long ago as food and looting is a way of life as the people are starving. When you are hungry all you can think about is where the next meal might come from.

I thought I had seen it all in the last war but I was not prepared for the conditions I find here. I see this clearly in Berlin daily as I walk to work or carry out visits as part of my duties. Any animal that drops dead in the street is immediately set upon by the people as they try to get their share of the meat and much of their time is spent looking for wood to burn to keep themselves warm.

The smell of the unburied dead lying beneath the rubble lingers in my nostrils. It is the distinctive smell I remember from the Great War and prayed that I would never encounter again. There is some form of transport but it is slow and unpredictable and, of course, Germans have no access to petrol. I am glad you are safe in Kent with kindly people to look after you.

The Russians are in the east of Berlin where their cruelty, indiscriminate raping of women, young and old, and looting of anything belonging to Berliners is rife. I do know they suffered significantly when Germany invaded them in 1941 so there is much anger and resentment in their hearts and minds so the desire for revenge is strong. Who can blame them?

The news of the German treatment of Jews and the liberating of the extermination camps has devastated us all – how can such cruelty exist? We fought so hard for a better world in 1914 – did all those young men die in vain? The news of Hitler’s suicide came with mixed feelings as he has escaped the hangman’s noose and the retribution of a trial. Moreover, I fear for Berlin and the rest of the world in this new peace. The Russians have a stronghold in the east and Stalin, another cruel man to rival Hitler, is likely to tighten this grip even further. Winston warned us all.

My work here is not too arduous so I do have time to write, read or socialise. We have sufficient food but electricity and hot water are very unreliable and although we grumble we consider ourselves to be very lucky.

Now comes the moment when I fear I may hurt your feelings. Not to tell you would be unfair and although I should do it in person this is not possible at present. It was in February of this year that my life changed completely. I was in the Service Personnel Club during a cold, wet evening nursing a pint of beer with my companion and colleague Frank, when I first saw Christa standing at the bar. Although we are not supposed to fraternise with the enemy, young German women are usually welcomed into the club and their presence is a welcome relief from our largely male majority. The atmosphere in the club is always thick with tobacco smoke, the smell of stale beer and unwashed bodies so is not the most comfortable of places.

What I must tell you now and may cause you great sadness is that I fell in love on that day and from that moment onwards I was suddenly transformed into a lovesick school boy.

As I looked over at Christa I could see that she was looking over at us. I was overwhelmed by her warm smile and at Frank’s insistence went over to introduce myself and offer her a drink. How can I describe her or describe how I felt? I will try though. She is twenty-one years old, my height, has dark wavy hair which frames her perfect features, but if I was going to be critical I would say her nose is rather too long and pointed. Her lips are well formed and when she smiles I feel thirty years drop off me. She is very thin from being undernourished and the work she does here.

I could see Frank watching me so I invited her to join us. Did I think about you at the time? Yes, of course I did and I felt remorse but by now you felt so far removed from my life it was as though you were in another universe entirely. Christa and I spent the evening together and this silly boy then asked to see her again and my heart leapt for joy when she accepted.

Our friendship quickly developed over the weeks, despite our thirty-six year age difference. If I keep mentioning the age difference it is because it feels more than a little awkward to me. Christa makes me laugh and I love her youthful exuberance; it allows me to forget how homesick I am. Her cheerful disposition belies what she and her family have been through since Hitler came to power and through all the deprivations of the war years.

In many respects, she reminds me of you in the early years of our marriage. Now, much to my amazement, I find that I am in love – just as I was with you, my dear Albertine, when we first met in France during that very cold, wet miserable winter of 1917. How we tried to keep ourselves warm and dry but rarely succeeding but we managed to laugh together despite the adversity.

Christa and I meet as regularly as our work permit. When you want to spend twenty four hours a day with someone it is not as often as I would like. Sometimes we take walks amid the crumbling ruins of Berlin, or a drink in one of the very few cafes still standing and occasionally we go dancing to the British club although I confess I cannot keep pace with her youth. I met her parents last month and I get on particularly well with her father, who at fifty five is just one year younger than me. After his first wife’s untimely death in 1930 he appears to have quickly married her older sister probably more out of convenience than love but that is an opinion I keep to myself. Christa adores her father but does not seem so loving towards her step-mother.

I have found great happiness and that is something I had not expected to experience again especially at my time of life. I look forward at some time in the future to making her my wife and I know she eventually hopes to have a family. If you are able to understand, please find it in your heart to forgive me for what must seem like treacherous behaviour.

