Short story: Funeral Tea. 15-07-09

Funeral Tea.

Walter liked funerals. Not the funerals of his family and friends of course; they had been terrible, especially his mothers, only the funerals of people he didn’t know. He liked hearing about people’s lives, he liked the quiet and the sense of occasion, and he liked being a part of it all without being noticed. He never got in the way. It was easy for him to sit apart from people at a funeral as they always assumed that he knew somebody else and he was never spoken to so there was no chance of him saying the wrong thing and upsetting somebody. He had his own simple rules to make sure that he behaved correctly, and not speaking to anyone if he could avoid it without being rude was the first of them. He never went to a crematorium and he didn’t want to. That was usually by invitation, just for family, and it seemed to him like a conveyor belt of grief that diminished rather than celebrated a person’s life. He never went to a funeral tea either. You had to give your condolences if you did that and he would have had to explain himself. It would have felt grubby, as though he was just looking for a free meal.

All funerals were different, but now that Walter had been to quite a few, he could see a pattern and he had begun to feel a sense of a whole generation passing on. He liked that. It was his generation who were passing on, the generation who had lived through a war that wasn’t real to most people any more and put up with the austerity after it was over for far too long, so he had a right to be there. People were spoilt these days, they felt that they could have everything without trying. It wasn’t their fault and he wouldn’t have wanted the young ones to have a hard time, but they were still spoilt. You noticed that when you watched them at a funeral. It didn’t touch them in the way it touched the older people. The young ones had their own lives, they had everything in front of them, and they were just desperately sad for a while rather than changed. That would come later. They would think back and wish that things had been different, they would regret conversations that they had never had and want answers to questions that they had never asked, but for now they were busy inside their own heads and looking forward not back, which was as it should be. The older people were silent. Their own lives were mostly lived in the past now however much they liked to think otherwise. They had been here before. Their faces were stoical, pale and drawn, shadowed by grief. They were mourning their own death as well as that of their loved one. Another strand had been pulled from the fabric of their own lives, leaving them thin as gossamer. It was a stark reminder that none of us are here forever. Strangely, Walter didn’t mind that. He had outlived almost all his friends and family and he had no children. There seemed to be less and less to keep him hanging around. Seeing other people off was a worthwhile way of spending his time while he waited.

Today’s funeral was the biggest that he had been to for a long while. The kindly man smiling out of the front of the service sheet must have been well liked. His name was Henry Jackson and his dates were proudly set out underneath his photo. Just living had become an achievement now that he was gone. He had managed three years more than Walter had, so far. Three more years didn’t seem very long. Walter wondered when they would be bringing the body in and then he realised with a jolt that Henry Jackson was already there. He wasn’t used to that, there was normally a bit of a procession. Henry was right at the front, neatly packaged in pride of place before the altar, which was no more than you would expect. He still had a wife and what must be a son and two daughters. They were already there, right next to him, huddled close at the front. Walter didn’t know them of course, but it was easy to pick them out. There was a look that close family had at times like this. They might as well have had name badges on. There were hardly any empty seats. All around him there were dark suited older men who looked as if they belonged together, almost in uniform. He was glad that he had dressed up smartly, as he always did. He had a good look round, scanning everything he could see without turning his head. The church looked modern to him, even though it had been built almost forty years ago in the nineteen sixties. It was a large, square, barn like Roman Catholic one with the altar set right in the middle on a big stage. There were seats on three sides and a narrow band of stained glass all the way round the top of the brick walls which let light flood down into the space. Right over the altar in the centre of the roof there was a big clear glass window which acted like a spotlight sending a beam of holiness down onto the sacrament. Arthur wasn’t a believer, but he watched the dust spiralling around in the shaft of light appreciatively, enjoying the drama of it. This was going to be a requiem mass too, he didn’t get to go to many of those, so there would be plenty more drama. There would be smoke and incense and bells. A proper send off.

When the priest got to Walter’s favourite part of the service, the part where you found out what the person had done with their life, it became obvious why it was such a big gathering. Henry had been a mason, and a stalwart of several charity committees, a great example of what his mother would have called a “do gooder”. Walter had always wondered why his mother never seemed to think that doing good was something to admire. After all no matter how full of themselves some people might be they still helped others didn’t they? Anyway, he was pleased to see that doing good was unquestionably something to admire this afternoon, there was a whole army of Henry’s fellow masons and charity workers here to prove that. Right at the end of the service there was a beautiful prayer about sending Henry up to be with the angels while they wafted incense around him. Even for someone who was waiting to see an angel before he was prepared to believe in it that was a nice idea, and it made the lady who had slipped into the empty seat next to Walter at the last minute sniffle and get her tissue out. He turned to look at her. She had hair that looked like it wasn’t going to move in a hurry, and she was wearing a smart navy blue dress (such a serviceable colour navy his mother would have said) and matching shoes. There was a string of pearls round her neck which matched her earrings. All very tidy. She was on her own. When it was all over and she started to get herself worked up about finding a pen to fill in the little card that they had given everybody Walter broke one of his own rules and spoke to her.
“Would you like to borrow mine?”
He had filled in his own card before the service, having decided that just doing that wasn’t being a nuisance to anybody and he might as well.
“Yes please.”
He watched while she wrote her name in tiny neat handwriting. Margaret Dawson.
“Thank you.”
She smiled at him and gave it back.
“Did you know Henry then? Such a lovely man. Lovely, lovely man. He’ll be very much missed.”
For a few moments Walter panicked. He could hardly say that he had just come to have a gawp, but when you got down to it that was what it amounted to. Then he pulled himself together. You couldn’t go wrong if you said a few nice things about someone who died. That always went down well.
“We weren’t close, no. He did a lot of good work by all accounts.”
Margaret nodded.
“He certainly did. He was a great help to me when my husband died. I feel I would like to go to have a bit of tea, show the family some support, but I don’t know whether that’s appropriate on my own.”
Walter frowned, wondering what was coming next. She looked at him anxiously.
“Are you planning to go?”
Walter was about to say that he needed to get on his way and wish Margaret well when he suddenly had a surprising thought. Why shouldn’t he?
“Well I wasn’t going to, since I’m on my own as well, but perhaps we could go together. Keep each other company.”
That pleased her. He could tell that from her face and it made him grow inside. It was a long time since he’d felt useful to somebody.
“Thank you so much. I’d appreciate that. My husband would have wanted me to be there.”
He took their two cards and placed them together in the brass plate which was being held out towards him.
“My name is Walter. Walter Harrison.”
Margaret smiled.
“Pleased to meet you Walter. My name is Margaret Dawson.”
He already knew that of course but he didn’t mind hearing her say it again.
“Shall we go?”
The tea was in a small hotel near the crematorium which specialised in such things, and it was a good one. There were proper tablecloths and plenty of good coffee. By the time Walter was sitting down with a plateful of sandwiches, sausage rolls and plain crisps he had been told quite a lot about Margaret. She was a retired hospital administrator and her husband had been a town councillor, an accountant and a former Lord Mayor before he had had his own funeral in the same church two years before. Thankfully Walter hadn’t been to it, he could be sure of that because he would have remembered the church. He could imagine Margaret with a chain of office round her neck and a big hat. She also had three Yorkshire terriers and she liked Torquay. In return he managed to avoid telling her too much about himself but halfway through his second sausage roll he was startled into admitting that he lived on his own and had no family. She shook her head.
“That’s sad. I think the world of my grandchildren.”
He made a rueful face.
“Oh, it’s not so bad. I keep myself busy.”
She brightened.
“That’s nice. What do you do with yourself?”
Now Walter was in trouble. He could hardly say that the way he kept himself busy was by going to funerals. It was a complicated business and Margaret might not understand. In fact she might run a mile, and he was starting to enjoy himself.
“Oh, this and that, you know.”
Margaret nodded. Politeness had been taken care of and she was more than happy to spend the next twenty minutes telling him all about what she did. Which was quite a lot. By the time she had finished explaining about the Women’s Institute and how it wasn’t all jam and Jerusalem but more to do with naked calendars and women’s rights Walter’s head was reeling and he was entranced.
“I’d no idea.”
Slowly the small crowd of people began to thin out. One by one, two by two they made their way over to the family table and said goodbye. Walter watched them carefully. It was a series of conversations which nobody wanted to have but there was no way of getting out of the door without. Henry’s wife had a fixed look on her face. She had worked out what to say now and how to get it over with quickly. She was restless, pulling at her dress and wanting to go home, glancing over at her son anxiously. He was watching her too, knowing that it was too soon. They would have to be there until the bitter end. When Margaret finally announced that she was leaving and walked over to the table Henry walked behind her and stood well back.
“So sorry Elaine. It’s a terrible loss. I’ll be in touch.”
Elaine smiled and looked down. Everybody had said that, but the house would still be empty when she finally got home.
“Thank you for coming.”
She looked at Walter, frowning slightly, trying to place him. He held out his hand quickly.
“Lovely service.”
She nodded and took it.
“Yes. Glad that you could be here.”
Margaret made her way towards the door, head down, not wanting to get involved in another conversation, with Walter behind her. He was glad to feel the cool air on his face and breathe deeply again. She turned and smiled at him.
“So. Thank you very much for your company. Much appreciated.”
“The least I could do.”
Walter was quite pleased with himself. He wouldn’t need to worry about getting himself something to eat when he got home now. Margaret gave a deep sigh.
“I have another one to go to next Friday at St Oswalds. George Harper, one of my late husbands rotary colleagues.”
For once in his life Walter thought quickly.
“He was a nice man George. Perhaps we could go together?”
She nodded with relief.
“That would be kind. I was dreading going on my own. Shall we meet outside the church at half past ten?”
Walter shook hands and made his way towards his bus stop happily. He had been told the date and time of the funeral and there was almost a week to find out who George Harper was. Things were looking up.

Racism among the carrots and pears.

