The Cobbler's Daughter

The Cobbler’s Daughter

It’s so cold and dark - the darkness competing with the cold to penetrate my very bones.  My hands are numb and cannot feel the buttons on my boots as I fumble to dress myself.  Hurry!  Hurry!  I panic as I tumble down the attic stairs trying in vain to make no noise as I fall.

I run through the welcome warmth of the vast kitchen - breathe in the aromas of delights I will never have in my belly - into the damp chill of the scullery, my domain.

‘You’re late,’ snaps Betty, the under-parlour maid.  I know she’s got it in for me.  I duck my head out of her reach but she hasn’t taken a swipe at me this time.

I quickly gather up my tools in the wooden bucket and stagger back up the stairs to the main entrance hall.  I stand for a moment and can feel the silence of the house - still in darkness - just the ticking of the grandfather clock a heartbeat of the centre of this monster I live in.  

Shaking myself into action I start the day’s work of cleaning the fireplaces and lighting the fires.  A warm feeling of anticipation of what the day may bring seeps through me.  Today is special - my half day off.  As soon as I’ve finished my work here I can take the afternoon off - just as long as I’m back by six o’clock to scrub the floors below stairs before going to bed.  Head down, I work hard at my polishing, keen to get away before three.

At last it’s time to go.  Peeling off my cap and apron I don my black bonnet and cape, slip from the kitchen and soon I’m walking down the black path that leads to the village.  As I pass the church I hear the sound of pigs squealing from the back yard of the Post Office opposite the church.  Mr. Faithful must be slaughtering again - fresh pork for sale tomorrow!

I walk on down West Street until I reach our home, a low thatched cottage with tiny dormer windows.  Through the side gate and down the garden path - I make straight for the workshop.  As I enter my father looks up from his work - a leather shoe in one hand, a hammer in the other.  The smell of leather and glue fills the air - a lovely homely smell.  His eyes light up when he sees me but I can see behind the light a troubled shadow.  We exchange greetings - I kiss him fondly on the cheek.

‘What’s the matter?’  I ask.

‘I’ve blotted me copybook with the squire,’ he replies.  ‘He came in here with a pair of boots needing mending and wanted ‘em done by Sunday afternoon.  Well, you know I never work on the Sabbath so I told him they won’t be ready until Monday.  Well he had no choice, being as his regular cobbler is in London and it would take twice as long to get ‘em there and back.  Then when he comes to collect them I told him the cost was half a crown.  He didn’t like that - said he could get ‘em done in London for two shillings.  So I says “take ‘em to London then!”

‘He went off in a foul mood at that and today I gets this letter from the agent telling me my tenancy’s terminated - with seven days notice!  After three hundred years of my family living here!  I can’t fathom it.’

I can hardly believe it either and we spend time talking in circles - trying to work out what we can do about it.  How can someone who calls himself a Christian put out a man who’s worked and lived all his life here - he who was crippled when he was a small boy working in the Squire’s wood mill.

Two hours later I begin the walk back to the House - my heart heavy.  There’s nothing to be done I know.  Father will have to move out and there’s nowhere to go.  All our family are dead but me.  Father says that at least I have a roof over my head and he’ll be alright whatever happens.  I know what that may be - the only thing left for him - take himself to the Workhouse.  There at least he’ll have food and shelter and with his skills as a cobbler he should be able to survive.

Will I ever see him again?

Gran

I had a Gran in the old days
When Grans sat in chairs by the fire
And brewed tea measured from the caddy
Then poured from teapots into china cups
Which rattled on saucers and everyone took
'Two sugars please."

I had a Gran when all Grans had grey hair
And knitted big and baggy jumpers
Or crocheted rugs they wore on knees
And told you off with a twinkle in their eye
When you forgot to mind your Qs and Ps.

I had a gran in the old days
When you only shopped in the High Street
And bought potatoes by the pound,
A nice piece of beef from the Butcher,
"Two herrings for Mrs. Simpson, please"
From the Fishmonger
Then carried them home
In the finger-slicing string bag.

I had a gran in the old days
When tables were draped in chenille
And mantlepieces wore fringes framing coal-blacked fires,
The kettle singing on the hearth
And paper bags of gigantic toffees
Hid away in knitting bags.

