At the Garage Lounge
Lounging and eating cake - hmmmm -
Never had beetroot in a cake before
Nice and chocolatey
Goes well with coffee.
Slightly odd eating cake from a board
Perched upon a sofa made for Victorian -
Or at least - Edwardian
Ladies to perch upon in their corset-tight clothes -
Perhaps a bustle to lift them forwards
As they lean towards the cake.
Then - I look up
And there's my Polish Sis
Standing in the doorway
Smiling in surprise.
We greet,
I put down my fork
Look longingly at this cake of beet
But am delighted at our meeting
For the second time this week.
Monday, 30 April 2012
Saturday, 28 April 2012
The cost of a view
A couple of years ago I read in the local paper that the council were proposing to charge rates based on the view from your garden. This prompted me to write this:
If I were charged a fee
Each time I sit here under this tree
To look upon the view
From my backyard
I would surely be bankrupt now.
But would I be given recompense
Every time I look over the fence
Into the busy, noisy street
And for each late night reveller
Who stops in my front garden for a kiss
Or even a piss
Whilst awaiting the noisy, door-slamming,
Fuckin' spouting taxi
They take into town.
And what price the bus trip into town
To shop on a Saturday
Only to realise that
There's no bus back.
(this was written whilst we were still lucky enough to have a bus service in Southwick - albeit a totally unsuitable one for anyone other than those trying to get into town in the morning and back again before six in the evening. Now we have even lost that service - supposedly because it wasn't financially viable. It may have worked if the bus services had been more user-friendly.)
If I were charged a fee
Each time I sit here under this tree
To look upon the view
From my backyard
I would surely be bankrupt now.
But would I be given recompense
Every time I look over the fence
Into the busy, noisy street
And for each late night reveller
Who stops in my front garden for a kiss
Or even a piss
Whilst awaiting the noisy, door-slamming,
Fuckin' spouting taxi
They take into town.
And what price the bus trip into town
To shop on a Saturday
Only to realise that
There's no bus back.
(this was written whilst we were still lucky enough to have a bus service in Southwick - albeit a totally unsuitable one for anyone other than those trying to get into town in the morning and back again before six in the evening. Now we have even lost that service - supposedly because it wasn't financially viable. It may have worked if the bus services had been more user-friendly.)
An old Poem without a name
I have compared thee, O my love
To a flock of seagulls on the shore
Stoically standing against the wind
Only to rise up in alarm
Whenever I try to be near you.
Your eyes are to me, the eyes of the raptor.
They stare unblinking into the distance
Awaiting some prey far beyond my sight.
Your broad shoulders like raptor's wings
Lifting you far into the sky
To float and soar high above me
Always out of reach.
I compare thy heart, my love,
To the tiny robin
Who flits and hops about my garden
Greedily tasting all I have to offer
And ferociously attacking all who come to call.
To a flock of seagulls on the shore
Stoically standing against the wind
Only to rise up in alarm
Whenever I try to be near you.
Your eyes are to me, the eyes of the raptor.
They stare unblinking into the distance
Awaiting some prey far beyond my sight.
Your broad shoulders like raptor's wings
Lifting you far into the sky
To float and soar high above me
Always out of reach.
I compare thy heart, my love,
To the tiny robin
Who flits and hops about my garden
Greedily tasting all I have to offer
And ferociously attacking all who come to call.
Wise Words
You have no need to climb a great mountain to reach wisdom. It is already in your heart. Just be still, allow yourself a quiet space in the midst of all this mayhem. Stop moving about - rushing to get things done. Just listen to your inner self and allow it free reign to shine through you.
Take good care of yourself, be selfish sometimes. Honour the Earth and all its creatures and the Earth will care for you. Listen more often, talk less. Honour your parents, respect your children - and don't spit in the street.
Take good care of yourself, be selfish sometimes. Honour the Earth and all its creatures and the Earth will care for you. Listen more often, talk less. Honour your parents, respect your children - and don't spit in the street.
Thursday, 26 April 2012
judith kinghorn...: Agents and publishers (a post for authors).
judith kinghorn...: Agents and publishers (a post for authors).: We live in interesting times, particularly in publishing, where digital technology has accelerated change and altered our vision of the fut...
Rainy Wednesday
"One month's rainfall in the next forty-eight hours" the weather girl said on the news yesterday morning. I knew our summer ended when March flew out. Makes you want to stay in bed and catch up on your dreams - so you go to sleep and the dreams just chase you awake.
So you put on your face, do your hair, put on your coat and boots, get in the car and drive. At the top of the hill you can see the blue sky hanging over Fawley - the oil refinery in the distance. Try to hold onto the poetic words in your head as you drive - and then - sitting in Fareham town with a cup of coffee the words have all disappeared - so you look up at the window to the sky and see - sunshine.
Try to make the most of the moment by writing in a notebook - time to move on to working the new novel into something of a PLOT. Picking at your brain-cells which seem to have gone into hibernation with the weather. Struggle to write - then suddenly you realise that you've written three pages of something. Put it away and don't read it back for at least a couple of days - then embellish it until it makes a story.
Driving back home, passing the river - you notice the banks are overflowing and the water's still rising. The sun no longer shining and it's raining again. But in the garden the birds are feeding, and singing as they feed. Everywhere you look it's wet and windswept. The plastic chairs in the garden are on their sides, catching water in their hollow legs ready to soak you when you try to upright them later. Windchimes are clattering together - annoying the neighbours even more than usual. You wonder whether you should bring them in before the winds tears at the cord that hangs them to the tree.
You sit in the kitchen - looking out at all that beauty - and the sun comes out again, casting warmth in through the window. You smile.
So you put on your face, do your hair, put on your coat and boots, get in the car and drive. At the top of the hill you can see the blue sky hanging over Fawley - the oil refinery in the distance. Try to hold onto the poetic words in your head as you drive - and then - sitting in Fareham town with a cup of coffee the words have all disappeared - so you look up at the window to the sky and see - sunshine.