I was standing quietly in the veg shop queue waiting for the small talk to be done with when the old man who had just finished putting away his carrots and pears in his bag suddenly turned back in the doorway.
“I were accosted by four pakistanis this morning.”
There was a silence. The lady who runs the veg shop, who is also a local councillor, didn’t quite know what to say. She has her own, very successful, repertoire of pleasant things which she uses to make her customers feel welcome and any response she might make to this was sure to be well outside her comfort zone. On the other hand she had to say something. So she did.
“What happened then?”
The man pulled himself up to his full height. He had wanted to be asked. He probably read all sorts of things in the Daily Mail every day and now it was his turn for the limelight.
“They wound their car window down and shouted what do you think you’re looking at? I said not at you.”
His face settled into a mask of self righteous venom, remembering his ordeal.
“I know what I’d do wi’ ‘em all.”
I knew what was coming next. It’s what always comes next.
“I’d send ‘em all back home.”
The veg shop lady made some careful noises which might, or might not, have signalled agreement. She likes everybody and everybody likes her. Being well liked in a small town matters. He was a customer after all and there were others listening. The man strutted off, job done, leaving her holding a plastic bag in her hand helplessly that I didn’t need. He had managed to turn the fact that he had seen four Asian men in a car and glowered at them so nastily that they had felt threatened and responded to his aggression into a completely different scenario where they had “accosted” him. He had used the word accosted quite deliberately as bait, in order to get a reaction, so that he could spread some more of his bile. The fact that it is very difficult for someone to accost you when they are driving past slowly in a car (even if they had tried- which they didn’t) was totally irrelevant.
The queue moved forward and for a little while there was an embarrassed silence. That’s how this kind of nonsense grows, especially in a place where seeing a sari floating out in the wind on the beach is an event.

On the Hull train.

It was the little girl who drew the four women I was watching together. She was on the Hull train, she was two years old, with tiny blonde pigtails sticking out at right angles from her head and stripy tights, and she was giggling and shouting in fake fear as she was pulled two and fro across the carriage table between her mother and grandma. All three of them were scruffy and happy, and didn’t care who knew it.
“Get off my little girl.”
“No, you get off her.”
“Give her back.”
“Nah, you give her back.”
It was clearly a game they had played before and the toddler loved it, spinning on the shiny surface with her legs in the air. As they watched the other two women began to laugh. They were a mother and daughter, dressed up for a days shopping, and they had made an effort. Lots of jewellery, eyeliner, lipstick which needed to be checked constantly in case the gloss had worn off, and hair which had been styled to within an inch of its life. Slowly their anxious faces broke down into smiles as they watched. The mother was remembering when the daughter next to her was tiny. As she watched you could see the memories, good and bad, flying across her face like shadows on a hillside. The grandmother of the little girl saw that they were taking an interest.
“I like your hair. I bet you use straighteners”
The mother put her hand to her head and nodded.
“I’ve got curly hair me.”
This was a shock. All three of them stared at the woman’s hair, which curved outwards from her head in carefully arranged flat blonde curves, making a silent tribute to the fact that hair could be transformed into something so far removed from what it wanted to be.
“You should have seen me when I got out of bed this morning. It were a right mess. Sticking out all over the place.”
Her daughter adjusted her leather jacket and smiled at her mum in admiration. The other two, whose hair had been allowed to run wild, were also impressed. The grandmother lifted some of her hair up and tried to look at it hopelessly.
“I keep thinking about doing something with mine. I was wondering about getting some straighteners in Hull.”
The others looked at the flying wisps of aging hair that she was holding up. It didn’t look good. Finally the blonde woman spoke up. This was obviously someone who needed help.
“You want to get GHD’s. You don’t want to be messing about with any of the others. It’s not worth it.”
For the next five minutes she explained all about hair straightening, where the best offers were, how to put your hair into small sections, and made sure that they knew about the conditioning spray that you needed, unless you had the ones that conditioned your hair as you used them. By the time she had finished she had been told every detail of the other twos hair care routine and they had been given the names of several shops in Hull where they might find the approved sort of straighteners. She had also told them where the best place to get them back home in Bridlington would be, if they were unlucky and there were none to be found at the right price in Hull. It was impressive and she was now established as a bona fide hair guru.
“You’re a mine of information you are.”
She straightened her necklace and beamed at them all with pride.
“I used to be a hairdresser.”
The shining faces which smiled back at her were as good as a round of applause.
“Which train are you coming back on? You could do my hair on the way back.”
The woman laughed.
“I’ll get some shears. How old’s your little girl?”
The daughter swung the child round to face them, and she pulled at her cardigan happily while one of her tiny pigtails was renovated.
“She’s two, aren’t you Myleene.”
Myleene examined the fastening on one of her pink shoes.
“Two!”
“You’ve left your daddy at home today then?”
The daughters face clouded over, but the feelings were still too raw, even after two years, to be kept in and she poured it all out while her mother watched anxiously.
“We left him behind a long while back. He were a waste of space.”
There was a short silence while all four of them tried to think of something positive to say about this. Finally Myleene was raised up above her mother’s head giggling, bringing a smile back to all their faces.
“We’re better off without him aren’t we love?”
Myleene kicked her candy striped legs out in agreement and was deposited on the seat next to her mother.
“I never thought he’d bray me while I were pregnant, but he did.”
This new information was accepted in silence.
“I had six years of it off him.”
The ex hairdresser knew what that felt like.
“Mine left me when I were four months pregnant with her. He used to knock me about as well.”
Her daughter screwed up her face, and the grandmother noticed her look.
“So you don’t bother with your dad now either then?”
She just made a smiling pained face, screwing up her nose and shaking her head. Her mother quickly answered for her.
“No she doesn’t. He were a lying toe rag.”
Strengthened by her mother’s firm opinion, which she had heard many times before, the daughter got out her lip gloss and a tiny mirror and stared intently at her mouth.
“She grew up all right without him. Yours will be the same.”
This was a fact which none of them could afford to disagree with, least of all Myleene’s mother.
“I had it for six years off him. I’m not letting him near her now.”
Suddenly the grandmother looked at me, she knew that I had been listening and smiling along with them. The train was pulling into the station and she hadn’t heard my story.
“What about you love? Have you got a bloke?”
I had nothing to say, which was probably slightly disappointing for them, but just as well.
“I’ve got a nice partner thanks.”
They all looked at me in surprise. Such things did exist then.
“You want to belt him one for the rest of us when you get home love.”
All four of us roared with laughter as we got off the train.

Short Story: Edith says her piece.

Edith didn’t like living with her children. Any of them. Their constant kindness and concern for her welfare sometimes seemed to her to be one long act of revenge. An act of revenge for which she was expected to show constant gratitude. Her life was being prolonged as one long favour to her and she didn’t think much of it. The three of them passed her on like a parcel that was cluttering up space, each time that they had had enough. They never said that they had had enough of course, and they always asked her what she wanted to do, but each question begged the answer “Whatever suits you dear”. She was expected to fit in. To be seen and not heard. It was a kind of half life in which her choices had been taken away from her. Things that she used to decide for her growing family were now decided for her. They did their best, just as she had done for them, but their minds were elsewhere. Sometimes they would use her frailty as an excuse to patronise her but mostly they just took care of her like a second family dog, and since she never told them otherwise they probably thought that she was happy. And so she should be. Her body was kept warm, comfortable, and well fed, and she kept her intelligence, which was still sharp and needed no looking after, to herself. So long as she didn’t start wandering around in the middle of the night and forgetting who she was things would stay that way.

Tonight she was being taken out. Her eldest son, Peter, was going to wheel her down the road to watch a play at the community centre. It had been sent out by the local theatre in the same spirit of relentless goodwill that her family showed her- bringing professional theatre to the poor souls who couldn’t be bothered to make an effort to go to see it in its proper place. Peter had been full of it for the previous week. She had been shown the flyer and asked if she was looking forward to it several times a day. She managed to say “Oh yes! Thank you”, each time. The fact was that she wasn’t. First of all it was going to stop her watching her programme. This was her only bit of televisual independence each week when nobody would grab the remote from anybody else and the sound would be turned up, even though it really wasn’t necessary so long as she had her hearing aid switched on. Gran’s programme. Another favour- it didn’t even have a name when they spoke about it. A sop which allowed them to watch what they liked for the rest of the week. The second reason was more difficult. The thing was that Edith liked theatre. Really liked it. She had seen Gielgud, Richardson and Olivier in their prime and sitting in the cheap seats at the back of the Old Vic had opened up her world in a way that nothing else could. Gielgud had always been her favourite. His voice and his gestures had a wonderful subtlety and if she allowed her eyes to close she could still hear his voice as Benedick at Drury lane when she had fallen in love with him alongside Beatrice. As she listened they would fill with tears, forcing her to open them again. The comedy she was being taken to see (or dumped in front of as she thought of it) would be a far cry from that. You only had to look at the flyer to know what you were getting. It bore a lurid picture of a silly man staring straight out at you, with his hand over his open mouth, making a shocked face. Pantomime, she thought to herself bitterly, and not a pony in sight to pull the coach.
“Are you ready then mother?”
Peter was smiling at her. She had noticed that the word mother, and its distancing effect, had crept in over the last few years. He was waiting for her to look pleased. Of course she was ready. He had seen to that himself hadn’t he?
“Yes thank you.”
“Good, good good.”

