Write me a Love Story Ch 6

Write me a Love Story Ch 6

By Janet Baldey

Red sky in the morning, shepherd's warning. The words ran through my head as I pedalled furiously down the hill, cool air buffeting my face. The old bike rattled as I swerved from side to side avoiding the worst of the potholes but I didn’t slow down, I just prayed its brakes still worked. It was a long time since I had ridden a bicycle but even so, I swooped down the hill as if it had wings, all the time wondering about that red sky. It was an ancient weather warning but was it also an omen?  Colic was serious and I was worried; we’d had Barley for years and I couldn’t imagine life without her.For once luck seemed to be on my side. As soon as I reached the veterinary surgery I saw Doug Spencer about to climb into his old Austin. Skidding to a halt and almost falling off the bike, I rushed towards him and started gabbling. One hand resting on top of his car, Doug affectionately known as ‘Uncle,’ looked at me from over the top of his spectacles. The mere fact of his presence was calming and when at last I stuttered to a halt and my hands stopped beating the air, he didn’t say a word. Instead, he walked round and opened the passenger door, clearing a space by the simple expedient of slinging assorted clutter onto the back seat.

‘Get in,’ he said. ‘I’ll put your bike in the boot.’

As the small car chuffed into my yard, Georg was still walking Barley round and round. His face was grey with fatigue and Barley’s rump shuddered intermittently as the pain gripped.

As he strode towards the sweating animal, Uncle Spencer was already opening his bag. Drawing out his stethoscope he plugged it into his ears, placing it against the horse’s belly and listening intently. Without saying a word, he rummaged in his bag again and drew out a syringe with a needle so long it made my eyes water.

‘She's got a blocked gut. I’ll give her something for the pain then we’ll try a laxative. I’ll need some help with that. Are you up to it?’

He was looking at Georg who nodded, while I just stood there feeling useless.

‘Right, let’s get her into the stable. Meanwhile, lass, you can brew us some tea.’

When they eventually emerged there was no sign of Barley.

‘She’s much easier now. I’ve given her an enema and that might do the trick.  But she really needs someone to keep an eye on her for the next twenty four hours.’

He raised his eyebrows and looked at Georg.

‘I vould happily stay but…….’

‘ Don’t worry. As soon as I get back to the surgery, I’ll ring the camp and fix it with whoever’s in charge  I’ll leave you some more pain medicine just in case.’

He clapped Georg on the shoulder.

‘Good man.’

As I walked him back to the car he looked at me.

‘Useful chap that. I’ll call back in the morning to see how she is.’

‘What do you think caused it, Uncle?’

He shrugged. ‘It could be one of several things. Sometimes it’s simply a case of too much dry food. It tends to collect in the folds of the gut and cause an obstruction.’

I stood at the gate watching as his car disappeared down the hill; even after it had gone I didn’t move. I felt racked with guilt. How many times over the past few months had I fed Barley chaff, too tired to make up her usual mash? The horizon began to shimmer and I clenched my fists driving my nails into my palms. First, it had been the chickens and now I’d almost killed my pony. Right then and there I made a solemn vow:  never again would I be so vain as to believe I could cope on my own.   I’d rather give up farming altogether than to cause suffering to any more innocent animals.

Numb with shame, I turned and went back to the cottage to collect some blankets for Georg. Luckily the weather was mild and he’d be comfortable enough on a bed of straw.  Giving the state of my conscience, it was likely he’d get more sleep than I would.

The next morning I was up before dawn. As I walked towards the stable with a mug of tea for Georg my heart was thumping and I’ll always remember the rush of relief I felt when I saw Barley’s long face looking at me mournfully from over the stable door. Then Georg appeared, wiping his hands on an old towel.  

‘The medicine certainly worked.’ He grinned. ‘I’ve much clearing up to do.’   He patted the mare’s neck affectionately.

‘She will need to rest today but tomorrow I think she will be back to normal.’