Try to make the most of the moment by writing in a notebook - time to move on to working the new novel into something of a PLOT. Picking at your brain-cells which seem to have gone into hibernation with the weather. Struggle to write - then suddenly you realise that you've written three pages of something. Put it away and don't read it back for at least a couple of days - then embellish it until it makes a story.
Driving back home, passing the river - you notice the banks are overflowing and the water's still rising. The sun no longer shining and it's raining again. But in the garden the birds are feeding, and singing as they feed. Everywhere you look it's wet and windswept. The plastic chairs in the garden are on their sides, catching water in their hollow legs ready to soak you when you try to upright them later. Windchimes are clattering together - annoying the neighbours even more than usual. You wonder whether you should bring them in before the winds tears at the cord that hangs them to the tree.
You sit in the kitchen - looking out at all that beauty - and the sun comes out again, casting warmth in through the window. You smile.
Caught in the Web published in paperback
At last, you can obtain your own paperback copy of Caught in the Web. If you would rather have a book that you can actually hold in your hand, feel the paper, turn the pages, pass on to your friends or the local charity shop - this is your lucky day!
Seriously though, a lot of people have asked me when the book would be out in paperback - so I have been working hard on trying to get it published and have finally achieved it.
Here's the link if you want to order a copy. 'www.completelynovel.com/books.
Seriously though, a lot of people have asked me when the book would be out in paperback - so I have been working hard on trying to get it published and have finally achieved it.
Here's the link if you want to order a copy. 'www.completelynovel.com/books.
Wednesday, 25 April 2012
The Mirror Image
Am feeling poetic today:
The Wrong Coloured Eyes -
Lines like feathers around my Mother's mouth
Droop down at corners then arise.
The nose, likened to a Polish Countess
Speaks a language I was never taught.
Green eyes sparkle from my Grandmother's face
The fine lace-like skin
Dried and weathered now,
Tight across the brow
Like the drum that thumps its rhythm within.
Eyes in Edwardian photos do not shine
But gaze fearfully into the future
Unaware of the timelessness of captured features
Handed down to me in tiny scraps -
Each one wrapped in my reflection.
Tomorrow - the green eyes change to brown
At the whim of the weather
Or the clothes I chose to wear -
But the eyes in the photo never change,
Always remaining deep, black pools
Gazing past my lifetime into another's eternity.
The Wrong Coloured Eyes -
Lines like feathers around my Mother's mouth
Droop down at corners then arise.
The nose, likened to a Polish Countess
Speaks a language I was never taught.
Green eyes sparkle from my Grandmother's face
The fine lace-like skin
Dried and weathered now,
Tight across the brow
Like the drum that thumps its rhythm within.
Eyes in Edwardian photos do not shine
But gaze fearfully into the future
Unaware of the timelessness of captured features
Handed down to me in tiny scraps -
Each one wrapped in my reflection.
Tomorrow - the green eyes change to brown
At the whim of the weather
Or the clothes I chose to wear -
But the eyes in the photo never change,
Always remaining deep, black pools
Gazing past my lifetime into another's eternity.
Tuesday, 24 April 2012
Post trauma residue
You took away my kindness
Sculpted my pliable heart into stone
Drenched yourself in my sweetness and left me alone
But would not
Could not let me go -
Not until each and every drop of life and love
Was hammered out of me.
Now I'm different.
The ways you can tell it's not me
And yet, still is me
Are both visible and unseen
Within as well as without me.
The way I long to be loved by all
How I jump at every explosion
Of laughter.
My reticence to stand in the light
In case I'm recognised -
And yet
The fear of living is easing
And I see it really is me
Living and succeeding
And loving again.
(Written a few years ago now, but I still remember how this felt)
Sculpted my pliable heart into stone
Drenched yourself in my sweetness and left me alone
But would not
Could not let me go -
Not until each and every drop of life and love
Was hammered out of me.
Now I'm different.
The ways you can tell it's not me
And yet, still is me
Are both visible and unseen
Within as well as without me.
The way I long to be loved by all
How I jump at every explosion
Of laughter.
My reticence to stand in the light
In case I'm recognised -
And yet
The fear of living is easing
And I see it really is me
Living and succeeding
And loving again.
(Written a few years ago now, but I still remember how this felt)
Caught in the Web update
Finally finished editing the last proof copy of my novel today. As soon as it's accepted it will be available in paperback form. To celebrate this here is chapter nine of Caught in the Web:
Chapter
Nine
'You'll
look great in these.' Linda threw a pair of black trousers onto the
pile of clothes already covering the bed. 'Or this skirt. It's one
of my favourites.'
'I
don't know where to start.' Karen was overwhelmed. 'You've got so
many lovely things.'
Linda
pulled a range of colourful tops from her wardrobe. 'I think red
would suit you. Try this.' She held up a silky red polo neck top.
'I'm
not sure about red.' Karen was embarrassed about trying on Linda's
clothes. The skirt was a maxi, not the knee length that Karen was
used to wearing, and the trousers were wide and impractical.
'Come
on, you'll never know until you've tried it on.' Linda was
persuasive and soon Karen had pulled on the trousers and the red top.
A stranger looked back at her when she turned to the mirror. She
remembered dreaming about wearing trendy clothes when she was younger
but had never had the confidence to buy something like this.
'You
look fantastic!' Linda was beaming at her. 'Well, say something.'
'They’re
lovely.' Karen hesitated. 'Are you sure it's O.K. to borrow them?'
'Of
course.' Linda pulled on a mini dress. 'Now, get your make-up on
and we'll get going.'
'I
don't usually wear make-up.'
'Sit
here,' ordered Linda, ushering Karen to the bed. 'I'll do it for
you. Come on, this is party time.'
'I
don't know.'
'You
can't go out without make-up on.'