And a visit to the toilet
Was an expedition down the garden path
Overlapped with uncut grass
That wound its way around your ankles
Leaving you cold and wet from the feet up
And the creaking door -
Entrance to the cobweb-laced dark and aromatic room.
You prayed the door wouldn't shut too tight
Or swing open wide whilst you hovered above the pit
Filled with monsters
Smelling like death itself.

Then back to the cosy fireside
And a plate of sizzled sausage and mash
With a special treat of tinned peaches
Sweet and yellow
Smothered in Carnation milk to follow.

Now I wonder
As I sit in front of my laptop
In my centrally-heated home
Where all the Fireside Grans have gone.

Rocky Mountain Morning

Running water and frost in my hair
Sweet birdsong in tall pine trees
Dark and lightly tipped yellow ochre.
The sound of wood splitting - kindling.
Soft footsteps of deer and the call of the
Black-Jack Crow squawking in the crisp air
Cracking across the green valley.
The night black Star-struck stillness
Fades into dawn's first shades of grey
Then seemingly changes into vivid hues of green
Each day fresh as never before seen.

Humming birds humming, hovering
Sun - tipping the mountain
Pouring like hot custard
Melting the shadows into bright sweet desserts
Too good enough to taste
The crisp breath still in the air
On the lakeside walking -
Still dizzy with mountain's height in my bloodstream -
Reluctant to travel on
Yet keen to wander the lakeside paths
On my first Rocky Mountain Morning.

Caught in the Web Chapter Ten

Another chapter of Caught in the Web.  Now available in paperback from www.completelynovel.com as well as on Kindle via Amazon.

Chapter Ten

A week had passed since the party. 

Karen was in the  kitchen making coffee whilst Peter sat at the kitchen table, watching her over the morning paper.

'I thought we could do something later.'  She took two mugs from the shelf.  'Maybe go to the cinema, or for a meal, or something?'

'Oh, you want to go out with me, do you?'  

'Of course.'  Karen felt the chill in the air between them.

'Why would you want to go out with me?'  He turned the page and shifted in the chair.

'Oh, Peter.  Please.'  Karen looked down and noticed a hair in the sugar bowl.  'If this is about the party, I really wanted you to come with me.'

'You still went without me though - when you knew how I felt about it.' 

'You go out with your friends all the time.  I don't mind.'  Karen retrieved the hair and watched it float to the floor.  She poured hot water into the mugs.

'That's different,' he said.  'That's work.  And my friends are normal.'  The paper rustled in indignation.

Karen slammed the kettle down.  'What's that supposed to mean?'

'All those men doing nursing!'  He cleared his throat.  'What are they?  A load of poofs?'  He crossed his legs and shook the paper.    

'That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard!'  Karen spooned two sugars into his cup and stirred it furiously.

'And anyway,' he continued.  'You have to be a bit weird to work with mad people.'  He folded the paper.  'I mean, look at you.  I expect most of them are like you and don't know their own minds.'

Karen noticed the sugar she'd spilled on the work surface.  'Is that really what you think of me?' 

'You'd be nothing without me.'

'That may have been true when we first got together.'  Karen swept the sugar into the sink with her hand.  

You're still pretty useless.'  Peter said.

'You really think that?'  She passed the coffee to Peter.  The hot contents slopped over the edge and ran down the side of the mug.

'You haven't proved me wrong yet.'  He took out his handkerchief, wiped the mug, placed it on the table in front of him before carefully folding the coffee-stained cloth and stuffing it back in his pocket. He picked up the mug and took a sip.

'Well maybe this is the time to tell you I've made a decision,' Karen blurted out without thinking.  She took a deep breath.  'I'm going to apply to train as a nurse.'

Peter slammed the mug down on the table, coffee spilling over the rim again and forming a brown puddle on the table.

'Oh, please!' he sneered.

Karen took the dishcloth and dropped it onto the table in front of him.  'I’ve got the forms already.  I was going to tell you later today.'

'Well, I think you've just proved to me how stupid you are.'  He furiously wiped the table with the damp cloth.  'You are definitely not doing this.  How long’s the training?  Three years?'  He paused for breath.  'You know we want to start a family, and now you want to do this.  Well, it's a big NO.  Understand?'

'It's really important to me.  I want to be able to do the job well - to help people in the best way I can.'

'Oh, just listen to you.'  Peter threw the dishcloth into the sink.  His breath stank of coffee as he leaned over her.  '“I want to help people.”  You can't even help yourself, and you certainly do nothing for me.'