I know what hardship prevailed during the Great War as you watched your home in Lille disintegrate under the constant bombardment from both sides on the Western Front and your sadness at the loss of your two younger brothers at Verdun. Courting was no easy matter for us in 1917 as I always seemed to be on the move but we managed to get to know each other despite the many hardships. I think I was afraid in those days that our love for each other would turn sour, as life on the Western Front was so unpredictable. I must have been very insecure.

I was delighted to bring you home to the relative peace of England and was proud to introduce you to my family. I fear though they found your ‘foreignness’ something of a challenge and were not as considerate as I had hoped. I was so happy the day we married in April 1918 and you looked so beautiful but I was saddened that I had to return so immediately to the Western Front. It must have been even more difficult for you being left behind in England, so far from your home and family.

Your English was at best limited and I fear at the time I did not truly appreciate the difficulties you faced when I left but thought only of myself and getting through the remainder of the war. I feel humbled by my selfishness. I thought we were so very happy when I returned in 1920. When your illness took such a firm and rapid hold I was devastated and helpless. I believe I did everything I could to make you happy and well but I suspect that our inability to have children may have contributed to your rapidly deteriorating mental state. It was a very difficult decision to have you committed to Chartham when I felt I could no longer look after you. You no longer felt like the woman I had married.

I now have the chance of happiness once again and how many men can say that at my age? My world is enchanting when I am with Christa and I intend to bring her to England as soon as possible. She has been through so much in her short life having lost her beloved mother when she was only five years old and then spending the war years in Berlin. She lost two well-loved cousins on the eastern front in 1942 and their bodies have never been recovered. I now feel such an urge to protect her from any more hardship in life.

She is currently one of the so-called ‘trummerfrauen’ or rubble women because she works hard all day cleaning bricks lifted from the rubble that was once a vibrant Berlin but this work is essential for rebuilding the city and the rubble is the only resource available for building. The work is very tough on her hands, which are constantly red and sore, but, with so many men dead or imprisoned, it is left to the women of Berlin to take on this very onerous task.

My dear Albertine, I promise I will not marry her while you still live. I know your religion will not allow me to divorce you and I will respect this. Christa and I do intend to start a family as soon as we are able, as I know she is anxious to do this before I get too old for such things. I do not know what such a wonderful young woman sees in this old man.

I am concerned that as a German citizen Christa may not be well received in England at the present time but I will do my best to protect her from any unpleasantness. She is a lovely girl and deserves to have a long and happy life and I hope to share as many of those years with her as possible.

If you have any perception of the contents of this letter I do hope you will forgive me and understand my need for affection. I will of course continue to support you in every way I can and ensure that you are kept safe. As soon as I have returned to the UK I will visit you. I do hope that on this occasion you are able to recognise me and perhaps find joy in my company once again even for a short time. Do not consider that I no longer find love in my heart for you but wars always bring change and as mere mortals we must change too.

All my love,

Johnnie x

Author Bio

Angela South originates from Dover, Kent. She started her career as a secretary mostly in London. But in 1978 she became lecturer in a further education college teaching Business Studies and IT, at the same time as bringing up a family.

She left teaching in 2008 to work as a PA to the director of a

national charity. She has since worked as a carer in a home for the elderly and is now happily retired although she does do some voluntary work. She now has time to develop her writing hobby and this is the first of what she hopes will be many short story successes.

Coincidence

Coincidence

Roger Noons

In the absence of hemlock, a large whisky, very, very sour

I should have realised, right at the beginning; but I had fallen in love.

*

I met Julia whilst on a training course in Exeter. It was early June, warm, sunny and we were often cast together, either as a pair, or in the same team of four. Most of the time, the exercises were conducted in the grounds of the Hall, which the Company had hired to train us in inter-personal skills. We therefore spent many hours during that week, either sitting at picnic benches, or lounging on soft, lush, green grass. 

    The nature of the course meant that we also spent our evenings together, continuing discussions either in the bar, or on the patio outside. For much of the time, the other attendees gave us a wide berth. In five days, I learnt more about Julia: her tastes, likes and dislikes, than I had ever known about any other person, in my twenty-seven years.

    I was surprised when she announced that she was forty-three years old. From her appearance and bubbly enthusiasm, I had guessed around twenty-five. The first night we spent together in bed, she behaved like a woman in her mid-twenties. It was just after one o’ clock on the Thursday morning when she whispered. ‘I love you.’

 As lunchtime neared on the Friday, I became restless, nervous, wondering how I should deal with the business of our parting, how and when, we should meet again. I could not decide what to say. I believed that if I put so much as a lettuce leaf in my mouth, I would be sick. As it happened, I need not have worried.