Karen
glanced at herself in the mirror again, sighed and sat on the bed.
'Oh, well, in for a penny,' she laughed and put herself into Linda's
expert hands.
Karen
watched Linda's reflection as she rummaged through the contents of
her dressing table, carefully laying out an array of make-up before
them.
'We'll
start with a good base,' Linda advised as she squeezed a dollop of
the pale brown mess onto her fingers and began to gently spread it on
Karen's face. Karen looked in the mirror and saw herself looking
back behind a pale, blemish-free mask.
'Now,
for the colour,' Linda said, reaching for green eye-shadow. 'Close
your eyes.'
Karen
felt the brush-strokes on her eye-lids, feeling awkward at the
closeness of the other woman, and the intimacy of her touch on
Karen's face.
'Don't
look yet,' Linda said as she brushed Karen's cheeks with a blusher
and painted her lips.
Karen
felt slightly sick at the smell of the make-up mingling with Linda's
own perfume and the warmth of the room.
'There.'
Linda stepped back. 'Now you can look.'
Karen
opened her eyes. A transformation of her former self looked out at
her from the mirror world.
'I'm
ready,' she said.
Loud
music invited them into the crowded and dimly lit room. The darkness
was broken by red, blue and green flashing disco lights. Cigarette
smoke mingled with the aroma of incense swirling in the coloured
beams of light.
'Hey
Karen, you got here then?' John was shouting in her ear above the
sound of The Rolling Stones. She smiled nervously back.
'I'll
get you a drink, in the kitchen.' He grabbed her and led her through
the moving crowd. The touch of his hand on her own shocked her. She
looked around for Linda, but she was already lost, making a bee-line
for Andy who was on the far side of the dancers.
'What
do you fancy?' John was asking. 'We've got bitter, lager or
Liebfraumilch.'
'Liebfraumilch
please.' Karen leaned against the sink. She noticed a stain on the
ceiling.
He
handed her a paper cup. 'There you go.'
'Thanks.'
Karen tried to relax as she sipped the warm wine. She looked out at
the crowd in the corridor. A couple of girls pushed their way
through the door, laughing loudly.
'Let's
get out of here.' John pushed her into the hall. They stood for a
few moments. Karen tried to think of something to say. Her mind
seemed to be a mess of nothingness. She smiled nervously.
'You
look great.' He returned her smile with his own quirky lop-sided
grin. 'Is your old man coming?'
'Peter?'
She had almost forgotten him. 'No, I don't think so. He had to
work late.' She laughed, wondering why she was making excuses for
him.
'Never
mind, I'll dance with you if you like.' He was holding his hand out
invitingly. 'Come on. Please.'
Karen
hesitated for only a moment.
'Alright.'
She smiled, taking his hand. He whisked her back into the noisy
moving mass.
Karen
took another gulp of her wine before abandoning the paper cup on a
window sill. She felt herself dancing, self-consciously at first
then as the alcohol began doing its work realised that she was
actually enjoying herself. She remembered dancing in her teens and
how it had felt. Gradually the tensions slipped away and she felt
herself letting go and really dancing. Allowing her body to feel the
rhythm, listening to the words, singing along with those she knew,
getting louder and louder as her inhibitions dropped away, Karen was
dancing with her eyes closed, the whole world around her no longer
mattered.
She
opened her eyes as the music came to a close. John was still there,
reaching out to hold her. He was looking at her and smiling.
'You
enjoying yourself?' His arm draped around her shoulder as he drew
her towards him.
'Yes!'
She realised she was shouting, even though the music had stopped.
'Sorry, I'm getting carried away.'
'You
were amazing. Don't apologise for yourself - come on.'
Another
album had been put on the stereo and Stevie Wonder's voice was
belting out. They danced, Karen completely lost in a world of fun as
the time flew by.
They
were dancing closer now, Roberta Flack's words “killing me softly”
floating in Karen's head. She felt so happy, but there was still a
deep rooted feeling of anxiety somewhere trying to surface. She
pushed it away.
'I'm
not doing anything wrong. Peter could have come,' she told herself.
'I would have loved to have danced with him like this.'
John's
body was so close, and warm. No tension or expectation came from him
to do anything other than moving together to the music. She leaned
her head towards his, their cheeks touching, briefly at first as she
pulled away, then she relaxed in his arms and savoured the roughness
of his face against hers. This was a feeling she'd never experienced
before. With Peter there was always the fear that she was not quite
doing the right thing, that she would somehow let him down.
Thoughts
of Peter broke the spell.
'I've
got to go.' Karen glanced at her watch. 'It's nearly eleven. I'll
miss that bus.' She looked around desperately. 'Where's Linda?
I've got to get my things from her room.'
'It's
alright, we'll find her. But you'll not get that bus now.' John
reached to touch her arm. She flinched.
'I
have to go.' Pushing past several people in the doorway, Karen went
out onto the footpath in front of the hostel. ‘Has anyone seen
Linda?'
'She
went to her room with Andy, about ten minutes ago,' someone called
out.
Karen
ran down the path and into the other block of rooms. As she flew
through the door, she noticed John was following her.
'It's
O.K. Karen,' he was saying. 'I can take you home.'
'You
can't!' The thought of arriving at home in John's car was
ridiculous. How ever did he think she could explain that away. 'No.
It's alright. I'll get a taxi or something if I miss the bus. But
it might be running late. I may still catch it.'
'It's
never late,' he said. 'Not the last one. The driver sits there from
ten to - just waiting to leave. He won't wait past eleven.'
Karen
was already banging on Linda's door, panic rising with every moment
wasted. The door opened.
'Alright
love?' Linda looked worried. 'Come in.'
'I
need my stuff. My bag. I have to get home.' She ran into the room,
hardly noticing that Linda was in her bathrobe and Andy was sitting
on the bed with the quilt draped around him. She found her uniform
and stuffed it into her bag before hesitating, taking in the scene.