Karen took a step away from Peter.  'Maybe that's true, but I am going to do this.'  She tried to sound calm.  'I'd like you to support me through this, but if you can't, I'm going to do it anyway.'

'What about babies?'  Peter reached for her hand and took a step closer.  'When do you think you'll be ready for that then?'

'I need to do this first.'  Karen looked past Peter at a crack on the wall behind the kettle.  'There’s plenty of time to start a family.'

He pushed her hand away.  'Don't hold your breath on me waiting for you to work through your selfish whims!'

'I don't think it's selfish to want a career,' Karen wiped her hand on the back of her dress.

'You sound pathetic.'  Peter was halfway up the stairs.  He paused and turned.  'I'm going out,' he announced.

'What about later?  Do you want to go out this evening?'  She felt the panic rising.

'I hardly think I want to sit opposite you when you're in this mood.'  His hand gripped the bannister.  'You just spend some time thinking about what you want in your life and what's more important to you - our marriage or your work!'

'Are you asking me to chose between you and nursing?'  Karen felt a throbbing in her left temple.

'Typical of you to twist what I'm saying,' he said.  'I think I'm being reasonable.  We were happy before you took this job on.  It's only since you started at that - crazy house - that things have been bad between us.  You used to be a good wife.  What's got into you?'

'I still am a good wife,' Karen was shaking.  'I still love you, and I'm always there for you.'

'Except when you're at work, or out with your work mates.'

'I only went out once.’

'And I'm nipping it in the bud before it's too late.'  He was shouting now.

'What?'  Karen asked.

'You heard.'  Peter was leaning forward and had taken a step down the stairs. 'I don't want you having friends at that place.  They're a bad influence on you.  If you insist on working there I can't stop you.  But you come straight home from work in future.'

'And what will you do if I do go out with my friends?  You can't stop me from doing that either.'  Karen turned back to the kitchen.

'I'll have to come and fetch you, won't I?'  He took another step down the stairs and leaned over the bannister towards Karen's back.  'I don't think you want a scene in front of your friends, do you?'

Karen spun around to face him.  'You wouldn't dare!'

'Don't push me.’  His voice dropped.  'I'll do what I think is right.'  He reached to bottom stair and moved towards Karen.  'You're my wife, and you’ll do what I tell you.'  He paused, looking straight into her eyes.  'Or else...'

'You're threatening me,' Karen gasped.

'Just telling you how it is.'  He turned and swept back up the stairs.

Karen was seething.  She realised she'd probably said too much. When the front door slammed behind Peter a few minutes later relief washed over her briefly.  Then tears of frustration began to course down her cheeks as she realised she could never win.

An hour later Karen was sitting in Margaret's kitchen drinking more coffee.  Margaret, her only support as a mother-figure but also Peter's Mum.  Karen wondered what had made her think that talking to Margaret would help but didn’t know anyone else she could confide in.

'How are you getting on at work, then?' Margaret asked.  'Is it hard working with all those mentally ill people?'

Karen looked around the room that still felt like home.  'Actually I love it,' she said.  'Sometimes it gets a bit difficult, but I think I'm learning how to deal with the hard bits.'

'What are the patients like?' Margaret drew her chair closer to the table.

'Some of them are hard work,' Karen smiled.  'But you can't help liking them.  They have their own little ways.  You have to be able to see the funny side of things.'

'What's wrong with them,' Margaret asked.  'I mean, why are they locked up?'

'All sorts of reasons,'  Karen said.  'I'm still new to it, but I'm getting to know a couple of the ladies a bit more.  One of them was looking at a Christmas card the other day that she'd been carrying around in her bag.  It was from her daughter.  All faded, like she'd had it for years.  How do people end up in places like that?'  She paused.  'What was going on in her life before?  What happened to her so that she ended up there.  I don't know.'

'That's sad,' Margaret said.

'In her notes it says that she was admitted with melancholia,' Karen continued.  'That's what they used to call depression.  But lots of people have depression now and just get treated with tablets.  Some don't even go into hospital.  She just seems like a sad, lost, old woman to me.'

'How old is she?' Margaret took a cigarette from her packet.

'In her forties.'

'That's not old!' Margaret spluttered.  'I'm in my forties!'

'Sorry,' Karen laughed.  'It's just that she seems so old, that's all.  Not like you at all.'