Peter pushed his mother down the road, revelling in his good deed. It was deeply satisfying to be taking her out. She had always liked going to the theatre and this would be a nice change for her, give her a bit of a boost. It might not be the West End but it was better than nothing for the old lass and it was only down the road. A good laugh would be just what she needed. Of course he would be bored rigid himself, it all looked rather amateur if he was honest, but that wouldn’t matter for once so long as she was enjoying herself. It would be something to tell Katherine and Laurence as well- they were always full of what they did for mother when she stayed with them. When they reached the hall he wheeled the chair straight down to the front and put the brake on.
“Cup of tea?”
A glass of wine would have been nice, but before Edith had the chance to say so he had set off towards the tea urn. She sighed and cast her eyes over the set, a rather old fashioned arrangement of flats which had a feeling of second best about it. He would fetch her a bourbon biscuit with the tea, he always did. She couldn’t face explaining that she didn’t like them every time and she had learned just to eat them in silence.
“There you are mother. Isn’t this good!”
Edith smiled thinly.
“A nice treat. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
Peter sat down and sipped his wine happily. It was all going well. This should keep his mother happy for a good while.
The play limped along towards the interval with the two actors making ever more desperate attempts to make up for the fact that the laughs weren’t there by gurning at the audience and pushing reality farther than it was ever meant to go. Edith sat stiffly and tried not to look as if she were pitying them. There were moments when she could see how things might have been if they had been given something decent to work with. It was no better after the interval, and as the predicable but terribly ill judged ending worked its way grimly towards the last line she began to look forward to her bed. Almost as soon as the applause, from people who should know better, faded away Peter was smiling at her happily.
“That was fun wasn’t it?”
Edith was silent. He touched her hand, anxious for confirmation that he had done the right thing.
“What did you think of it?”
Edith turned her face to his and glared at him from behind her pebble glasses.
“I thought it was stupid actually.”
Peters face fell.
“Did you really?”
“Yes”. Edith said firmly. “I really really did.”
She rode home in her wheelchair with a smile of grim satisfaction on her face. Sometimes you simply had to tell the truth.

Short story: High Tide.