'I'm
sorry,' she blushed. 'Can I give you back your clothes tomorrow?'
'Of
course. How are you getting back,' Linda asked. 'You can stay here
if you want.'
'No.
I need to get home. I'll get a taxi.'
'I'll
give you a lift Karen.' John stood in the doorway. 'Sorry you two.
I'll see that she gets home safely.' He looked at Karen. 'Look, I
can give you a lift to Fareham, then you can get the bus from there.
No one will know the difference,' he added.
'I
suppose.' Karen was still unsure. 'Thanks.'
'Well
come on then, let's go.' He grinned at Linda and Andy. 'See you two
later,' he said as he swept out of the room.
'Thanks
for tonight.’ Karen smiled at Linda and followed him to the car
park. He held open the door as she got into the passenger seat of his
old Morris Minor. It spluttered into life after several attempts
with the choke fully out and soon they were on their way through the
winding country lanes to Fareham. They caught up with the bus and
even managed to overtake it when it stopped to let off several people
at the railway station, arriving at the central bus depot with time
to spare.
'Here
we are then, all safe and sound,' John said.
'Thanks,
John.' Karen felt so relieved and just a bit silly.
‘What
time's the bus to Gosport?’
‘It
goes at eleven thirty.'
'Plenty
of time then. You've got about ten minutes.'
They
sat in silence for a while.
'Thank
you.' Karen felt lost.
'Yeah,
you said that already. It's nothing.' He took her hand in his
briefly, then dropped it. 'Sorry. I keep forgetting you're married.
This is weird.'
'I
had a good time tonight,' Karen said.
'Me
too.'
The
bus was pulling into the bay.
'I've
got to go.' Karen fumbled with the door handle. John leaned over to
help and as he did, she could smell the closeness of him, a mixture
of tobacco and incense, the heady aroma of a happy memory.
'Karen.'
He spoke gently as he leaned towards her. She turned and their lips
brushed together for a moment so brief that later it was as though
she'd imagined it. Karen was out of the car, clutching her bag to
her chest and on the bus before she could think about anything else
other than getting home.
A
note on the kitchen worktop greeted Karen. The house was dark and
silent, the only words were those written on the note:
Karen,
Gone
clubbing with mates from work.
Don't
wait up.
P.
Karen
stood looking at the words, wondering why she felt so afraid. She
left the note and went upstairs to bed, catching a glimpse of herself
in the hall mirror as she passed the bathroom. Still dressed in
Linda's clothes, her face made up, she looked at herself. Who was
that woman in the mirror? She smiled at herself. 'He's not going to
beat me. Not any more,' she said to her reflection.
Sitting
on the bed, Karen began to clean the make-up from her face. First
the lipstick, then the black mascara and green eye-shadow. Finally,
she wiped the blusher from her cheeks, watching all the time as the
new Karen gradually slipped away once more. She sighed and went to
bed.
Peter
came in late. The sound of his stumbling around the bedroom, bumping
into the dressing table and the bed woke her. He was too drunk to
care whether she was awake or not so she pretended to be asleep until
she heard the safety of his snores. She relaxed, lying awake,
thinking about the day's events.
So
much had happened. She couldn't get the thought of the party and
dancing with John out of her head. An excitement fluttered somewhere
inside her which she tried to push away as feelings of guilt
overwhelmed her.
She
turned her mind to her work.
First
there was Florrie and her Christmas card. Karen made a pact with
herself to stand up to people like Marion.
'She
seems to be in the job just to be cruel,' she thought.
Then
there was Evelyn. Why had she reacted so violently? Karen couldn't
work it out. There was something about the woman. She felt
comfortable around her even though Evelyn didn't seem to feel the
same. She was determined to find out more about her, and to try and
work on breaking down those barriers.
Eventually
she slept.
Monday, 23 April 2012
Sunday morning in Southwick
Bluebells, celandines, primroses, violets, wild garlic all in abundance around Southwick this weekend. I have probably been walking these paths for the past thirty-five years and not a lot has changed especially in the woods and fields. It's been raining quite a bit this week so everything has a freshness to it that you can only get in England in the Spring. It still amazes me every time we walk - the sunlight through the trees casting dappled shadows - buzzards soaring above, blue-tits chirruping as they fly past, dipping as though on roller coasters, squirrels leaping the paths in front of us and scampering up the far side of the old oak tree. I love the silhouette of the trees in the woods around the back of the lake - try to imagine that world a hundred years ago before the so called Great War. Still, Southwick House would have been at peace during that war - it was only during the second World War that it was taken over by the Admiralty. The house still stands today, but is surrounded by modern buildings and is busy overlooking the training of Service Personnel.
It still feels like ours though as we walk and enjoy the lake - no fish jumping yet, although the herons fly over us as we walk and I catch a glimpse of a cormorant diving far off in the middle of the water.
We can ignore the golfers as they make their way around the course and there are no fishermen as yet.
So lucky to live in such a place!
It still feels like ours though as we walk and enjoy the lake - no fish jumping yet, although the herons fly over us as we walk and I catch a glimpse of a cormorant diving far off in the middle of the water.
We can ignore the golfers as they make their way around the course and there are no fishermen as yet.
So lucky to live in such a place!
Friday, 20 April 2012
The Chair - a Short Story
I held my breath. I was trying not to think. My stomach held all my fear, making my legs melt like jelly babies. My mouth was dry. If I held my breath long enough I would stop breathing altogether and die. Then my heart would stop too.
But it just beat louder and louder, faster and faster, as the time drew nearer.
The journey on the bus was all wrong. The wrong thing to do - being on the bus at that time of day - the ticket limp in my damp fingers. Old ladies go on the bus at half past ten on a Wednesday morning. I should have been at school - in the safety of the classroom - not here on the bus but there was no going back now. We had arrived.