    ‘Must you return home this afternoon?’ Julia asked.

    ‘No there’s no rush, I can ring Adam, why?’

    ‘I’m going to visit my parents. They live just outside Gloucester; it’s on your way, so why not come with me?’

    ‘If you think it will be alright, not inconvenience them, that would be great.’

    ‘No problem, they are looking forward to meeting you.’

*

I had not considered that Julia being the age that she was, would have parents in their seventies. Hence it was a shock when I was introduced. Her father, a retired vicar, totally bald, depressed and subdued: reeked of loneliness. Mrs Scott-James was an altogether different proposition. She was tall, stately, overweight, but with her ample flesh suitably encased, no doubt by the most skilful of corsetiéres. Her manner was brusque, formal and even when she merely said, ‘How do you do.?’ there was challenge and accusation in her tone. I immediately realised that Julia and I would be housed in separate rooms, although I had not expected that we would be on different floors.

    In order to inconvenience them as little as possible, bearing in mind the brief notice of my arrival, I suggested that I treat the four of us to supper at the village pub. Herbert’s expression lightened, until Elspeth commented. ‘Providing we can get a table.’

    Julia rang and charmed the licensee and we were given a reservation for eight thirty.

    ‘A little late for us Herbert, we must only have one course,’ was the dragon’s observation.

*

The atmosphere at the Black Swan resulted in us enjoying a more pleasant evening than I had expected. Herbert had little to contribute to the conversation, but discovered the courage to defy his wife and order a rich, creamy pudding.

    ‘I trust you will be able to sleep after such a dessert Herbert. I think it best that you take appropriate medication before you retire. I would not welcome being disturbed during the early hours.’

    ‘Leave him alone Mum,’ Julia chided, and poured him another glass of wine.

    Mrs. J-S. was about to respond, but perhaps remembering my presence, consoled herself with a look that would have frozen soup, had there been a bowl of it on the table. When the three of us stared at her, Elspeth smiled wanly in her daughter’s direction.

    Julia had previously told me that although Elspeth bullied her father, she was generous towards her. In her mother’s eyes, Julia had already far exceeded expectation, by rising through the company, to become the head of the firm’s legal department. I had to agree that it was an exceptional achievement.

*

Soon after we returned from the pub, the oldies said good night. We were left alone in the magazine-layout sitting room. Giggling, we lay on the carpet, alongside the marble surround of the over-sized fire grate, rather than risk making an indentation, or leaving a stain on an item of furniture.

*

That first encounter was thirty-two years ago. Since then, Julia and I married, she suffered a miscarriage, and her parents died. Herbert went first, quietly whilst he was asleep. Elspeth suffered a brain tumour. She went blind and deaf during the final weeks, but retained her power of speech, so that she could purvey her vehemence and continue to criticize, mainly me.

    My wife had changed with the years. She and Elspeth had become more like sisters, and I was the principal recipient of their joint venom. After her mother had been cremated, Julia assumed the sole mantle. I had progressed in the company to the position of Sales Director. We had a fine house, nice cars, lots of money and acquaintances; no family of course, and few friends. It should have been a wonderful life, but it was one of misery. I worked as many hours as I could, stayed away from home and had liaisons, but she always knew – whether by a sixth sense – or because I was lax in covering up. She knew and made me pay, by her words and actions. In time her skills made her mother’s performance seem amateurish.

*

It was at the party to celebrate my early retirement that Adam proclaimed. ‘Julia has the ability to brighten a room, merely by leaving it.’

    That made me think about the years ahead. Although seventy-five, Julia was fit and healthy. She had her mother’s genes, so I decided that I should be rid of her. I spent days, weeks developing a plan, a plot to engineer her demise. It should have worked perfectly, except for coincidence. At the very moment that she slipped from the cliff path, falling onto the rocks below, an air sea rescue helicopter on another mission passed overhead. Both pilot and navigator swore that they saw my hands upon her back, the split second before she fell.

*

 I have decided that when my solicitor visits tomorrow, I shall instruct him to enter a plea of guilty.

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 Difference Between Us

The Difference Between Us

Laura Wilkinson

Cortado

How stupid to carry the shoes: guilt overriding common sense. Nestled under my arm the box digs into my ribs, and I wonder how I’ll manage my suitcases. Swollen soles throb; my feet look like trotters, my legs like skittles – I am a mess. Pushing aside an unread book and wash bag I scrabble in my handbag for nicotine gum. I am trying to give up – smoking dulls my complexion, yellows my teeth. Eva doesn’t smoke. The flight number flashes on the screen, the belt groans into action and people surge to claim their luggage, knocking me off my fashionable, unforgiving heels. I hobble forward.