Georg was right. The next day we were back in our old routine but with a difference. It took me a long time to realise what had changed but then I did.  It was something within me. I felt different inside as if a hard knot of tension had started to dissolve. Hesitantly at first, I began talking to Georg. At first, our conversation was stilted and wholly related to farming matters but gradually I began to feel more relaxed and talking to him became easier. What’s more, it gradually dawned on me that he had an instinct for farming which I didn’t have. Almost imperceptibly, there was a shift in our relationship. It was no longer the case of me being the boss and he just the hired help. I started to trust his judgement and in little ways began to defer to him. Slowly, we started to become a team.

***

With someone else to share the load, I had time to pick up jobs that I used to do before Frank left. Rarely did I feel more contented than when I was in the dairy churning milk while listening to the radio, usually tuned into the Forces network. I’d always thought there was a sort of alchemy in transforming cow’s milk into cream, cheese and golden slabs of butter that reflected the oblongs of sunlight slipping through the windows. Magic apart, in purely practical terms I had the satisfaction of knowing that, at long last, my market stall would compare well with those of the other women.

I also found time for myself. Instead of making do with my usual all over wash, for the first time in weeks I had enough energy to fire up the range to heat water for my old tin bath. I rooted around and managed to find a jar of bath salts, a present from a few Christmases ago, and as I lowered myself into the warm water, scented with Evening in Paris, I gave a sigh of sheer bliss.

As my body relaxed, my brain fired up and my plan popped back into my head.  As I lay working things out, for the first time in ages it began to occur to me that life might be worth living again.

Copyright Janet Baldey

Childhoods End

Childhoods End

By Len Morgan

I see the morning sun break, through bleak and stormy skies,

and I realise its over, tears clouding my eyes.

I remember all I’ve lost together with it's passing;

seems so long since I was standing on that beach and laughing.

I knew true happiness then mindless to the passing season

until it was gone and I stood alone, shocked without a reason.

All is gone, or so it seems, for yesterdays never return.

Memories stir, though second-hand, they fan the senses that yearn.

Autumn falls, with it the leaves, the air grows cold and lonely.

Salt spray freezes on the pier the beach is littered and stony.

But, summer days will come again; once more my feet will wander

down to the beach, neath cloudless skies, and round its pools meander.

Summer doesn’t disappear

it hibernates until next year

with bucket and spade, we’ll dig the sand,

devour ice cream, and watch the band.

If at these thoughts your mind runs wild

I guess you’ve remembered once you were a child

I still look back with joy but sadness

To days gone forever but never the less

I feel wistful unashamed, and I often pretend,

that I’d never experienced childhoods end.

Little Lennie Morgan

The New Year’s Resolution

The New Year’s Resolution

By Bob French

Hilary stared back at the face that looked at her with searching eyes from the mirror and for a moment contemplated her worst nightmare; that she was getting old and would soon be left on the proverbial shelf. As though justifying her age, she answered the mirror.

          “Twenty one isn’t old.  Lots of time yet.”  But she recognised the concern in her voice.

          The sound of ‘Love, love me do’ by the Beatles, a new group on the ‘Pop scene’ interrupted her thoughts, as it crackled into her dishevelled bed-sit in Chelmsford, via her tiny Japanese trany. It had been their song, but now it made her feel lonely, betrayed and unloved.  She felt the sudden surge of anger rise as she stared at the shattered photo frame of Mark, still lying in the corner.  He had broken off their engagement after two years, shattering her dreams into too many pieces for her to find, let alone repair.

          Christmas passed quietly for Hilary, choosing not to go home and face her mother’s inquisition, but decided to spend it alone in her flat.  After the January Sales, the mild excitement of returning to work and social contact brought a welcome relief to her loneliness, and when the muffled sound of her alarm clock struggled from beneath her blankets, warning her that it was time to get up and get ready for work, she felt a surge, a newness of life, rush through her.

          The weather forecast was cold, windy and overcast and she decided to chance it with just her Aaron cardigan; after all it was only three hundred yards to the bus stop.  Within minutes, it had started to rain; lightly at first, but by the time she had reached the busy Roxwell Road, she was soaked through and resigned herself to arriving at work looking like a drowned rat. 

          “What more could go wrong?” she sighed to herself as she came upon the queue of familiar sombre faces destined for the workplace.