I got off, my legs dragging me reluctantly up the hill and past the library. I thought if only I could go in there and hide - hide inside the day-dream world of books and stories. But I couldn't. There was my Mum waiting for me, just outside the gate. She grabbed my hand impatiently.
'Where have you been?'
'Nowhere. I just came straight here.'
She spat into her handkerchief and rubbed at my cheeks.
'Look at you. How did you get so dirty? You been crying? Don't know what you've got to cry about.'
I wriggled under her ferocious scrubbing, trying not to let the lump in my throat leak out into my eyes. By the time she'd finished with me we really were late. I was cold from standing outside in my thin winter coat, frozen on the inside as well as out, my nose dripping. She dragged me inside.
The smell is the first thing you notice in a dentist. The sweet smell of disinfectant that's never quite the same as any you've smelt before or since. As soon as it hits you, the fear rises - taking control. I knew straight away that I just had to go to the toilet but we were already late and I was scared to ask.
We still had to sit in the waiting room which was filled with other children and their mothers. I knew my Mum was angry. She didn't like it if I cried so I just kept biting the inside of my lip to stop myself. I don't know which was the worst bit - wanting to go to the toilet, not being able to ask, or the terror of what was to come in the room at the end of the corridor, the sounds of drilling tormenting my ears. As each child came out of the door, my heart seemed to stop as I waited for my name to be called. Then when it was someone else's turn to go in, relief washed over me like a warm wave of sunlight, until I realised that I was one step nearer to my turn, there was no escape, and the black cloud returned to block out the sun.
I jumped out of my skin when my name was finally called. I dropped the well-worn copy of the Beano that I was pretending to read. I could feel my insides shaking and wanted to be sick but Mum had grasped my by the wrist and I found myself being hauled along the corridor towards the waiting nurse and into the room beyond.
They never got me into the chair. Once through the door I took one look at all the gleaming instruments of torture and knew that I would never get into that chair despite the fear of my Mother's wrath. I just could not do it. I stood - defiant - rooted to the linoleum flooring refusing to go any closer.
'Come along then, let's have you in the chair,' the dentist smiled at me unconvincingly.
'Get in the chair!' hissed Mum, her voice hard and desperate.
I ran. Across the room to the far corner I ran. The nurse tried to grab me but I was too fast for her. Mum stood by the door, a look of horror on her face. The dentist waited by the chair. He'd been here before no doubt and believed that it would only be a matter of time before he had me as his victim in the torture seat. But I would never give in now. I ran around the chair, the nurse chasing me until the dentist finally snapped.
'That's enough!' he shouted. 'Get her out of here. I will not have this behaviour in here - and don't bother coming back!'
Such a feeling of relief washed over me as we left the room. A feeling which stayed with me long after Mum had finished dragging me down the street, the words of her anger bouncing around in my head.
The bus ride back to school felt somehow - alright.
But it just beat louder and louder, faster and faster, as the time drew nearer.
The journey on the bus was all wrong. The wrong thing to do - being on the bus at that time of day - the ticket limp in my damp fingers. Old ladies go on the bus at half past ten on a Wednesday morning. I should have been at school - in the safety of the classroom - not here on the bus but there was no going back now. We had arrived.
I got off, my legs dragging me reluctantly up the hill and past the library. I thought if only I could go in there and hide - hide inside the day-dream world of books and stories. But I couldn't. There was my Mum waiting for me, just outside the gate. She grabbed my hand impatiently.
'Where have you been?'
'Nowhere. I just came straight here.'
She spat into her handkerchief and rubbed at my cheeks.
'Look at you. How did you get so dirty? You been crying? Don't know what you've got to cry about.'
I wriggled under her ferocious scrubbing, trying not to let the lump in my throat leak out into my eyes. By the time she'd finished with me we really were late. I was cold from standing outside in my thin winter coat, frozen on the inside as well as out, my nose dripping. She dragged me inside.
The smell is the first thing you notice in a dentist. The sweet smell of disinfectant that's never quite the same as any you've smelt before or since. As soon as it hits you, the fear rises - taking control. I knew straight away that I just had to go to the toilet but we were already late and I was scared to ask.
We still had to sit in the waiting room which was filled with other children and their mothers. I knew my Mum was angry. She didn't like it if I cried so I just kept biting the inside of my lip to stop myself. I don't know which was the worst bit - wanting to go to the toilet, not being able to ask, or the terror of what was to come in the room at the end of the corridor, the sounds of drilling tormenting my ears. As each child came out of the door, my heart seemed to stop as I waited for my name to be called. Then when it was someone else's turn to go in, relief washed over me like a warm wave of sunlight, until I realised that I was one step nearer to my turn, there was no escape, and the black cloud returned to block out the sun.
I jumped out of my skin when my name was finally called. I dropped the well-worn copy of the Beano that I was pretending to read. I could feel my insides shaking and wanted to be sick but Mum had grasped my by the wrist and I found myself being hauled along the corridor towards the waiting nurse and into the room beyond.
They never got me into the chair. Once through the door I took one look at all the gleaming instruments of torture and knew that I would never get into that chair despite the fear of my Mother's wrath. I just could not do it. I stood - defiant - rooted to the linoleum flooring refusing to go any closer.
'Come along then, let's have you in the chair,' the dentist smiled at me unconvincingly.
'Get in the chair!' hissed Mum, her voice hard and desperate.
I ran. Across the room to the far corner I ran. The nurse tried to grab me but I was too fast for her. Mum stood by the door, a look of horror on her face. The dentist waited by the chair. He'd been here before no doubt and believed that it would only be a matter of time before he had me as his victim in the torture seat. But I would never give in now. I ran around the chair, the nurse chasing me until the dentist finally snapped.
'That's enough!' he shouted. 'Get her out of here. I will not have this behaviour in here - and don't bother coming back!'
Such a feeling of relief washed over me as we left the room. A feeling which stayed with me long after Mum had finished dragging me down the street, the words of her anger bouncing around in my head.