“What did you want to give me this for?”
Dorothy was pulling her sandwich apart instead of eating it. Beth knew her mothers face so well that she didn’t even need to look up from the papers she was proof reading to visualise the look of disgust on it.
“You asked for ham. That’s ham.”
“There’s green stuff in it.”
“Lettuce you mean.”
“I’m not daft you know. That’s not lettuce. It tastes funny.”
Wearily Beth put down the papers and held out her hand for the sandwich. This was a duty visit, something she had only allowed herself to fit in because she had thought watching the families down on the beach would keep her mother occupied while she got some work done. It had taken forever to get her sorted out, into the wheelchair and across the road from the home onto the seafront and she had pretty much had enough.
“Let’s have a look.”
Dorothy watched suspiciously as Beth put the sandwich back together.
“It’s rocket.”
“What’s that when it’s at home?”
“Like lettuce but different.”
“Rabbit food, that’s what it is. I can feel my ears growing on me.”
Dorothy pulled a rabbit face, pushing her front teeth down towards her chin. In spite of herself Beth laughed.
“Take it out if you don’t like it.”
“I know what Arthur would have said to me if I’d given him something like that to eat.”
Beth sighed. She was going to have to ask. She looked up at her mother, who gave a small self satisfied nod.
“He’d have said ‘what’s this muck’ I can just hear him now. He’d have pulled a right face. “
Beth’s father’s eating habits had been a constant embarrassment to her while she was growing up. He had lived on apple pie and carnation milk. He had put carnation milk in his tea, along with three sugars, and the brown congealed milk around the holes in the tin had made her feel ill.
“Have you had something to eat?”
“Don’t want anything. I had a huge breakfast.”
“You have to eat you know.”
“I do eat.”
“When?”
“When I’m hungry. I’m forty three years old mother, it’s about time you accepted that I can sort out my own meals.”
“All right. I’ll shut up, You read your bits of paper. I had a magazine somewhere.”
Beth gave her mother the magazine from the bottom of her bag and settled down to her reading, but the few minutes of peace didn’t last long.
“There’s one here looks like she could do with a good dinner. If she were standing sideways there’d be nowt on that page. Reminds me of our Sarah.”
There was a pointed silence. Beth stared intently at her papers, knowing that her mother was looking for a reaction. She really didn’t want yet another rehash of the conversation they ended up having on every one of her visits. Ever since Sarah had been born her mother had been convinced that nothing Beth did for her granddaughter was quite good enough.
“How is she then?”
“Who?”
“Your daughter. Who do you think?”
Of course Sarah could have been in touch with her grandmother and told her some news herself, but she would never get criticised for that. Sarah could do no wrong, Beth thought angrily.
“Last I heard she was fine. Hasn’t she been to see you?”
”She’s got a lot on.”
“So have I.”
The truth was that Beth didn’t really have much idea of how her daughter was. There had been talk about going off to South America after her exams with her new boyfriend, but she hadn’t really listened. If she wasted her time trying to take on board every silly idea that Sarah came up with she would get nothing done at all.
“Kids need listening to.”
“She’s twenty one mother.”
“All the same.”
Beth put down her papers. The only way to stop her mother talking at her was to give the same half baked reassurances that she ended up giving every time they got to this point. Sarah had a boyfriend, Sarah was eating well now, Sarah was working hard. Sarah was fine.
“How do you know she’s eating well?”
”Stop it mum. She’s perfectly all right. No different to any of the others.”
Dorothy slumped into her wheelchair and thought about the others. She watched them through the windows of the home after dark, going up and down the seafront under the strings of fairy lights, shivering with these little tops on. Full of drink. Falling over, some of them. She explained it all to Beth.
“Don’t exaggerate mother.”
“I’m not exaggerating. If you lived here you’d know.”
Beth thought back to the time when Sarah had been small. The time when she had sat with her, after she had had a bath, brushing her hair and plaiting it while she did the same for her rainbow pony. Sarah would tell her all kinds of things then, make promises and plans that never happened.
“I don’t hear a lot to be honest. I seem to hear more about her friends than work.”
“She’s right enough. Let the poor lass alone.”
Dorothy got out of her chair and manoeuvred herself over to the sea wall using her sticks. It was a treat to be out. To be able to see beyond the silver railings that normally marked the edge of her world.
“Have you seen the belly on that bloke down there?”
“Mother!”
“Hawaiian shirt. Dressed up like a bloody rain forest. He should have more sense at his age.”
“Shush!”
Beth got up and went to lean on the railings protectively next to her mother. She didn’t want somebody hearing. Her mothers opinions were loud and unrestrained these days and not everybody liked them.
“He must be sixty if he’s a day.”
“Well he’s allowed to do as he likes then, isn’t he?”
“Not if he’s upsetting folks.”
“Who’s he upsetting?”
“Me for a start.
Beth laughed and tried to propel her mother back into her chair.
“Give over. I’m all right here for a minute. I spend my whole damn life sitting down.”
“Fair enough.”
“Are you still seeing that bloke you were friendly with?”
“Simon? Yes. Well, more or less.”
“More or less? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing serious, you know.”
Dorothy frowned. She didn’t know anything any more really. Things had changed and left her behind. It had been very serious when she had started courting Arthur. They didn’t use that word now, courting, and no wonder. It sounded respectful, and there was nothing respectful about what she saw going on around her. Arthur had been her first proper boyfriend. She had been nearly twenty when she first saw him and still thought babies grew under gooseberry bushes. Well maybe not that exactly but near enough. She had certainly believed her friends when they had told her that you could get a baby by kissing. Arthur had said it was all right so long as she didn’t put her tongue in his mouth and laughed like a drain. He had soon taught her a few things. They learned all sorts far too fast these days. When her father had found out that she was walking out with Arthur there had been hell on.
“I remember when I was courting your dad we both had to be back home for ten o’clock. We lived at opposite ends of the village. He got me back home for two minutes to ten and dashed off home. Next morning he told me he’d got back three minutes late. His father had locked the door and he wouldn’t let him in.”
Beth wondered why her mother had started talking about when she was young.
“What did he do?”
“He kicked the door in, he was that mad. And they made him pay for a new lock as well.”
“But this was when? The late nineteen forties?”
“Not in our village it wasn’t.”
“I’d never have put up with it.”
“It was what you did in them days. Different world now.”
Beth shook her head.
“Not much fun.”
Dorothy smiled to herself secretly. There had been fun all right. There were real bands, not like what they called bands later on. A big crowd playing in a dance hall making a wall of sound you could fair feel and singers who could carry their voice over the top of them. It was proper dancing then, none of this jigging around and waving your arms about on your own. Dancing with partners. Of course they’d mostly had to listen to it on the radio. They’d never have fitted a big band in the village hall but she had seen them and she remembered. Fun? They didn’t know what fun was these days.
“He wasn’t a bad catch your dad. Steady job, not bad looking, and he’d asked me. You didn’t pass up your chances so easily back then- they might not come again.”
That was a dig at her, Beth thought. Her mother had always said she should stay with Geoffery.
“You must have loved him?”
“Far as I knew I did.”
Beth had loved her father. She didn’t have any doubt about that. It would have been strange if she hadn’t, since he spoiled her rotten.
“He used to get me four bars of chocolate every Friday.”
“I remember him fetching you home that bloody rocking horse. Flicka you called it. Awful old thing with rusty springs. Somebody had knocked hell out of it before you ever saw it and you carried on.”
Her parents had been married for forty six years. Beth couldn’t imagine being with anybody that long. When she had tried to ask her mother for advice about her failing marriage she had been told that she needed to learn when to keep her mouth shut. Dorothy had always thought that the sun shone out of Geoffery. Which it didn’t.
“You used to bake with me.”
“I did, and you were a bossy little thing too. Standing there next to me in your frilly apron making grey jam tarts. You used to eat most of the pastry before it ever got near an oven. Will you fetch me my chair love, and an ice cream?”
Beth wheeled the chair up behind her mother and placed it so that she could still see through the railings and over the wall. The tide was coming in and the crowd on the beach was becoming more and more packed together. When she came back with the ice cream she could see that her mother was waiting to tell her something.
“Have you seen what he’s doing now?”
“Who?”
“Hawaiian shirt. His wife’s turned up. They’re paddling. She’s standing in the sea holding her dress up, smoking a fag, while he tries to force this inner tube thing over the kids head. It’s screaming blue murder. Poor little beggar. You’d think they’d let it finish its packet of crisps first.”
Beth’s phone announced the arrival of a text with a single harsh trill, breaking into the disembodied sounds drifting up from the beach. When she saw her daughters face change as she read it Dorothy looked at her sharply.
“Are you all right?”
“Nothing. It’s ok.”
“What?”
Beth threw herself down onto the grass next to her mother.
“That was Sarah.”
“Now what?”
“I thought we’d got through all this. She wants to leave the course.”
“Well that’s all right isn’t it?”
“No, it’s bloody not all right. I’ve been working my backside off for years so she could get somewhere. Seven grand a year that school cost, and now she’s going to give up. Selfish little madam. Have you any idea how many people she beat to get a place? She could have done anything she wanted and now……..”
Beth’s voice trailed away and she hid her head in her hands.
“I was so proud of her.”
Dorothy held out her arm and shook her head. Her daughter was just out of reach, as she always had been.
“I know you were love. Right from when she was little. I’ve never seen anybody make so much fuss over a kiddy acting a mince pie in a school nativity.”
Beth sat quietly, staring at her phone and blinking back tears. Sarah was just in a state about her finals, that was all. If she got her head down and put in some serious work for the next few months she’d be fine.
“It’s not worth crying over love. It’s her choice. Let her get on with it.”
Dorothy had no time for studying. It would be nothing special that course. A lot of know alls talking too much for their own good. No fresh air. You just come out at the end of three years covered in dust, owing money to all and sundry, thinking that life is something you read about in books. She had told Beth not to waste her money on books and she hadn’t listened and look where it had got her.
“No wonder she sent me a text. She knew what she’d get if she spoke to me directly.”
“So long as she’s happy, that’s all that matters. You can’t live your kids lives for them, much as you’d like to.”
“Leave it mother, you’ve no idea. Shit!”
“Now then, I’m not having you talking like that. There’s some Revels in that bag. Go and have a look.”
“I’m not six any more.”
“You’re not the only one who likes them. Have a look.”
Beth found the sweets and they helped themselves. Dorothy rolled hers around in her mouth, savouring it, while Beth chewed miserably.
“Most things look better with a sweet in your mouth.”
“Why can’t she ring her bloody father? I’ve no idea what’s the matter with her. Let him try to sort her out. If he can.”
Dorothy didn’t want to talk about Geoffery. It usually led to an argument. People were too ready to give up these days. Never mind worrying about whether you could spend the rest of your life with somebody. If you could imagine yourself being with them tomorrow you weren’t doing so bad. If she’d thought like that she’d have ditched Arthur almost before they got started and missed out on forty six years of a mostly happy marriage. She had spent weeks making herself a new frock. It had had little cuffed sleeves and a big skirt. When she had turned up at the front door of Arthur’s house he had taken one look at her and told her not to go in the kitchen or she would match the curtains. She would have done too. His mother had bought material from the same shop. He thought it was funny and the more he laughed the angrier she had got until she finally ran home in tears and didn’t speak to him again for three weeks. He had had to talk her round by bringing her the first root of his early potatoes. Very nice they were too after eating mash all winter. Better than a lot of sloppy talk that he didn’t mean. She had finally had her revenge on those curtains mind you. After his mothers funeral she had taken them down and ripped them to pieces to make dusters.
“Your dad used to bring me potatoes.”
Beth’s eyes widened. What was her mother going on about now? Potatoes? Sometimes she seemed to spend most of her time in the past and it was becoming a worry. If this was the beginnings of dementia they wouldn’t keep her on at the home.
“I don’t think Geoffery will be sending me any potatoes mother.”
“Roast potatoes are my favourites. Mind, have to get them eaten straight away. Out of the oven, onto your plate, and into your mouth Arthur used to say.”
Dorothy missed choosing her own dinners. She was just thinking her way through her mothers apple dumpling recipe when Beth’s voice broke into her thoughts.
“Do you get decent food in the home?”
Dorothy thought about this.
“The food’s all right. It’s the miserable old sods you have to eat it with that are the problem.”
“Mother!”
“It’s right.”
“You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Some of them are a lot worse off than you.”
“It’s life and you have to make the best of it, not sit there sniping. We can all do that. I’m upright and I’m breathing. There’s plenty in the grave would swap places with me.”
A chill ran down Beth’s back. Her mother often talked like that these days and she didn’t like it.
“Don’t.”
“I told one woman to shut her face the other day. She comes in every week with a bloody great dog. Wanted me to start patting it. There was something about therapy on her badge. If it’s not that it’s wartime reminiscences morning noon and night. I know we had to eat powdered eggs thank you very much, I don’t need reminding about it every other Tuesday.
“A lot of them probably like it.”
“And I don’t want to sing either.”
“Fine.”
“Or make plaster models of sheep.”
Beth wandered over to the railings and watched the man in the Hawaiian shirt being buried by his children. She knew how he felt. Twenty years before she could have asked her mother for advice but not now, her head was full of all kinds of nonsense.
“What are you going to do about our Sarah then?”
The question needled its way into her head, as it was meant to. Our Sarah. Not your Sarah. Not a twenty one year old who was in the process of trashing every opportunity her mother had slaved away to put in front of her. “Our” was her mother’s way of staking a claim in the whole mess so that she could interfere. Well she needn’t bother.
“It’s not up to me is it?”
“Maybe not.”
“Not much I can do about it. If she wants to mess up her life that’s her privilege.”
“Course you can do something about it. When did you last see her?”
“A month or so ago. It’s been manic at work and she’s been busy.”
“Was she all right then?”
“Far as I know. She wasn’t going to tell me if there was something wrong.”
“Bloke trouble?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“I can’t believe she’d just walk away like that.”
“Maybe she’s had enough.”
“Rubbish. Of course she hasn’t had enough. She just thinks she has. They all go through it.”
“If you say so.”
Her mother fell silent and when Beth looked back at her face she could see the secret knowledge announcing itself smugly.
“Has she been to see you?”
“No. I told you.”
Dorothy reached down into her bag.
“I didn’t show you my book did I? You want to have a read of it when you get fed up of your bits of paper.”
Dorothy held a lurid paperback up making her eyes stare wildly at her daughter.
“It’s called Bride of the Rat God. Devious little buggers them rats.”
“Where did you find that?”
“They have all sorts over there. Beggars can’t be choosers. What’s she going to do if she packs it in then?”
Beth watched the man in the Hawaiian shirt being dug out by his children. One of them was feeding him a hot dog and there was a happy noisy chaos around him that she didn’t remember from her own childhood or Sarah’s.
“Travel round South America. With this Josh.”
“When we were first married we used to go to the Lakes every Spring and Autumn to see the leaves. Sometimes there’d be a bus trip up onto the moors, or somewhere with a bit of scenery. I didn’t mind it, but I like my own bed at night.”
“Shame.”
“It was nice mind you.”
Beth watched her mother. Her eyes were beginning to droop and she looked tired. Perhaps she should take her back in if she had had enough.
“What did you say to Sarah mum?”
“I said she had to do what she liked. Do what made her happy.”
“Did she talk about giving up the course?”
“She might have done. I don’t remember.”
Dorothy did remember. They both knew that.
“I had no idea.”
Dorothy closed her eyes. There were a lot of things that her daughter had no idea about but it was no use saying so. She had been a bright lass. She remembered her at the same age that Sarah was now, full of herself, always telling you how to pronounce stuff and trying to get her father to grow asparagus. Working all hours God sends. What Beth had never understood was that Sarah wasn’t like her. She had hated that university from the moment she got there. Oh, she had been right as rain while she was top dog in high school with her mother behind her pushing. Once she got to university and found out there were a lot of other top dogs every bit as bright as she was who knew how to stand on their own two feet she had caved in. Couldn’t cope. And that was when the phone calls had started. Beth was looking at her, horrified.
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her to stick it out. That she were just as good as any of them and it would all sort itself out.”
It wasn’t really a lie. Dorothy had said that to start with.
“Why didn’t she ring me?”
“You don’t listen, and on top of that she was terrified of letting you down.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“If you say so.”
“She’s been seeing this counsellor woman since last Spring.”
“Bloody hell.”
“Go and see her love.”
“I can’t, not until the weekend. I’ve a presentation to do tomorrow and the rest of next week is booked solid with meetings.”
“Well I think it’s a poor do if you can’t put your daughter first when she needs you.”
“I do put my daughter first. Who do you think pays her fees? I am not being made to take the blame for this.”
Dorothy looked at her daughter sharply.
“Why not? You were ready to take the credit.”
Beth clenched her fists and her lips tightened. She didn’t want to lose her temper with her mother, she really didn’t. She was frail now and not thinking clearly and she didn’t want to upset her.
“I gave her everything she could have wanted.”
“No, you gave her what you wanted. That’s not quite the same thing. When your gran first got the idea that Arthur wanted to marry me she did her level best to get me to turn him down. Said he wasn’t good enough. She went on at me for weeks till I eventually flew at her and answered back. I said he was good enough for me and that’s all that mattered.”
Beth wished that her mother wouldn’t keep going back into the past. It didn’t help.
“That’s not the same.”
“Maybe not finishing the course and doing something different is good enough for our Sarah. You can’t go on living your life for your kids. Sooner or later they have to live it for themselves as best they can.”
“Very Trisha.”
“We have it on in the mornings- you could do worse than watch a bit of it.”
“I had to find my own way. You took no interest at all.”
“I knew nowt about colleges or university. What was I supposed to say?”
“Go and see her- blow your presentations and your meetings. Tell them you’re poorly. Tell her you don’t give a damn if she passes or fails, then she just might do it, and if you can get a square meal down her while you’re there, all the better.”
“Damn. I can do without this.”
“You’ll go then?”
“I suppose so.”
“Cancel them meetings.”
“All right!”
Beth walked away, fumbling with her mobile. Dorothy wheeled herself up to the edge of the promenade and looked down at the oncoming tide. People were packing up and leaving for home. The children who had buried their father in the sand were squealing as they had water tipped over their feet before they were towelled down. Soon there would be no beach left. Children didn’t often dig nowadays she thought sadly. Most of them were too busy with computers and such like- they never got dirty. Sixty years before she would have been down there, running up and down to the sea and sitting behind a barricade of sand waiting for the tide to come in and wash it all away. No different to now really, she chuckled to herself. She had done all her running and now she was just sitting out her days behind her barricade waiting for the tide to come in.
Beth came back from making her calls and stood next to her.
“What are you muttering on about?”
“Nothing in particular. Have you got it all sorted?”
Beth nodded.
“Sarah doesn’t realise how lucky she is. She had a damn sight better start in life than those kids down there are getting.”
“They look like they’re doing all right to me. They’ve been happy as Larry all afternoon rolling around with their mum and dad like little puppy dogs. Getting spoilt.”
“Spoilt? I don’t think so.”
“Being spoilt is getting what you want.”
“She will be all right, won’t she mum?”
“Course she will. You go and talk to her. Just remember it’s her life.”
Beth turned the wheelchair round and they crossed the road together in silence. When she had been placed back in the residents lounge after saying goodbye Dorothy fumbled in her bag for the mobile phone which Beth didn’t know that she had. It was a special one with large keys. Her granddaughter had shown her how to punch in a number and answer a call.
“Sarah? Your mum’s just gone…… course she was. Only to be expected. I told you I’d have a word with her and I have. No need to get yourself worked up. She’s coming to see you tomorrow, I just thought I’d warn you. Just tell her what you told me……………..I know, but she’ll listen now. I stuck up for you, you’ll be all right. Don’t forget to fetch me those mint humbugs next week.”