          Hilary nodded at Jill and Sandra who both worked in Woolworths and ignored the middle aged suit who always ogled at her legs and mini-skirt with a perverted grin, as she silently took her place in the queue.  ‘Same old faces’ she thought. 

          As she stood, mindlessly watched the chaos of the morning rush hour unfold, she felt her legs ache from the arctic wind and prayed that, just for once, the bus was on time.  It was the mutterings of Jill and Sandra that broke her thoughts and drew her attention to a young man trying to cross the busy road. She watched as he struggled with his umbrella, then, made a life or death dash and joined the queue.  He nodded to Jill and Sandra but ignored her, which pricked her already shattered self esteem.

          She felt her anger rise and with a shrug, turned her back to him; ‘Men, I hate them,’ she thought to herself, as she fought back her self-pity.  Then he suddenly spoke.

          “Excuse me Miss, but you look terribly wet.  Would you like to share my umbrella?”  Instantly she felt threatened and ignored him. After Mark, she had promised herself that she would never trust another man. Though she rarely made New Year’s resolutions, she recalled shouting such a promise to a half empty bottle of wine one evening.  The situation was saved by the arrival of the crowded bus, and as expected, her boss gave her a hard time about her appearance.  She didn’t see the young man again until the end of January when she was struggling home through Admirals Park with her weekly shopping after work. He had been out jogging and virtually collided with her as he came around the corner of the bowling green.

          “Oh, I am terribly sorry.  My apologies,” then he turned and looked into her startled face. “Hello Miss.  Do you want a hand with those?”  He nodded at her shopping bags.  She went to say ‘get lost,’ but he smiled, leant forward and eased the two heavy bags from her white knuckled fists.  The relief on her body was instant and she looked up at him and thanked him through her smile.

          “That’s very kind of you.  It’s not very far.” 

          They covered the short distance in an uncomfortable silence during which time she contemplated asking him in for a cup of tea, but as she reached her front door, decided against it.  Hilary took the bags and went to thank him, but he had simply smiled at her, turned, and jogged off down the road. She felt a sudden rush of pleasure as her eyes lingered on his physique, then scolded herself as she slammed the door behind her.

          Monday morning brought more rain and as she approached the bus stop she was surprised to see him already waiting there. She went through her usual routine of nodding to Jill and Sandra and ignoring the pervert and joined the queue next to him. 

          Hilary was about to thank him for helping her with her shopping when something caught her eye.  A large removal van was thundering down the road toward the bus stop. She glanced at the huge puddle in the gutter and then back at the lorry and resigned herself to the outcome.   As predicted, the lorry hit the puddle, sending a wave of dirty rain water in her direction.  Jill swore at the driver and Hilary screamed and crouched down just as the young man brought his umbrella around to protect her from the deluge.

          “Are you alright Miss.”  He gently helped her up and after she inspected herself found that she was unscathed.

          Hilary felt a wave of gratitude rush over her, turned and looked up into his young masculine face.

          “Thank you so much.”  Then without thinking she heard herself say.  “My name is Hilary, and thank you for helping me the other night.”  As she spoke she felt her prejudice against men slowly start to disappear, but quickly took control of her feelings.  The young man smiled at her and was about to speak when the bus arrived, interrupting him and destroying the moment.

          Each morning she would greet him with a smile and he would move his umbrella over her, protecting her from the wind and the rain, but she always maintained her self-imposed barrier.  After a few days she thought about striking up a conversation, but deep down inside, her fears prevented her from going beyond the usual pleasantries, even after Jill and Sandra’s taunting.

          The wet weather slowly moved into February and it was whilst she was chatting with the girls at the bus stop, under the protection of his umbrella, that the subject of St Valentine’s Day came up; a day she now loathed.  Hilary recalled the childish games played by colleagues in the office to see who had not received cards.  The expression on her face and her feeble attempt at changing the subject was quickly picked up by the young man.        