The bus ride back to school felt somehow - alright.
Thursday, 19 April 2012
a poem
An old battered volume of poems
Stuffed into the back of the drawer
Was the place I found this page of rhyme
And here I sit in awe
Pondering over the lines
Of "A Sunken Evening"
On this wet Friday night.
The light has long gone out of the sky
I sit and wonder why -
Did you really mean to throw it all away that day.
Remember - when I came round.
The knock of my heavy hand on your door
The sound of echoing emptiness since your lover went away
So many days before.
Do you regret now
Giving away your lifetime's collection of books,
Musical instruments and such
Or are your memories liberated
No longer hated
By thoughts of her in all that you touch?
Stuffed into the back of the drawer
Was the place I found this page of rhyme
And here I sit in awe
Pondering over the lines
Of "A Sunken Evening"
On this wet Friday night.
The light has long gone out of the sky
I sit and wonder why -
Did you really mean to throw it all away that day.
Remember - when I came round.
The knock of my heavy hand on your door
The sound of echoing emptiness since your lover went away
So many days before.
Do you regret now
Giving away your lifetime's collection of books,
Musical instruments and such
Or are your memories liberated
No longer hated
By thoughts of her in all that you touch?
Wednesday, 18 April 2012
The Airing cupboard
Today I had to tackle a job I've been putting off for so long. I've been amazed at what I've found. It all came about by the radiator failure in my writing room. In order to investigate this I was obliged to empty the airing cupboard. As I have just been rooting through the huge pile of linen (and other stuff) which had been rammed into the cupboard over the years, so many memories have been flooding back to me.
Here is the cot cover my old Mum made for Erin when she was born. I remember her crocheting this and carefully sewing it onto a beautiful pink satin background. I can't throw that away now, can I? So this goes onto the "pile to keep" pile. Next, the blanket Mum later made for Erin when she graduated into her first proper bed. "That'll make a nice throw," I say to myself as I place it on the same pile.
There's a load of sheets and duvet covers - some were given to us by family - no one likes to throw anything away. I have bitten the bullet and binned the lot!
I couldn't bring myself to throw away the beach towel I bought the first time I went to Corsica with my eldest (now 33). He was only 3 at the time and we have lovely memories of those hot days in the sunshine, on the beach and up in the mountains. Neither could I lose the slightly more up to date towels we took to Ibiza - this time with my newer family of lovely husband and four more children. That was only about seven years ago but seems like an age looking back at the photos. Most of the kids are grown up now - so out went all the duvet covers with bunny rabbits and pink fairies.
I nearly kept the Santa's sacks - remembering the wonderful Christmas Eve's of only a few years ago when we crept around the house after midnight, trying to place each child's sacks, now filled with toys, at the ends of their beds. Exhausting but happy times.
At the bottom of the cupboard were bags of teddies and an assortment of cuddly toys - all belonging to our daughter, Erin, who is working towards moving out this year into a student house. I just know she won't be able to throw anything out and a part of me doesn't want to see those toys discarded. It will seem like the final end of her childhood somehow.....
Later:
I successfully binned four sacks of stuff and the bin man has just been - so no chance to rush out and retrieve anything now. Ho hum.... sad to throw things out - but I feel renewed.
Here is the cot cover my old Mum made for Erin when she was born. I remember her crocheting this and carefully sewing it onto a beautiful pink satin background. I can't throw that away now, can I? So this goes onto the "pile to keep" pile. Next, the blanket Mum later made for Erin when she graduated into her first proper bed. "That'll make a nice throw," I say to myself as I place it on the same pile.
There's a load of sheets and duvet covers - some were given to us by family - no one likes to throw anything away. I have bitten the bullet and binned the lot!
I couldn't bring myself to throw away the beach towel I bought the first time I went to Corsica with my eldest (now 33). He was only 3 at the time and we have lovely memories of those hot days in the sunshine, on the beach and up in the mountains. Neither could I lose the slightly more up to date towels we took to Ibiza - this time with my newer family of lovely husband and four more children. That was only about seven years ago but seems like an age looking back at the photos. Most of the kids are grown up now - so out went all the duvet covers with bunny rabbits and pink fairies.
I nearly kept the Santa's sacks - remembering the wonderful Christmas Eve's of only a few years ago when we crept around the house after midnight, trying to place each child's sacks, now filled with toys, at the ends of their beds. Exhausting but happy times.
At the bottom of the cupboard were bags of teddies and an assortment of cuddly toys - all belonging to our daughter, Erin, who is working towards moving out this year into a student house. I just know she won't be able to throw anything out and a part of me doesn't want to see those toys discarded. It will seem like the final end of her childhood somehow.....
Later:
I successfully binned four sacks of stuff and the bin man has just been - so no chance to rush out and retrieve anything now. Ho hum.... sad to throw things out - but I feel renewed.
Tuesday, 17 April 2012
Caught in the Web is nearly ready to sell in paperback form. For those of you who are awaiting with bated breath for the next instalment, here is chapter eight:
Karen's
head was still in a whirl the next morning as she faced the busy
shift ahead. Each step down the long corridor to the ward allowed
her to swallow down her worries one by one, until she was caught up
in the busy morning. Work gave her no time to dwell on her own
troubles. Being swept along with it all was what Karen needed.
She
was in the steam-filled bathroom, the single light-bulb struggling to
illuminate the room. Florrie Price, plump and middle-aged, dressed
in a grey crimplene dress printed with flowers the colour of washed
out strawberries, moved from one foot to the other on the spot. Her
face was contorted into constant changing shapes as her toothless
mouth writhed involuntarily. Her hair was permed into curls which
shrivelled even tighter in the steamy atmosphere.
'Come
on, I've run the bath, Florrie.' Karen's attempts at being assertive
were somewhat undermined by her lack of confidence. 'Get undressed,
please.'
Florrie,
still shifting her weight from one foot to another, clung tightly to
her voluminous knitting bag.