'Yeah, well, if I was locked up for years in there, I'd probably be like an old woman.'  She lit the cigarette and took a long drag on it.

'I don't think of you as an old woman,' Karen smiled.

'I should hope not!'  Margaret blew the smoke into the air away from Karen.

'There's another one that I keep thinking about.  It's strange - she seems familiar to me and I feel a weird connection but every time I go near her she completely freaks out, screaming at me to go away.  She's not like it with the other nurses.  Just me.'  Karen sipped her coffee.

'Maybe you remind her of someone.'

'I thought that.'  Karen sighed.  'You know, I always wonder what happened to my real mum.  I know you've been good to me, and I couldn't wish for a better mum than you, but it's always there, that wondering...'

'You don't think that she's...?'  Margaret hesitated.

'I'm going to read her notes next time I'm on duty,' Karen said.  'I've just got this feeling.'

'Right.'  Margaret paused.  'Just don't get your hopes up about finding your lost family.  I don't want you getting hurt, that's all.'  Margaret reached for her hand. 

'I'm not getting my hopes up.  It's just that there's something about her.  I need to know.'  She squeezed Margaret’s hand.

'Alright,' Margaret smiled.  'Are you staying for lunch?'

'If you don't mind.’

'I wouldn't ask you if I minded would I?'  Margaret stood up.  'Another drink?'

'No thanks.'  Karen took a sip of cold coffee.

'How are things with you and Peter?'  Margaret reached into the cupboard for the coffee jar.

'Alright.'

'I know he can be a bit prickly sometimes,' Margaret said.  'How is he taking your work now?  Has he come round to it?'

'Not really,' Karen sighed.  'He doesn't like what I'm doing at all.  It's difficult.'

'He does love you.  You know that don't you?'  Margaret poured hot water into her mug.

'Yes, I know.  And I love him but I want to take this up as a career.'  Karen felt the pulse in her temple beginning to throb again.  'I want to do my training.  I’m happy at work and I could be happy at home but he just doesn't want me to do it.'

'Are you unhappy at home?'  Margaret sat back down at the table.

'That's not what I meant.'  Karen regretted saying so much. 'I am happy really.  It's just that I want to train as a nurse.  Don't you think it's the right thing to do?'

'Yes, of course,' Margaret assured her.  'If it's what your heart is telling you to do.  But it will be difficult if Peter...'

'I know,' Karen interrupted.  She paused. 'But I am going to do it.'

Margaret looked at Karen over the rim of her coffee mug.  'He wants you to start a family doesn't he?'

'I do too.  Eventually - but not yet.'

'Well, I'm here for you if you need to talk,' Margaret said.  'Only...'

'What?'  Karen's eyes flashed.  'You have to be loyal to Peter, don't you?'

'He is my son.'  Margaret looked away.

'I know.'  Karen's voice was hard.  'And you're not my real Mum.'

'I didn't mean that.'  Margaret shifted in her chair, leaning towards Karen.  'I want to be a Mum for you.  You know, when you two got married I was so pleased.  It meant that you could be a real daughter to me.'

Karen stood up.  'But I'm not.'  She moved to the sink and turned.  'Blood is thicker than water, they say.'

'I want to be there for you just as much as for Peter.  But it's difficult being stuck in the middle.'

'I understand,' said Karen.  'You've been fantastic to me.  I couldn't ask for more.'

'Give us a hug then.'  Margaret stood up and opened her arms.  Karen fell into her embrace and felt the safeness of Margaret's warmth.  She brushed away the tear that had brimmed over her closed eyelid and took a deep breath in.

'Thanks, Margaret,' she whispered.

Ode to the Potato

Your skin is like a new potato
Fine and smooth.
Your flesh - slightly pink
But sometimes you have a birthmark
Purple-tinted
Like a bruise -
Or even once,
When left discarded there,
You were a sickly shade of green.

I like to hold you
In my hand -
Wash your delicate new skin,
Caress you,
Gaze into your sightless eyes
And wonder how you feel
About the diversity of your
Gastronomical uses.

The Garden Chair

Two stark
White
Naked legs
Thrust upwards
Point at the sky like a rocket launch.

Your other legs
Buried
In the rumble, tumble mulch
Of last Autumn's leaves.
You sleep -
Dreaming of warm and busy days to come.

The Garage Lounge

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.