Short story. The Empty Room.

Sarah sat down on the bed and looked around listlessly at her daughter’s bedroom. She had been crying again. Emily might be gone but the room was far from empty. Her daughter’s presence was everywhere. It was in the shelves full of books which she had read, the posters blaring out a recent enthusiasm for saving the planet, the old trainers kicked halfway under the bed, and more than anything it was in the small tree covered in tiny necklaces, bracelets and rings which she didn’t wear any more. The leftovers from a childhood. If she sat here much longer she would be crying again. It wasn’t so much the things that Emily had left behind when she disappeared off to uni that made her heart sink, it was the things which she had taken with her. The corner near the window looked empty without Budge Bear’s stern face glaring at her, and there was a space on the wall which looked very odd now that the Arctic Monkeys poster had been rolled up and whisked away to a new home. Emily hadn’t even bothered to move the other posters around to make it look right. Feeling as if she was doing something very dangerous indeed Sarah carefully peeled a festival poster away from its place up in the far corner and stuck it down firmly in the middle of the empty space. That looked better. She would be in so much trouble if Emily could see that. The sign on the door forbidding her (or anyone else) to even enter the room without permission was still there. Touching anything that was inside the room would never have been a possibility. There would have been screaming. Tears. Something might even have been thrown.
What hurt more than anything was that it was only the things which really mattered to her daughter which had been packed into the boot of the car. The bits and pieces strewn around in front of her were the rejects. They were the things which had lost out in the competition to get into a car already stuffed full of belongings that Emily claimed that she couldn’t live without. Sarah lifted off the necklace which she had bought her daughter, only a couple of years earlier, and ran the tiny coloured boxes through her fingers. Emily had really begged for that necklace when they had gone down to London, and now it was forgotten. Like her mother. That was what this was all about of course. She felt abandoned. She had been discarded along with the rest of the things in Emily’s life that were now surplus to requirements.
It was a good thing that Ray had gone off to work or he would have made fun of her. He had taken on board that Emily had left home over a year ago, when she had flown off to Australia and the Far East on her gap year. He had poked fun at Sarah’s worry every time there was an email describing white water rafting, bungee jumping, and worst of all lurid descriptions of a red light district wandered into by accident and men who undressed you with their eyes. “Look”, he had said, “you keep saying you want to know what she’s bloody doing so don’t go complaining when she tells you. The time to worry is when she shuts up.” He had been proved right. Emily had come home leaner, browner, and with a confidence that seemed to have grown overnight. Maybe that had something to do with the blond guy who used to smile out of the photograph that sat near the bed. His name was Greg, but that was all she had managed to find out. You could almost hear the doors slamming in Emily’s brain if you tried to get any more out of her than that. That photo had been one of the first things to disappear into the case. Sarah put the picture of Rusty holding one of his favourite dog chews in its place. He deserved it. That dog was missing Emily nearly as much as she was. He should have had his photo put in the boot of the car too.
It might help if she could clear the room. They could do with the space, but Emily would be coming back for holidays and it would feel too much like throwing her out. Anyway the things in it still belonged to Emily, even if she didn’t really want them any more, and at least she could come in here and sit among them. Remembering.
The thing was, Emily had said that she would ring. That was what she had shouted anxiously after the car as it pulled away, but it hadn’t happened. It had been just over two weeks now. Yes, of course Sarah could ring her mobile, she had picked it up often enough to do just that, but the sound of Emily’s voice inside her head had always stopped her. “Stop fussing mother. I’m fine.” Emily was always fine- even when she clearly wasn’t. She had sent one text, and that was it. Sarah picked up her phone, which was sitting next to her on the bed just in case, and looked at it again.
Uni fab. No probs. X 4 Rusty.
At least Emily was missing the dog. She didn’t know that he had pulled her grey jumper into his bed and was sleeping on it. The same grey jumper which should have been put on the back seat of the car. She would either say “Oh bless,” or have a real strop when she found out. Sarah was about to go downstairs and dig the jumper out to see if he had chewed it when the phone rang. Without even looking to see who it was, hands shaking, she pushed the button to answer it.
“Hello?”
“That was quick. You’re not sitting in that bloody bedroom again are you? Get a life.”
Ray. Damn. She did have a life and it had revolved around her kids. A life which had been taken away from her. He should realise that. An edginess crept into Sarah’s voice.
“No I’m not. Cheek. What did you want?”
“Very nice. Do you want me to bring a takeaway home with me? We can have Chinese now Emily’s gone.”
“You needn’t sound so pleased.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Yes, bring a takeaway. Whatever.”
“Ok. See you soon.”
Sarah threw the phone down on the bed and stared into space. She sometimes wondered if Ray missed Emily at all. He didn’t talk about her much. When she had showed him the text he had just nodded. His only daughter had left home and his sole reaction was, great- we can eat Chinese food now. Never mind. At least she didn’t have to cook. Slowly she let her mind drift away, back into the times when they had been a family, not just a group of people living in the same house. How was she going to learn to talk to him again with neither of the children there to keep the peace, acting as a kind of diluting agent, spreading noise and colour when there was nothing to talk about?
She was woken from her daydream by the sound of the front door banging and the chiming bells of her mobile ringing insistently. Sarah!
“Hello.”
“Hi mum. You sound a bit bleary.”
“How are you doing? I’ve been so worried.”
Sarah could see Emily’s wrinkled nose and dismissive shrug on the other end of the phone.
“Don’t fuss. It’s all good. We’ve been having our first lectures this week.”
“Was that all right?”
“Yes,” Emily lengthened the vowel into a bored drawl. “Of course it was.”
“Good.”
“What are you doing?”
There was a little girl quality in her daughter’s voice that Sarah hadn’t heard for a long time. She wanted to know. She really did want to know.
“I’m sitting on your bed.”
“WHAT?”
“I said I’m sitting on your bed.”
There was a long silence.
“You haven’t moved anything have you? You haven’t been touching my stuff?”
“Of course I haven’t,” Sarah lied.
“It’s still my bedroom.”
“I know it is.”
“And I shall want it back.”
“Yes.”
The rest of the conversation went by in a blur as Sarah pulled out plates and glasses for the Singapore noodles which Ray had brought home with the phone wedged to her ear. Finally she had satisfied Emily that the dog was fine, her room was untouched, and they had worked out how many days it was until she came home for a study break.
“Is dad there?”
“Your daughter wants a word.”
Sarah passed the phone to Ray, taking no notice of his upturned eyes, and tipped her noodles onto the plate. It was still Emily’s room, and that would have to be enough for now. Emily might not be in it, but she hadn’t quite left home yet. Perhaps she never really would.

Short story. Off Out.