          To everyone’s surprise, the morning of the 14^th of February was sunny, ruined only by a cold wind that howled down Roxwell Road, and instead of the protection of the umbrella, the young man had gallantly stood closely behind her, protecting her from the bitter wind.  Hilary had smiled up at him, acknowledging her thanks, before ignoring the glance between Jill and Sandra.  Again she felt her defences start to slip, but shook herself inwardly and reminded herself of her New year’s resolution.

          Hilary silently tolerated the office jokes and pranks until lunch time when she could escape to the privacy of the Cathedral grounds.  It was as she bent down to pick up her bag that she noticed the envelope. Fearing another practical joke, she quickly stuffed it into her pocket and left. Ten minutes later on her favourite bench her curiosity got the better of her and she tore open the envelop and quickly read it.

          The note simply read ‘Please take this note to the Empire Café on Moulsham Street at 8 o’clock this evening and present it to Fred, the manager.’  Hilary stared at the neatly printed note; her mind racing as she went through potentials. ‘It could be Graham, or Jim or even Brian. No, he’s married,’ she thought. 

          On return to the office, her suspicions were confused even more so, as she realised, after some discrete questioning, that none of her colleagues had sent her the note. At first she had decided not to go, but as the afternoon wore on, her inquisitiveness changed her mind.         

          The smell of burnt bacon, cigarette smoke and the thumping sound of the Rolling Stones from the juke box met her as she pushed open the steamed up café door. Young faces turned and through a veil of smoke, looked up at her, then ignored her, as she made her way to the counter where a red faced, rotund man in a stained string vest and a permanent smile on his face turned and greeted her.

          “Ello luv, what you having?”

          “Hello.  I am looking for Fred.  I am to give him this note.”  Fred grinned and took the note,” then glanced at her.

          “Please follow me luv.”  As she followed him toward the back of the café, the light grew dimmer and the sound of the thumping music faded.  Then Fred stopped and stood back and gave a short bow.

          “Ere we are miss, if you’d like to take a seat, your ‘ost will be here soon.”

          Hilary smiled nervously as her eyes took in the secluded table for two, lit with candle light.  In the dim flickering light she allowed her mind to race again.  ‘Who could this mystery person be?’  As she made herself comfortable, she noticed the small envelope on her plate addressed to her and slowly opened it.  She became aware that as she came to the end of the simple poem of secret love and admiration her eyes had filled with tears.

          Whilst reading the poem again, she sensed that someone was standing beside her and as she looked up, she felt her heart jump.  Their eyes met, instantly bringing a smile to their faces, then the young man from the bus stop nervously held out a bunch of red roses and in a voice no more than a whisper, wished her a happy Valentine’s Day.

          As he sat down, he leant across the table and gently took her hand. Hilary’s instinct was to pull away, but her heart told her to stay. She stared into his eyes and for the first time in months, she felt her hatred and fears disappear.

          “My name is William.  I hope you don’t mind but I couldn’t help noticing that the world had done you an injustice.”  Hilary frowned at him over the roses.

          “That such an attractive person as your self should be alone on a special night such as tonight.” He felt her hand gently squeeze his and saw the tear trickle down her cheek.

          “Please forgive me if I have upset you, but I have been trying to pluck up enough courage to…..” Hilary slowly leant across the table a put her finger on his lips.

          “Please don’t spoil the moment, we can talk about such things when we are old and grey and our children have grown up.