'Don't
want to get it wet,' she muttered.
'Just
put in on the chair. It won't get wet.'
'It's
mine. You're not having it.' Florrie glared at Karen.
'I
don't want it Florrie,' Karen said. 'Just put it there while you
have your bath. Come on, we won't be more than ten minutes. Your
hair really needs a wash.'
Before
the stand-off could go any further, the door swung open.
'Come
on Florrie, get 'em off!' Marion entered the steamy room with Effie
and stood, arms folded, watching the scene before her. She laughed
as Florrie scurried to undress.
'See,
you have to let 'em know you're in charge.' She sneered at Karen.
'You want to know something?'
'What?'
Karen didn't want to know.
'Get
in that bath!' Marion shouted at Florrie, then turned back to Karen.
'You won't last five minutes in this job.'
Karen
turned back to Florrie who'd climbed in the bath and was sitting with
her knees up to her belly, the water lapping over it's vastness.
Karen had barely began to soap the flannel before Marion had Effie in
the other bath, pouring water over her protesting head.
Karen
lifted Florrie's heavy breasts and was washing carefully underneath
them when Mike's head appeared at the door.
'What's
all the screaming about?' he asked. 'You two alright in here?'
'Course
we're alright, aren't we Karen?' laughed Marion. 'Just getting the
job done.'
'Yes,
we're O.K.,' Karen agreed, wondering whether to try and cover Florrie
with a towel, but Mike had already gone.
Marion
soon had Effie out of the bath, dried her roughly with one of the
small worn towels from the pile on the shelf, and was barking orders
at her to get dressed. Karen tried to ignore her and turned back to
Florrie.
'Just
put this flannel over your eyes while I pour the water over your
hair.' She scooped the water with the jug, looked up and noticed
that Marion was riffling through Florrie's bag.
'What
are you doing?' She was aghast.
Marion
laughed and pulled out a battered packet of biscuits, a dirty
hairbrush, a plastic compact, a set of false teeth, and a worn and
faded Christmas card which was stuffed in the bottom of the bag.
'Just
look at all her treasures!' She sneered. 'What a load of old junk!
This is disgusting!'
'Stop
it,' Karen was horrified. 'Those are Florrie's.' She slammed the
jug of warm water down on the shelf beside the window.
Florrie
was struggling to get out of the bath. 'Leave my bag alone, you
fuckin' whore,' she shouted. 'I'll fuckin' kill you!'
'Just
listen to her,' Marion laughed. 'Watch your language, Florrie.'
'It's
alright, Florrie,' Karen tried to calm her. 'She's put it back now.'
'Don't
suck up to her,' Marion turned on Karen. 'You have to show who's
boss around here.'
Ignoring
her words, Karen grabbed Florrie's bag.
'It's
O.K. I'll put your bag over here by the window,' she reassured
Florrie. 'Just let me rinse your hair and you can get out.'
But
Florrie was already on her way out of the bath, a tidal wave of water
sloshing over the edges and onto the floor.
'Pull
the plug out, you stupid...' Marion reached into the bath and
wrenched at the plug.
Karen
wrestled with Florrie's slippery body, trying to avoid her crashing
onto the wet floor, not quite knowing where to hold on to. She
eventually managed to help her on to a chair where she sat naked but
for a small towel draped across one shoulder, her bag clutched to her
breasts as she inspected the contents furtively.
'Don't
know what you're making such a fuss about,' Marion said. 'They don't
know what's going on half the time. Nothing up there.' She tapped
her head.
Karen
glared at her, ashamed of herself for saying nothing, unsure of what
she could or should say.
'Come
on Florrie, let's get you dried.' She squeezed Florrie's shoulder
and rubbed her back with the towel.
Helping
Florrie pull on her voluminous bloomers, Karen then coaxed her to put
on her vest and dress, her own eyes welling with tears. She could
feel Marion glaring at the back of her head as she fought back her
feelings of frustration, until she heard the door slam again as
Marion ushered Effie out.
'I'm
so sorry.' Karen was brushing Florrie's hair. She leaned to look at
the woman's face. 'Are you alright?'
'It's
my bag,' Florrie said. 'My private property.’
'I
know. Is everything O.K.?'
Florrie
was rummaging into the depths of her bag. She drew out the crumpled,
now slightly damp Christmas card, smoothed it carefully on her lap,
and was tracing her finger over the words embossed on the front. A
robin perched upon a gate in front of a snow covered cottage, the
soft glow of firelight behind the windows shining through the open
red curtains - a scene typical of any old Christmas card, but
obviously meaning more to Florrie.
Karen
glanced at the words that Florrie's yellow-stained fingers lovingly
stroked. “Happy Christmas Mum.” The words spoke silently to
Karen. Was it possible that this woman was someone's mother? Had
she once been desired and had she kissed and cuddled and made love,
and laughed at the thought that she would soon have a child, a baby
of her own? That someone had once held her hand and promised her the
world?
The
sound of scraping chairs on the floor of the canteen, the cutlery on
Pyrex plates and the clatter of dirty dishes thrown together on the
trolley by the door all jangled against Karen's nerves. Linda sat
in the chair opposite her, leaning towards Andy, whose long hair was
hanging loose about his face. Karen was still reeling from the
thought of Florrie and her Christmas card, and what had happened to
her lost family.
'Oi.
Karen!' Linda's voice penetrated Karen's daydreaming. 'Wake up!'
'Oh,
sorry.' Karen smiled at the two faces looking at her expectantly.
'We
were just saying,' Linda said. 'There's a party in the hostel
tonight. You gotta come, it's John's birthday.'
'I
don’t know,' Karen said.
'Telephone
your husband and get him to come as well,' Linda suggested. 'You'll
get to know some nice people.'
'I
don't think Peter would want to come,' Karen hesitated.