“Are you sure I look all right in this?”
The pile of clothes on the bed was getting bigger and bigger and Amy had twirled around in front of her bedroom mirror in most of them, in an unsuccessful attempt to see her rear view. Normally her rear view was something she would rather forget, or at least wilfully ignore, but she hadn’t left her flat after seven o’clock at night for almost a month and her best friend Chloe was sitting on the bed in a satin top and black trousers looking amazing. Amazing and just a bit pissed off.
“Don’t be daft. You look fab. Now get a move on.”
The emphasis was on get a move on rather than fab. Amy was young, slim and very pretty but that wasn’t what she saw looking back at her in the mirror.
“You’re just saying that.”
Chloe rolled her eyes.
“You’re fine.”
“I might be better wearing a skirt.”
“If you think a skirt is going to turn you into Sienna Miller then get one put on. Otherwise you’re fine.”
Amy shook her head.
“You’re a bloody menace you are. I’d far rather stay here.”
“Well you’re not. You’re off out and you’re going to enjoy yourself.”
There was a sudden silence. They both knew that the chances of Amy enjoying herself were pretty much zero, unless Jack turned up unexpectedly in the club and rushed into her arms declaring his undying love. Since he had done a very thorough job of dumping her almost a month ago, underlining his intentions by moving in quite suddenly with a tall thin blonde, that wasn’t going to happen. It was going to be a long tedious night for both of them.
Amy gave herself one last despairing look in the mirror. At least her hair looked good, long and thick with a bit of bounce in it. Jack would have said that she looked beautiful and she would have believed him. Not that he meant it of course, she knew that now. He hadn’t meant any of it. That was why it hurt so damn much. Chloe saw the tears building up in Amy’s eyes and swung into action.
“Right. Come on madam. Out the door. Now.”
Amy gave in and did as she was told.
Thursday night was lasses night in their lively shabby and weather-beaten seaside town. As usual they started at the top of town and worked downwards towards the harbour, just two more shivering girlies being herded downhill, through the large grubby, open plan pubs with empty floors and vacant flashing lights, towards the clubs on the high street. After four, or was it five, dirt cheap Bacardi Breezers life was beginning to look a bit better. Amy waved her latest half empty bottle at Chloe through the noise of the dance floor.
“You know what? Stuff him. I’m better off without him.”
“Course you are. Do you fancy doing some karaoke in the White Horse?”
“Bugger off.”
Half an hour later Amy was waiting for her turn to sing Never Gonna Give You Up at the White Horse karaoke. Chloe had chosen the song and she was beside herself with excitement. Amy watched her sceptically.
“I have no idea why I am doing this.”
“Go on, it’ll be a laugh.”
A laugh was Chloe’s reason for doing most things, especially if it involved embarrassing somebody else. She was genuinely convinced that standing up there making a complete arse of herself would be good for Amy. It would take her out of herself. She needed to lighten up a bit. When Amy’s name was called it was Chloe who was on her feet first, clapping her hands above her head.
“Go girl!”
Amy crept up onto the stage, shielding her eyes against the lights and searching for the screen which would scroll the words. Nobody expects you to be good, she kept telling herself. Just give it some welly and you’ll be fine. Which is what she did.
“Never gonna give you up, never gonna say goodbye, never gonna run around and hurt you….”
The howling screech which came out of her mouth was fuelled by what were now almost certainly eight Bacardi Breezers and an almost complete lack of talent. Even so she managed to finish by punching the air in triumph to a huge round of applause. She sashayed back towards a waiting hug from Chloe, who was well impressed.
“Awesome!”
Amy put her hands over her face and groaned.
“I am so going to regret that tomorrow morning.”
“See that lad over there- he were watching you.”
“No!”
“He was. Honestly.”
“Which one?”
There were quite a few lads to choose from up by the bar. None of them looked like much to write home about but Chloe was beginning to find it difficult to focus so it was hard to be sure.
“The dark haired one. Skinny. Red tee shirt.”
“Oh my God!”
Chloe was always trying to wind her up but Amy realised she might just be telling the truth this time. He looked ok. Dark floppy fringe and long legs. He wasn’t talking to his mates and she was in danger of catching his eye if she wasn’t careful.
“Go and get another drink. See what he does.”
“Do you not think I’ve had enough bother with blokes? Calm down will you.”
Chloe’s mouth settled into a sulky pout.
“Just trying to be helpful. I’m telling you he’s after you. Take no notice if you want- I’m not bothered.”
Their eyes met and Chloe gave a tiny nod.
“Go on. I’m telling you, he was watching you.”
Amy tottered off, in a careful straight line, towards the bar. As soon as she got there she leaned on it as if it were a lifeline. Her feet were killing her. He was standing on her right and she carefully didn’t look in that direction as she ordered her drink. If he wanted to say something that was up to him. She could feel Chloe’s eyes burning into her back.
“Do you do a lot of karaoke then?”
She could see a bright red blur in the corner of her eye. It was his tee shirt.
“Sorry?”
“Karaoke. Do a lot do you?”
“Can’t you tell?”
“You were bloody awful.”
Something about his honesty punched its way through Amy’s slightly woozy thoughts and she turned to have a good look at him. The face which swam into focus seemed very familiar. She wondered if Chloe had realised who it was and sent her over on purpose.
“You don’t have to talk to me now- your brother dumped me.”
“I know he did. For some daft cow who’s already giving him the run-around.”
Amy would have liked to hear a lot more about that but she didn’t want to seem bitter. Maybe she could get off with his brother and make Jack sorry after all. The thought made her giggle. She clung onto her Bacardi Breezer, swaying helplessly.
“I like you Daniel. I’ve always liked you.”
He groaned.
“You’d better give me that.”
“S’my drink.”
“It’s safe enough with me. If you think I’m going to start downing Bacardi Breezers you’ve another think coming. You’ve had enough.”
“S’ok. I can manage.”
“Go and say goodbye to your friend and I’ll take you home.”
Amy nodded, rather too emphatically, happy that somebody was telling her what to do, and trotted off back to Chloe, who was bursting to know what was going on.
“I’m off home with Daniel. S’that all right?”
Chloe made tiny punches in the air with her fists.
“See, I told you you’d have a good night. Trust your Auntie Chloe.”
Amy shook her head blankly. Chloe wasn’t her Auntie.
“I said s’that all right?”
“Course it is. You get in there girl. I’ll text you tomorrow.”
When she got back to him Daniel put a hand on Amy’s shoulder and guided her carefully towards the door. As they walked out of the pub the cold air hit her and her knees buckled.
“Whoa there. Just hang on to me. You’ll be fine in a minute.”
Daniel sat Amy down on a bench facing the lights of the club entrance. Slowly the cold air brought her to her senses and she leaned forward with her head down. As soon as she had been quietly and thoroughly sick she felt a lot better. She had seen this kind of thing on television, binge drinking culture they called it, but she had never thought it would be her throwing up in the street. Jack was a total bastard and it was all his fault. She hardly ever had more than one drink- that’s probably why she had ended up like this.
“God, this is so embarrassing.”
Daniel produced a small bottle of fizzy water and took the top off.
“Have some of this.”
“Where did that come from?”
“I got it while you were saying goodbye to your friend. Thought it might be needed.”
Amy took it and tried a few tentative small sips.
“How did you know?”
“Let’s just say it wasn’t rocket science. Do you mind if we move on a bit?”
Amy leaned against him and walked slowly, carrying her shoes, until they were a few safe benches away. Daniel felt her weight against him with quiet satisfaction. It had taken him a fair while to get his hands on his brother’s girlfriend and he wasn’t going to blow his chance now. If she hadn’t been in this kind of state he would never have had the nerve. Typical that was. Not much fun in making a move on a lass who was blind drunk.
“Feeling a bit better now?”
“Think so.”
“Good.”
“Your bloody brother’s fault.”
Daniel closed his eyes for a moment. That was also typical. It wouldn’t be the first time that he had been stuck with one of Jack’s nice looking cast offs forced to listen to them talk about his brother all night.
“Yeah well, he’s got a lot to learn. I know he’s my brother but you’re well rid. He’s a great brother but I wouldn’t touch him with a barge pole if I was a woman.”
“My dad said he was feckless. Don’t know what it means but that’s what he called him. Feckless.”
“I dunno either but it sounds right.”
Amy snuggled against Daniel.
“You’re being very kind to me.”
“I know I am. You should go home now.”
Amy snuggled harder.
“I don’t want to go home. I want to stay here with you. I like you.”
“No you don’t. How many of these did you have?”
Daniel held up the Bacardi Breezer bottle in disgust.
Amy waved her arm dramatically.
“No idea. No idea at all.”
“You might at least rot your brain with something decent.”
“S’nice.”
“I’m putting it in the bin. This one here. Ok?”
Amy smiled happily.
“You’re very nice.”
“And then I’m calling a taxi.”
When the alarm woke her the next morning Amy had no memory of getting in the taxi. She crawled through her day at work, filing, photocopying and answering the phone with a bright voice that seemed to belong to somebody else. It wasn’t until she was sitting in front of Hollyoaks with a cup of coffee that she found the note in her trouser pocket.

Let me know how you are this morning, and don’t sing. Daniel. 07794261343

How had she got home? And what had happened when she got there? Amy racked her brains but the last thing she could remember was being horribly sick. In front of her ex boyfriend’s brother. That was bad enough. She could remember singing before that, and she could remember meeting Daniel, just about, but after that everything was a blank. Everything. Exactly what had she done? What had she done that might have led to a note like that in her trouser pocket and who had taken off her clothes? She hoped to God it was her. Nightmare. She would remember, surely? It took a full hour before she rang Daniel’s number, and after a few minutes teasing and polite conversation she managed to ask him.
“So did you bring me home last night then?”
There was a laugh on the other end of the phone.
“It’s a good job somebody did. You were well out of it.”
Amy held her breath.
“When we got back here, did we……do anything?”
There was a long cold silence.
“Give me some credit.”
“No, I mean I wasn’t trying to suggest, it’s just I can’t bloody remember that’s all. I needed to hear you say it.”
“I’m not the sort of bloke who takes advantage of drunken girlies. You were in a right state. I looked after you and got you back home. A thank you might be nice.”
“I know, and I am grateful. You must think I’m a complete Muppet.”
“Yep.”
“I’m so sorry. I probably spoiled your night and everything.”
“Not really. I like Muppets.”
A blush spread over Amy’s face as she remembered how safe she had felt leaning against Daniel.
“Stop it.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow night then shall I? For a coffee.”
Amy nodded happily, forgetting that he couldn’t see her. She liked Daniel. She really liked him. His brother was nowhere near as nice and not half as good looking.
“Amy?”
“Coffee? Yes?”
“If you like.”
Both of them stood very still, with grins so wide that you could even feel them beaming their way across space and shining out of a mobile phone handset.

Short Story: Birthday ghosts.