Copyright Bob French

GARDEN OF ENGLAND

    GARDEN OF ENGLAND

By Jane Scoggins

  Harry had lived all his life in and around South London. He had been across the river many times of course but never to live. He was a Londoner through and through and could not imagine living anywhere else.  He had done a number of jobs in his working life starting at fifteen on his uncle’s fruit and veg stall at Borough market. Not having been very well schooled and the family needing the money he had not minded what he did. His preference had been to work outside, but as long as it brought in a wage and he didn’t have far to travel from the family home off the Marshalsea Road he had been happy. When he got married in 1975 and with his first child on the way he was offered a council flat. He and Julie were over the moon and soon after Mandy was born he applied for, and was offered a job with Southwark council as a labourer. It was a steady job with a good enough income and he and Julie were content. When baby John came along Harry was even happier. When Mandy was nearly 10 and John 6 Harry asked the council if they could be rehoused so that Mandy could have her own bedroom. In due course they were offered a three bed terraced house near the Elephant and Castle. Julie was delighted to have a garden for the first time and she and Harry set about putting it straight and planting. Harry knew all about fruit and veg from the days of his uncle’s market stall, but he had never worked with soil or planted anything. He loved the garden and tended it with care. This new found interest eventually prompted him to apply for a job working in the Council’s parks and gardens. He transferred from labourer to gardener with ease and stayed in the same job with incremental promotions until his retirement. After the children had flown the nest Julie and Harry continued to tend the garden and go on regular trips to Kew Gardens when they felt the need for a bit more grandeur. When Harry's arthritis started to give him twinges, and Julie was diagnosed with Cancer they talked about downsizing. The council were glad to be getting a three bed house with a garden back into their housing stock for one of the many families on their waiting list, and offered Harry and Julie a modern one bedroom flat in Southwark. Harry's arthritis was manageable but Julies Cancer was more troublesome and despite treatment and periods of remission she died with Harry at her bedside in St Thomas's Hospital.

 Mandy and John came for the funeral and after a week returned to their lives and jobs in Leeds and Edinburgh. Harry was proud of his children’s achievements and how far they had come in their careers. He was less certain about how far they had to live away from him. With Julie gone, he felt lonely experienced the full impact of his bereavement.

Harry had spent the morning people watching in Trafalgar Square, and the pigeons had enjoyed the crusts from his home-made cheese, ham and pickle sandwiches. He debated whether or not to go into the National Gallery just behind him. Entrance was free and Harry liked a bit of culture now and again. In particular he liked the majesty of the Old Masters. It was a warm June day, quite a few tourists, but no schoolchildren as it was not yet holiday time. Harry raised his face to the sun and admired Nelson on his tall plinth. The sky was blue and almost cloudless. Not too warm for activities such as walking or gardening. Harry gave a little inward sigh. He would have loved to have rolled up his shirt sleeves and done a bit of gardening, but as he no longer had a garden he accepted the other option, walking. He thought he would walk down the Strand to Covent Garden and see if his friend Joe was on his market stall, or if there were any street performers busking in the square. Launching his near empty backpack over his shoulder, he set off past the open doors of St Martin in The Fields church towards the Strand. On the opposite side of the road was Charing Cross station. He liked old buildings as well as Old Masters and stopped for a few moments to gaze up at the architecture of the building. In those moments his mind transferred from present day to years gone by when he and Julie had travelled by train to Kent to visit relatives, or just for a day away from London when they fancied some country air. It had been eight months since his wife had died and he missed her very much. Instead of turning left toward Covent Garden as planned, he found himself crossing the road. Hesitating briefly he went to the ticket office and bought a ticket to Sevenoaks. The electronic departures board showed that a train was due out from platform 6 in five minutes. Within a minute of settling into his seat, the train moved off and only then did Harry have second thoughts about the sudden change of mind about his plans for the afternoon.

 The train was an early afternoon, stopping train. Harry watched as the enormous commercial buildings of London merged seamlessly into the smaller crowded buildings and houses of the south London suburbs with which he had been familiar all his life. His family born and bred around the Walworth Road had easy access to the South Bank and over London or Blackfriars Bridges to the City in one direction, and out towards Kent in the other.

 The train stopped at Catford, then Beckenham, Bromley and St Mary Cray. He was properly in Kent now. He knew the next station would be Swanley and then onto the pretty little villages of Eynsford and Shoreham. When Harry was a lad he and his Mum and Dad, brother and sister, together with his Aunt Beatty, Uncle Jack and his three cousins would ride out to Kent in the back of Uncle Jacks old lorry for the last two or three weeks of the summer holidays to pick hops. They all looked forward to the camping, fresh air and extra money. It was an opportunity to be together as a family, to work and play away from the grubby confines of their small cramped houses, and feel the sun on their backs. Harry remembered those annual trips with a deep pleasure. Even when he started work he continued to take his week’s holiday with the family when they went hop picking. And after he met and got engaged to Julie, she came too. They continued this working summer holiday until their first child was due.