        As I push my trolley through the arrivals lounge I see her. She looks preternaturally beautiful, and my heart sinks then swells with pride in such rapid succession I feel faint. Or is it the heat? She glows like a nymph in a river of sweaty faces. She is daydreaming, not watchful, so I watch her, unobserved, and realise, with dismay, that she’s lost weight.

            ‘Not that she needed to,’ I snipe, penitent immediately. Eva’s been ill; there’s been a traumatic break-up. Correction: she was dumped. But Eva is never dumped; she is the one who grows tired and moves on. Until David. I note that other than weight loss Eva looks in rude health.

****

The last time I saw my twin was a few hours before my departure. She was getting ready for an evening out and the house shook with excitement. Her date was a local celebrity, an ex-footballer whose career had been cut short, purportedly, by a knee injury. He spotted her at a beauty contest. Eva was not a contestant, much to the relief of the other girls; she worked as a stylist and make-up artist. Our mother described David as ‘a good catch’.

            So all eyes were on Eva the night I left. She wore a turquoise dress, emphasising her green eyes, and her blonde hair had been curled and piled high on her head, accentuating her height and leanness.

            ‘Where are my yellow shoes?’ she bellowed from the landing as I dragged my bags across the hall. ‘I can’t find the bloody things anywhere.’

            From the bedroom our mother cooed, ‘Eva darling, why don’t we look in your wardrobe. I’m sure they’ll be there. We’re not looking hard enough.’

            ‘We’d better be bloody fast about it. The car will be here in a minute.’

            ‘Why don’t you wear the red ones, Eva? They’re gorgeous,’ I offered picking fluff from my jumper and hoping my tone didn’t betray me.

            ‘Because red is tarty, Monica.’

            Outside a horn tooted and Mum emerged from the bedroom, pink faced and flustered, holding a pair of silver courts.

            ‘They’ll have to do.’ Eva snatched the shoes, slipped them on and waltzed down the stairs. We scurried after her as she whirled through the porch door.

            ‘Give me a hug, sweetie. Sorry I can’t come to the airport. You understand. I’ll come and visit when I’m a happily married woman!’

            And with that she was gone.

            Mum touched my shoulder and said, ‘Plenty of time. Study, work, live, love. That order.’

****

‘Monica!’

Pushing her way through the crowds she flings her arms around me. I could snap her in two if I squeeze hard enough.

            ‘You look well,’ she says.

            ‘Fat.’ I force myself to laugh. ‘I’ve puffed up like pastry.’

            ‘You look amazing. Come on.’

Driving home Eva talks incessantly. Familiar scenery flashes before my eyes. This is home, where my heart is, I think.

            ‘How does it feel to be back?’ Eva interrupts my thoughts.

            ‘Good. I miss this place.’

            ‘I’d so love to get out of here.’

            ‘Then you should. Why not?’

            She looks at me and I’m worried that we’ll crash. ‘Because I’m not as brave as you. Or as clever. People know me here. And there’s Mum.’

            ‘She’d cope. If you really want something, then go get it. It needn’t be forever.’

‘Sound words, Egg. Perhaps I’ll travel when you’re done.’ The nickname – short for Egg-head – comforts me; she has not used it for years.

I wonder if there’s anything for me here anymore. Anyone. I try to be casual. ‘Have you seen Tony?  He know I’m visiting?’  I hope he’s forgiven me.

            ‘Saw him the other day. He asked after you. “How’s your sis, Eva? Haven’t seen her in an age, must be twelve months.”’ Eva’s impersonation is good. Too good. The cadence is spot on and goose-pimples rise on my arm.

            Tony.

            It’s been thirteen months – I last saw him four weeks before I left.

****

Tony was the kind of guy everyone liked. Nice-looking, affable, flawed.  Ever so slightly boss-eyed, a bit like Benito Del Toro. I’d been in love with him since high school.  

Eva teased me mercilessly. ‘Monica loves Toneeeeeeeeeeeeeeee,’ she’d say, fake-fainting on the sofa.

But he didn’t go for girls like me. Or so I thought. I figured he liked Eva – most of the guys we knew did.              

One evening, at a bar on the harbour with friends, Tony mooched over. He invited us all to the launch of a new club he was managing, but no one could make it. No one except me. I had nothing on that night, other than studying for my exams; I rarely did.

Eva shrugged, pouted and said, ’You win some, you lose some, huh, Tony?’

            Ignoring her, Tony turned to me and said, ‘It’s you and me, kid. I’ll pick you up at eight.’