Hilary looked around the empty hall with some satisfaction. Everything was ready. The marquee was up, the sun was shining, and the little village hall had never looked better than it did now, with its jam jars of wild flowers, card tables covered with red and white checked tablecloths and home made heart shaped bunting. It had been a good idea to hire somewhere up here even if people would have to drive a bit further. Greg had got the projector working and there was a distracting clunk each time an image from her past emerged onto the white wall. There were ghostly grey fragments of holidays, smiling people, strange frocks and big hair, a stream of consciousness taking in fifty years of success and failure. Of course only success managed to flicker its way onto the peeling plaster just below the roof. There was no photo of the ex husband, no reminders of the affair with the beautiful young twenty year old who broke her heart, no record of her face at the moment she was told she hadn’t got the job which would have made all the difference, and thank God there was no reminder of how it had felt when she took the phone call telling her that her mother had died. The images would look better later on tonight in the darkness, and so did her life when she looked back at it through the distorting lens of its best moments.
“Are you OK mum?”
She turned to look at her son, and did a double take as a photo flashed up behind him and his features morphed into the five year old tiny king who had clutched his gift too tightly in the nativity play so that his fingers tore the paper, and worried about how to say frankincense.
“I said are you OK?”
“I’m fine.”
For a long time Hilary had told anybody who asked, and there weren’t many, that she would not be doing anything at all for her fiftieth birthday. It had been Greg who had insisted that she must celebrate and fear of a surprise party had finally forced her to agree. His blues band was providing the music and she had asked him to sack the drummer for the evening and play some Otis Redding and Bessie Smith. Quietly.
“I’ll get off then, if we’re all set. You know how to switch the projector off don’t you? Just don’t move any of the slides. Took me ages to sort it out.”
A quick wave of his hand and he was gone. He hadn’t asked if his father would be there. Since Hilary had not mentioned the invitation which she had sent he would be assuming not. She wondered if she should have told him about it. Probably, but after all it was her birthday, her half century, her business. He would have been expecting the wrong father in any case. There was no way she was allowing Keith through that door. As soon as she had looked into Greg’s eyes, seconds after he had been born, she had known that he was Sam’s child.
“He won’t come”, she told the empty hall defiantly. It was a stupid thing to do but it wasn’t going to make any difference. Bloody internet. People didn’t stay in the past where you had filed them away any more. All you had to do was click send in a moment of weakness and they were ready to jump out of cyberspace and bite you on the bum. She switched off the projector, bringing her past to a grinding uncertain halt, and rushed home to change into her black satin dress from Ghost. They wouldn’t know it came off Ebay…….would they?
The party had been going for well over an hour before Hilary began to relax. People had turned up, the buffet tables had been filled after all, and the guests were mostly settled with paper plates full of food in front of them. She had said hello and made polite conversation with almost a hundred of them. Duty had been done and now she could begin to think about letting her hair down. Greg, the one who had got her into all this, was doing his usual thing and lurking behind his amplifiers, having sent his new girlfriend, an earnest Goth, out into the hall to get him a six pack of beer. He had talked to nobody, busy in his own world. Finally, in a rush of hastily corrected feedback, the music boomed out and a few people got up to dance. She watched as her scruffy uncommunicative son came to life in front of the mike. Things were going well. She had got away with it. She might even get her best friend Susie up for a dance later.
Hilary was so busy being pleased with herself that she almost walked straight into Sam on her way outside for some fresh air.
“Hilary? You’re looking good.”
For a few seconds she stared at him while her brain rearranged the features of a good looking, sandy haired twenty five year old into the face of a man approaching middle age with silver flecked hair and the beginnings of a paunch. He was holding out a small package. She took it and thanked him, wondering what to with it and, more to the point, what to do with him.
“What the hell are you doing here? I mean, thank you.”
He laughed. It always did make him laugh when he managed to wrong foot her, she remembered that.
“I was invited.”
Of course he was- stupid thing to say.
“I didn’t think you’d come.”
He looked at her wryly and she felt a nostalgic hit of the same charm which had knocked her for six twenty years ago. He still looked good. Well he was bound to have aged wasn’t he? He still looked bloody good. Don’t let him smile, please don’t let him smile.
“Have you brought anyone with you?”
He shrugged.
“Why would I do that?”
Hilary’s stomach flipped as she realised what that might mean, but she wasn’t ready to deal with this, not yet.
“No reason. Look, it’s great to see you, I’d better start circulating. Catch up with you later.”
She turned round at a speed that was far too fast to be dignified, headed to the dark corner where the bottles were piling up, poured herself a large glass of Merlot and went outside to hide herself. It was cool round the far side of the small marquee where the overspill buffet had been set up and you could see up into the woods. John had promised that he would bring his violin and she could hear the theme from Schindler’s list floating out plaintively towards the hills. Thanks John she thought bitterly. Great choice. Of course she could simply let Sam hang around for a while and go home. As if. Just forget it. The band were zipping through Ain’t Nobody’s Business If I Do back in the hall and she wondered if he would be watching them, and whether he would see himself looking back at him from the stage. No, he wouldn’t, of course he wouldn’t. He didn’t even know that Greg was her son, let alone his. If she wanted him to know, if she wanted Greg to know, then she would have to tell him. And she wasn’t going to do that. Was she? Of course not. She took a deep swig of wine and went back into the hall. After half an hour of flitting around talking about nothing she collapsed into a chair on the edge of the dance floor. Within a few minutes she heard the scrape of a chair and he was next to her, legs stretched out, surveying her with his head on one side.
“So how are you doing then?”
“I’m fine. You?”
“Not too shabby. Great band.”
“Do you still play?”
“I play bass in an eighties cover band. My speciality is A Town Called Malice. I’ve been to a hell of a lot of fortieth birthday parties.”
“The singer’s my son Greg.”
Damn. She hadn’t even meant to say that much. Sam nodded and watched Greg as he introduced the final song of the set, Foulsham Prison Blues.
“He’s pretty good. How old is he?”
“Almost twenty. Just about to start his last year at uni.”
“Twenty?”
“It was a rebound thing. Ended up in a crappy marriage.”
He nodded. Hilary drew breath. Sam never liked to think too deeply about things.
“I’ve no kids. I have a bit of a problem with commitment.”
Hilary couldn’t resist it.
“Really?”
He winced.
“Yes, really. It’s what split Joanna and I up as much as anything. She wanted them, I didn’t.”
“You with anyone now?”
Hilary knew that she shouldn’t be asking but since when had she ever been sensible when it came to Sam? He turned and looked her in the eyes.
“No, and I’m guessing you’re not either.”
Suddenly she didn’t have enough breath to speak. He looked at her sharply.
“Thought not. You’re looking well Hils anyway.”
“Thanks.”
As Hilary felt his eyes on her twenty years vanished into dust, and an unwanted private slide show of memories crashed into her head one by one. The time that they had gone up into the sand dunes above Saltburn. The way he would carefully tie up a packet of crisps after he had finished it. The way he could make her laugh about just about anything, even a tiny pot of UHT cream. His hair. His grey jumper. The slam of the door as he left her curled up, sobbing on the floor in the middle of the passageway when he walked out. He had a bloody cheek coming here, invited or not.
“What made you come Sam?”
“I don’t know. Curiosity perhaps? See how you were. Sending a message once in a blue moon didn’t seem enough any more.”
“After twenty years?”
“Why not?”
Why not? That was typical Sam that was. There was a list of reasons as long as your arm why not, but Hilary doubted whether he would want to hear any of them. He shrugged.
“We’re both single. It’s not going to upset anybody.”
“It might upset me. Had you thought about that?”
“I don’t think so.”
He rested his hand on her knee. She felt herself tense up, sending out a message that a few well chosen sentences would not be able to deny, even if she could find the words. Damn.
“Dance?”
Reluctantly Hilary allowed him to take her hand and pull her gently to her feet. Greg’s band were starting their second set with a storming version of Brown Sugar which was just as well. Susie would be wondering what the hell was going on already, without being treated to the sight of the two of them having a slow dance. Thankfully it would take a lot more than a slow dance before Greg would get round to wondering what was happening. Hilary jigged around doggedly, trying to put aside thoughts of exactly what kind of activity between her and Sam might send her son an unambiguous message. She could still feel that hand on her knee. Finally, after three songs, she was forced to give in. She waved her hand across her face, miming heat, and pointed towards the door.
“Sorry. I need a bit of air.”
Sam waved his hand in answer and began to direct his attention towards Hilary’s work colleague Rebecca, who was wearing the kind of low cut red frock and strappy shoes that Hilary had stopped trying to get away with ten years ago. He would like that.
It was cool outside and by the time she had finished another glass of wine and chatted about nothing for half an hour Hilary was calmer. Sam would probably have Rebecca draped around him by now. He wasn’t going to bother her, and she wasn’t going to tell him about Greg. Why should she? What people didn’t know couldn’t hurt them, and in particular what people didn’t know couldn’t hurt her.
It was almost dark when he came outside to find her.
“Hi.”
She smiled, wondering if he was about to leave.
“Hi.”
“Having a good birthday?”
“Great thanks.”
“You forgot this.”
He held out the small package which he had brought with him. Hilary couldn’t even remember where she had put it down.
“Open it.”
It was a delicate necklace with a turquoise in the centre of it.
“Thank you Sam. It’s beautiful. You shouldn’t have brought anything. I said no presents.”
Hilary wanted to ask him if he remembered the turquoise earrings which he had given her for her thirtieth birthday twenty years earlier but that would mean admitting that she did, which would sound a bit sad after all this time. She was never able to say afterwards who moved first, but she never forgot the blistering warmth of the kiss that came next, or the way that she responded to it.
“Shouldn’t you ask permission before you do that?”
He grinned.
“I got permission. Didn’t I?”
Hilary laughed. Dammit he could always make her do that, even when she didn’t want to. Sam made a parody of a sad face and shrugged.
“I need to get moving I’m afraid. Thank you for a lovely evening.”
“No problem.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
“Yes, drop me a message sometime.”
He wouldn’t. They both knew that. In a few seconds he was going to turn around and walk away. He would never know. Hilary stood and watched as a part of her walked into the car park, pointed his car keys at an aging MX5 and drove away. She had done the right thing. Of course she had. She walked back into the hall and found Greg, needing a familiar face and anxious to show herself that he was all right.
“Thanks Greg. That was a great set. It’s been a wonderful party. I know I said I didn’t want it but it’s been wonderful.”
“No probs mum.”
He put his arms out and gave her a hug, something he had stopped doing when he was eight.
“I just wish dad could have been here too, but you can’t have everything.”

Going Pat-dogging.