The tannoy relayed a message to the passengers that the next station would be Otford, and those wishing to go on to Sevenoaks would need to change trains. At Otford Harry got off the train. It was a pretty little station with pots and hanging baskets overflowing with colourful orange and red Begonias, Geraniums, multicoloured stocks and blue and white trailing Lobelia. Harry admired the floral abundance and sat for a minute or two on a bench on the deserted platform. A butterfly alighted on one of the blossoming stocks and Harry felt completely at peace with the world for the first time since his wife's death.

  Feeling thirsty he made his second change of plan that day. Instead of going on to Sevenoaks, he decided to explore the village of Otford and seek out a pub for a beer.

It was a short walk to the village from the station and there was a choice of two pubs. He chose the one with the best hanging baskets. Harry bought a beer and wandered into the garden at the back of the pub. Apart from an elderly couple in walking boots and their dog, the garden was empty and Harry had a choice of tables. After his beer, Harry used the gents WC before wandering around the village. He was charmed by its character. Cottages with little front gardens overflowing with Hollyhocks, delphiniums, Lavender, and Roses scrambling up and over porches and picket fences.  Harry was in his element and he drew in his breath to take in the smell of the flowers and the countryside. He loved London but his flat with only a tiny balcony could not compare to the visual and scented treats that were seducing him now. He had grown fruit and veg, as well as flowers for Julie in their garden before moving to the flat. As he walked further down the road the houses became larger semi's and some detached. The sight of the village shop reminded Harry that he was getting a bit peckish. He went in and bought a small pork pie, crisps and chocolate, and a bottle of water for his homeward journey. The notice board advised of the local lunch club, yoga class, church services and bus trips. It would appear to be a village mainly for retired people or commuters Harry surmised. He then noticed a handwritten postcard 'Gardener Wanted'. Harry looked with interest and wondered where it might be. There was a house name 'The Chestnuts', a name and a telephone number. Harry asked the lady behind the counter if she knew where it was.

'Oh yes, It is at the end of the road on the left ' she said, pointing her finger in the direction, 'No more than 10 minutes walk.'

Harry memorised the name on the card and out of curiosity went in search of the house and garden. The Chestnuts was easy to find. Standing back from the road a fine detached, older style house with two mature Chestnut trees in the front. Although the lawn needing cutting and there were quite a lot of weeds in the borders, it would appear that the main part of the garden was at the back. There was no one around so Harry walked up the path to take a better look

There was a wrought iron gate at the side of the house and as he approached a dog barked. Before he had time to move away, a friendly, tail wagging but noisy Spaniel came rushing up to the gate to welcome him. A voice from nearby called to the dog and Harry looked up to see a woman in a wheelchair with a book in her lap.

'Can I help you?' she called out to Harry.

Taken aback by being discovered snooping, or even trespassing on private property Harry found himself covering his acute embarrassment by saying.

'I saw your advert for a gardener in the shop and……'

He got no further with his explanation as he was interrupted by the lady in the wheelchair beckoning him towards her saying

'Oh, please come in.'

Harry unlatched the gate, closed it behind him, and bent to pet the excited Spaniel.

As he walked towards the lady she laughed and apologised for the dog who was demanding his attention.

Mrs Simpson had Multiple Sclerosis and some days needed to use her wheelchair. Her condition was stable but during the last year her ability to manage unaided had declined. She and her husband had lived in the house for 20 years and during that time Mrs Simpson had transformed the garden .it had been her pride and joy. She had refused to give in to having a gardener until recently when her husband had seen her distress at how the garden had become unkempt and overgrown in parts, and persuaded her to reconsider. He had also suggested that they move to a smaller house. Mrs Simpson had reluctantly agreed but with the proviso they find a gardener who would restore her garden to its former glory before putting it on the market. She said she wanted at least one more summer in her beautiful garden.