            He winked as he walked away. The ‘picking up’ made it feel like a date.

            ‘Monica and Tony Sanchez, eh? Who’d have thought it?’ Eva said. She was laughing, but I didn’t care.

I couldn’t decide what to wear. My black dress was flattering but too frumpy. I needed something to transform the look – statement shoes perhaps – but I didn’t have any. Eva did. Spiky-heeled yellow shoes with outsize bows. They weren’t her favourites, but I knew she would not lend them to me.

As I crept out, a tote held fast under my arm, Eva said, ‘You look nice. Very, err,’ she struggled for a quietly insulting remark, ‘refined.’ A heel jabbed at my ribs as I quickened my pace.

The club was packed and no one could see my feet anyway. But Tony was attentive; we sat on bar stools and talked and talked and talked. We made each other laugh.

Later, as we walked to the taxi rank, Tony took hold of my hand. My palms were sweaty, the soles of my feet ached. The yellow shoes click-clacked.

‘They Eva’s shoes?’

I shrugged and looked at the pavement.

‘She wasn’t worried you’d look better in them?’

            ‘No danger of that,’ I mumbled, twirling strands of hair round a finger.

            ‘She is lovely, that twin of yours.’ He emphasized ‘twin’ and his tone was jocular, but I didn’t understand.

            ‘Non-identical twin.’ I cursed the shoes; they reminded him of Eva. My confidence evaporated.

            Without replying he steered me into a doorway. The wood felt cool against my back. Eyes closed he leant in, kissing my neck and ears. The scent of sandalwood engulfed me; his touch was passionate and tender. He inched towards my face. Images of Eva looming in my mind, my mouth dried up and despite my desire I was unable to return his kiss.  

Ashamed I pushed him off and ran; his confused words couldn’t keep pace, I was fast – even in those heels.

In the taxi I tore off the shoes. I wanted rid of them. My feet were blistered and bleeding, unused to the stringencies of such footwear, and as we crawled along the harbour seafront I hurled them through the open window. The tide was in. I heard a faint splash and imagined them sinking to the sea bed; the ribbons unravelling, soaring like a mermaid’s hair, Eva’s yellow shoes drifting with rusty cans, old trainers and fishermen’s abandoned weights.

            I left a month later. Deferring my university place, I travelled, and forged a life independent of Eva.

Before I left, Tony called a couple of times and though I wanted to, I couldn’t pick up. On my voicemail he asked what he’d done wrong. ‘Call me,’ he said. But I was too embarrassed. I wanted to tell Eva about the shoes, but never found the right time.

****

As Eva watches me drag my bags from the boot of her car she says, ‘This is going to sound weird, but did you take my yellow shoes with you?’

            My stomach turns over.

            ‘Tony said something.’

            ‘What?’

            ‘He saw you in them.’

            Memories return. Of how messed up I was. How jealousy convinced me he couldn’t possibly like me, that I was a poor substitute for Eva.  How months later, in a foreign city, I realised the twin reference was meant as a compliment; bitter tears of regret mingling with the wails of car alarms and sirens. I hope he’ll give me a second chance.

‘Where did you see Tony?’ I say.

            ‘In his bar.’

I want to confess, it has weighed on me too long.

            ‘I’m sorry.’ It pours out: my confession. ‘I brought you something. To make up.’ And I pull out the box. A pair of shoes: Manolo Blahnik’s. A month’s salary.

            ‘I would have lent them to you,’ she says.

‘You wouldn’t.’ I smile.

‘You’re right. I wouldn’t. It served me right. Thank you for these. They are truly gorgeous, much lovelier than the others.’

Clutching the shoes Eva grins. ‘I have a confession to make too.’ Python sly smile. ‘You stepped into my shoes...’

I wonder what on earth I have, or had, that Eva covets. And then I know: Tony. I cannot move.

Leaning forward, she grabs my suitcase handle and wheels it to the front door.

‘Come on, slow coach.’

I kick off my shoes and stand still, watching her step into the house, watching the difference between us increase, the slate flagstones on the drive cool against my aching soles.

About the Author

Laura Wilkinson grew up in a Welsh market town and now lives in a never-to-be chic area of Brighton. As well as mothering two ginger boys, she works as an editor for literary consultancy, Cornerstones, and in education. She has published short stories in magazines, digital media and anthologies. Her debut novel, BloodMining, is published by Bridge House Publishing. Her current work-in-progress is a novel set against the backdrop of the 1984/85 miners’ strike. Find out more here: http://laura-wilkinson.co.uk. Or follow her on Twitter: @ScorpioScribble. She loves to hear from readers.