Some of my fondest memories of my golden retriever Hal are from the times when we went pat-dogging together. It was a great surprise to all his friends and acquaintances when he passed his temperament test, as a lively three year old, on a windy day in Malton marketplace, and was accepted to be a PAT dog. He accepted a treat gently, ignored the crash of a metal dish as it hit the floor, walked calmly to heal, was groomed without making a fuss, had his teeth and ears examined, and generally showed himself to be a responsible member of society- not something he had shown signs of doing up to that point! From then on, visits to a local retirement home on behalf of the Pets as Therapy charity became a part of our weekly routine, so that the residents could enjoy the chance to see him, talk to him, and stroke him. As he walked into the silent lounge, and looked round with his tail thrashing, it was as if someone has just switched the lights on. People would move in their chairs and focus on him. “Here he is.” “Isn’t he lovely” “Let’s have a look at you” “I’ve nothing for you old lad”. Suddenly the half finished cups of tea were remembered and the tales began. I heard the story of a squire, riding in a carriage, whose dog was taught a lesson when he let it go for other dogs on his way past once too often and it met its match. Then there was the young man who was locked out of his house at ten o’clock when he got back five minutes late after seeing his girlfriend home at the other end of their village, and had to pay for a new lock when he broke the door down. I heard about the time before dog wardens, when gangs of stray dogs would fight in the streets, and was told what it felt like to be a London landlord waiting for a visit from the Kray twins. I shared happy memories of life as an army child in the hill stations of India and as a Wren in wartime Ceylon, and marveled at the sixth sense of the dog who led its owners away from a coming doodlebug, as well as hearing about dozens of much loved companion dogs from the past who are still remembered. It is something very special to think that simply by being there, and looking for the attention and physical contact which he loved, Hal was able to open up memories of a life, and bring back times which would otherwise have been forgotten. It’s was an easy way to cheer up a morning that might otherwise have been silent and solitary, with each resident sitting in their private world. Alongside this there was the lady who would simply fix her eyes on him, hold out her hand, and murmur “beautiful” and “soft” over and over again as she found the silky fur behind his ears and ran it through her fingers. There was no reaction from one particular resident at all for months, he sat in the same corner each week staring silently, until one day there was a nod and his hand went out offering a single piece of apple. For Hal of course that was the point of the exercise. He had no idea that he was there to provide a focus for reminiscence, mental stimulation, and touch therapy. He just thought that we had been lucky enough to find a place where they gave out biscuits once a week, at about quarter to eleven, to people who could be persuaded to part with them. Bourbons, custard creams, jaffa cakes, toast carefully wrapped and stored away from breakfast, toffees, tuna sandwiches, jelly babies- you name it he sat down, stared hard, thumped his tail on the floor and was given it. I know it wasn’t healthy eating, but somehow it just never seemed to be heard when I attempted to refuse on his behalf, and they really loved it when the toffees stuck to the roof of his mouth and he had to chomp and lick to dislodge them.

I can definitely recommend “going pat-dogging” if you have the time and the right dog, which can be any shape or size so long as its temperament is suitable. Even on a quiet visit it’s always worthwhile, and sometimes you can be lucky enough to make somebody’s day, just by letting them spend a short while with the pet you love.

Short Story. Wet Lunchtime.

It was a wet lunchtime. Loud metallic noise filled the roof space of the school dining room, right up to the peeling grey painted scaffolding in the roof space overhead. Jamie wondered if some of the noise might be inside his head, he wasn’t sure. The dinner ladies looked as fed up as he was and the windows were steaming up with the frustration of over a hundred children who made up the first sitting. He was at the back with the other packed lunches. That’s what he was called in the dining room. A packed lunch. Not a kid even. He hadn’t opened his box yet. He didn’t like it. His mother had promised him a new one when he was six. He had tried to scrape off the Hello Kitty sticker from when it had belonged to his sister but the others could still see it and sometimes they would miaow at him or purr. They did that on purpose to make him feel bad. He looked inside the box to see what was in it. A peanut butter sandwich, a tiny can of coke, a packet of prawn cocktail crisps and a mini roll. He never ate the mini roll, not ever, but she still kept putting them in. He picked up the can of coke, looked round carefully to make sure that nobody was looking, and shook it violently under the table. Then he pulled back the little ring and watched the dark fountain he had made shoot up in waves. It had white edges like the sea and it sounded like the sea too. Shhhooosssh!
“James Fletcher what do you think you’re doing?”
It was Mrs Porter. Badger Woman. She had a white streak in her hair over her forehead. He had once drawn a picture of her in a special Badger Woman costume and it had been taken away from him. They hadn’t given him it back, even when he cried.
“I said what do you think you are doing?”
The coke had spurted into the bottom of his lunch box and the bread in his peanut butter sandwich was dark and soggy.
“It’s ruined now.”
Badger Woman shook her head.
“I should think it is. You should be more careful. I’ll fetch a cloth.”
Jamie’s eyes filled up and he folded his arms.
“My dinner’s all soggy now. I can’t eat that.”
“Just wait a minute. We’ll see.”
Jamie didn’t like “We’ll see”. His mother was always saying that. He liked yes or no. And he wasn’t going to eat his dinner.
“You can’t make me eat it.”
He picked up his box and set off towards the bin, leaving a trail of dripping coke behind him.
There was a change in Badger Woman’s voice. He could hear it without looking.
“Jamie Fletcher come back here.”
Jamie stood with his head down, quite still, staring at the repeating pattern that the strips of wood on the floor made. He started to count them. One…two…… three…….. The box was taken out of his hands and Badger Woman held out the mini roll towards him. Other kids were looking at him now and he didn’t like it.
“You can still eat this, look. It’s wrapped up.”
She wasn’t his mum and she wasn’t his teacher. She couldn’t make him eat it.
“Don’t like it, and it’s still got stuff all over it.”
“I’ve seen you eat a mini roll before. I’ll wipe the wrapper down”
Badger Woman wiped the mini roll with her cloth and put it into Jamie’s hand.
“There you are. All sorted.”
Suddenly a shriek rose up inside Jamie and he pulled back his arm and sent the mini roll flying out across the dining room. It wasn’t sorted. Nothing was sorted. Nothing was ever sorted. The dining room went very quiet. They were all looking now, not just a few of them. Badger Woman was not happy.
“What on Earth is the matter with you? You’d better come with me.”
Jamie knew that if she touched him he was going to be very angry and he might kick. So he ran. He ran out of the dining hall, past the rows of grey doors with glass windows and names on them. He ran straight past his coat and out into the rain. He had no idea where he was going but within thirty seconds he had pushed his way across the playground and scuttled into the gap underneath the temporary classroom at the far side. He squirmed through the dirt until he was right in the middle where nobody could get at him ever again. Then he waited. He could hear them shouting his name almost straight away. Badger Woman first. Then his teacher. He ground his fists in the dirt and froze.
“Jamie?”
“Jamie Fletcher.”
He stayed very still. He could see Miss Hunter’s feet. Those were her brown sandals, right next to Badger Woman’s smelly trainers. If he moved now they would hear him. They would have to ring the bell soon and everybody would have to go into their classrooms. Then he would be safe.
“He went behind here Miss. I know he did.”
Suddenly there were faces looking at him. He hid his own face quickly and shut his eyes so that he couldn’t see them.
“Jamie?”
“Is he under there Miss?”
“Yes he is. Off you go Kylie- go and fetch the bell. Yes it’s all right now Mrs Porter. We’ve found him. I’ll sort it out.”
That was his teacher. Miss Rennison. There was no way she would manage to slide her way right under here and make him come out. So long as he stayed right in the middle he was safe.
He opened his eyes and looked at her. She didn’t look as if she was cross.
“Jamie- what’s the matter. Come on love- out you come. Nobody is angry with you. I’m getting wet here.”
Wet? Well that was her fault wasn’t it. If he just stayed very still she would have to go and look after the others in a minute. He shut his eyes as tight as he could.
“Jamie?”
“Has something happened to you? You can’t stay under there all day.”
Oh but he could. Even when it got dark. There wasn’t enough space under here for tigers to come and get him and he wasn’t scared of rats. His friend Luke had a rat. It was black and white but it was still a rat. Rats were all right.
Then he heard the bell ringing. There was a lot of noise, laughing and running feet followed by a silence and finally he could hear the rows of red sweatshirts being marched off to their classrooms one by one. He opened one eye carefully to see if Miss Rennison was still there.
She was.
“If you don’t come out soon I shall have to fetch your mum.”
Fat lot of good that would do. His mum was way too fat to get under here and she was at work. She had to stay at her till in Safeways until three o’clock.
“My mum won’t come. Nobody will come.”
“I’m here. Come out Jamie and we can see what’s the matter. I’m not going to go away. I want to help.”
After almost three quarters of an hour Jamie believed her. His leg hurt and he wanted a drink. He began to crawl slowly towards the edge, wriggling like a snake. Hisssssss. Hissssssss.
When he got out the rain hit his face and he started to cry. His teacher had dark spots all over her dress where the rain had hit her too. She took his hand without saying anything and led him into the school building. When they passed his classroom door he saw Mrs Lawler the headteacher in there. They were all sitting very still at their tables and they had their arms folded. He wondered where he was going and what might happen when he got there.
Miss Rennison took him into the office, right past where the welcome lady sat and into the secret bit where only Mrs Lawler went.
“We’ll get you cleaned up first.”
He let his teacher wipe his face and hands and give him a clean sweatshirt. It smelt funny.
“That’s better. Now are you going to tell me what all that was about?”
Jamie didn’t know what it was all about.
“I spoilt my dinner.”
“On purpose?”
“No!”
He frowned and tried not to cry. He didn’t want her wiping his face again.
“Spoiling your dinner wasn’t such a bad thing was it? Mrs Porter was looking after you nicely wasn’t she?”
Jamie nodded.
“Were you frightened of what your mum might say?”
He shook his head.
“My mum’s not bothered.”
“I’m sure she is.”
What did Miss Rennison know about his mum? Nothing. She didn’t know that his mum had come home in the middle of the night and fallen over and there had been so much noise and shouting that he had been forced to drag his duvet into the back garden and hide under it to get away from it. She didn’t know that this morning his mum wasn’t there and his sister had given him his coco pops with the wrong milk on them.
“My mum’s gone.”
“Gone? Is she on holiday?”
“Don’t know.”
“When will she be coming back?”
Jamie gripped his teeth together, hard. He had heard his dad scream at his mum and tell her never to come back. He had heard bad words. It was bad to throw things as well.
“Don’t know.”
“Never mind. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. Everything will be all right. She will be back soon. You ask daddy tonight and he’ll tell you.”
After Jamie heard Miss Rennison say that he felt a bit better. Miss Rennison knew about everything. She would be right. She always was.