'Well
come without him, then,' Linda insisted. 'You can come to my room
and change. I've got loads of clothes that'll fit you. Go on, phone
him and tell him that you're having a night out with me.'
Karen
was unsure. What would Peter say if she went to a party without him?
Then she thought about the fight they'd had the day before.
Suddenly she made up her mind.
'Where's
the telephone?' She stood up, rummaging in her bag for her purse.
'There's
one in the main entrance hall.' Linda's face lit up. 'You coming
then?'
'I'll
have to phone Peter first.' Karen was moving towards the door.
'Maybe.'
'I'll
come with you.' Linda was on her feet. 'See you back at the ward,
Andy.'
As
they walked down the long corridor to the entrance hall, Karen tried
to look more confident than she felt. Nearing the telephone booth,
she was beginning to wish that Linda had gone back to the ward with
Andy. It would have been easy to say she'd phoned Peter and then
make up some story about having to go somewhere else. But a greater
part of her argued that she should have some fun in her life. Peter
could come to the party if he wanted. She picked up the phone and
dialled. Her heart leaped into her throat as his voice forced her to
press the button and release the coins.
'Hello
Peter. It's Karen.' The phone was slippery in her grip. She
noticed that her hands were sweating.
'What
is it?' He sounded annoyed. 'Everything alright?'
'I
just phoned to ask you if you'd like to come to a party this
evening,' she gabbled. 'It's in the nurses home.'
There
was a slight pause before he answered.
'In
the nurse's home?' he asked. 'I suppose it'll be a load of nurses?'
'Well,
yes,' Karen said. 'It's a birthday party. One of my friends. It's
his birthday.'
'What
do you mean, his?' Peter hissed. 'I thought you said it was a
nurse?'
'He's
a male nurse. I work with him,' Karen explained. 'Linda will be
there. I've talked about her before.'
'Who's
this male nurse?'
'His
name's John. We work together on the ward.'
'How
many male nurses are there then?' he pursued. 'I thought you said
it was a women's ward.'
'Yes,
it is,' Karen sighed. 'But there are some male staff. I told you
about the Charge Nurse, and then there are two students who are
men...'
'Look,
I've got to go,' he interrupted. 'I can't talk now.'
'Will
you come to this party then?' Karen asked.
'I
don't think it's really us, is it?' Peter replied.
Karen
swallowed. 'I want to go,' she said. 'Linda's going, and I would
like to go.'
'Well,
I'm not keen.'
'Please...'
Karen begged.
'No
Karen.' His voiced was raised now. 'It's not going to happen.'
Karen
took a deep breath.
'Sorry
Peter,' she said. 'But I really want to go and if you don't want to
then I think I'll go anyway. Just for a couple of hours. Is that
alright?' She wondered where her courage had come from.
'Please
yourself,' Peter snapped.
The
disconnected line buzzed into Karen's ear. She stood for a moment,
looking at the phone.
'Now
what have I done?' Immediately regretting her decision, she knew
that she'd have to follow it through now, with Linda standing next to
her.
'Oh
dear,' Linda grimaced. 'Everything alright?'
'Not
really,' Karen said. 'But I'm coming to the party.'
'Great!'
laughed Linda. 'We'll find you something to wear after the shift.'
'Thanks
Linda,' Karen wavered.
'Come
on, we'll be late back.' Linda linked her harm in Karen's as they
marched back down the corridor once more.
Karen's
spirits lifted a notch.
Evelyn
sat alone in her room. That new young girl was on duty. She'd heard
her calling to that other nurse, Linda.
'I'll
stay here, out of the way,' she muttered to herself. 'She won't be
here all day.'
The
sky outside her window was blue, the clouds tinged with grey. Much
better to focus on the sky than listen to the sounds in the corridor.
She began to sing. It helped keep out the noise.
A
haunting tune floated into the corridor which pierced Karen's heart
as she approached the room. 'In Dublin's fair city, where the girl's
are so pretty...'. She stopped short of the doorway and listened. A
lump formed in her throat as the sound reached deep into a fleeting
ghost of a memory which seemed to slip away before it was fully
formed. She gently opened the door.
'Evelyn,
can you come down for your tablets?'
The
singing stopped.
'That
was a lovely song.’
Evelyn
said nothing.
‘Are
you coming?’ Karen sat on the edge of the bed and reached to touch
Evelyn’s hand.
Without
further warning the older woman swung round and screamed at Karen,
forcing her to jump up from the bed.
'It's
alright, Evelyn.' Karen tried to stay calm. 'Please.'
But
Evelyn kept screaming. Karen was shaking as she backed out of the
room.
Linda,
Mike and John were already near the door. Karen spun around and
collided into John in her panic.
'What
the hell is up with her?' Linda was yelling.
'Are
you alright?' John asked. Karen nodded, unable to speak.
Mike
pushed past Linda into the room and began speaking in soothing tones.
The screaming stopped and Evelyn subsided into a low sobbing.
'Come
on. You need a cup of tea.' John led Karen towards the office.
Evelyn
listened to their footsteps moving away from the door and curled up
on her bed, ignoring Mike's voice, droning formlessly.
Eventually
he left her but was soon back.
'Take
these,' he offered. 'You'll soon feel better.’
She
needed no coaxing to tip the medicine cup into her mouth, not caring
what was in it. He offered her a glass of water. She took the glass
from him and gulped down the contents, feeling the tablets slip down
her throat.
Sleep
didn't come easily, but she drifted into a dreamlike state, where she
saw herself sitting in a small garden amongst cabbages, carrots and
redcurrant bushes - a washing line draped with white sheets and
voluminous shirts flapping in the breeze, intermittently blocking the
sunlight easing the glare of the clean linen from her eyes. Her
mother was at the door of the tiny terraced house, calling her in for
dinner. She stood holding her belly, her weight uncomfortable as she
walked down the path back to the house.
Fear
lurched her suddenly awake.
She
was in the room again, curled on her bed, safe.
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