Harry could not resist the challenge, and over a cup of tea they talked all things flora and botanical. Mrs Simpson accompanied Harry slowly around her garden telling him all about the plants and when she had planted them. She had many interesting and unusual specimens. She, in turn, was most interested in Harry's experience as a council gardener, his visits to Kew and his knowledge of gardening.

When she asked Harry where he lived and when he could start, Harry told her he lived in London but could start tomorrow if she wanted.

'How about having B&B at the pub and staying down here, it would be like having a working holiday. I could get you a good rate too. I would give you a sandwich lunch and as much tea as you can drink, and I would pay you generously to work from after breakfast until dusk if you wanted. How about it? I reckon about a week, would do it, and then maybe some ongoing maintenance after that if you are willing?’’

Harry agreed. All he had to do now was to go back to London, pack a bag and return in the morning. Before he left, Mrs Simpson phoned the pub and made the B&B arrangements.

The third impromptu decision of the day had been made and Harry felt that he was having an adventure that would see him coping with his bereavement and having a working holiday. Life was suddenly so much better. He was glad that the Garden of England had beckoned him back. However, the only hops he was likely to encounter on this working holiday would be in his Kentish Ale down at the pub each evening.

Copyright Jane Scoggins

Pictorial Haiku 1 (Haiga)

Pictorial Haiku 1   (Haiga)

My Life on a plate.

My Life on a plate.

by Rosemary Clarke

Harry Ford looked out of his window; not a soul in sight.  A lovely sunny day, he should be down the pub sitting outside with Son and Jack supping a few bevvies and setting the world to rights, instead here he was indoors more or less tied to his home, all 24 stone of him. He smiled, his brothers had all been big too; big talkers and big eaters.  His son had started worrying when they'd died within months of each other - well, he would say it was medical but there were thousands with diabetes and heart conditions no, it was just their time.

Harry gazed again at the fresh fruit and vegetables sitting like a rainbow in his vegetable racks; when would Alan get him a cake, he'd love a cake, but his son only had a little time to get food in the morning and he was very lucky to have a son who brought his food before going to the care home, but it would be nice to have a cake.
Looking in the fridge he found the sliced ham; he could have a ham sandwich with pickle that would do, he sometimes wondered if Alan was doing it on purpose but he was right, the fruit and veg were at the front of the shop.  Harry was so deep in thought he hadn't noticed the bottle of salad dressing and, as he pulled the ham out the bottle exploded onto his shirt spattering everything.  Damn!  Now he would have to change!

Plodding upstairs ham still in the fridge, he searched in the wardrobe for a clean shirt grabbing one and pulling it on; it was a bit tight but no one would see.  As he passed the mirror he stared... wasn't this the shirt he'd gotten married in?  Harry looked at it again; yes, he hadn't been able to get into that for a long while!  Puzzled, he opened the bathroom door and stood on the scales...18 stone!  Studying himself closely he was shocked; the fat under his chin had almost gone - he wasn't a bad looking bloke...one and a half months in lockdown did that?

He felt quite good walking down the stairs, he hadn't noticed that before.  Harry swept up the glass and mess near the fridge, threw it away and looked at the ham in a new light; he didn't need salad cream but he could have a salad!

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

Wings to fly

Anita's Story

Sujata Narang

Anita is all ready to leave home, her bindi is in place, she is wearing her favourite green chiffon saree neatly creased.  A neat bun on her head completes her conventional Indian look. Anita stops by the mirror to replace her bindi and looks at her reflection, in there she can see the remains of her unfulfilled dream to be a teacher. To be able to work and live her passion.

“Anita, the girls are all ready to leave, and I am getting late to work”- calls Sunil. Anita is drawn back to the busy morning.

Anita rushes the children out of the house and they quickly make their way to the bus stop. The city of Bangalore is unfamiliar to her.

She reaches the bus stop along with the kids. She thinks to herself “which one of these buses would go to the town?”

Most of the buses had their destinations written either in English or Kannada, a south Indian Language, spoken in the southwestern state of Karnataka.

She mutters to herself “we lived all our lives in Faridabad and there wasn’t any need for me to learn English, oh god! How are we going to get to school? I am worried we might be late!’’

A movement later, a bus stops at the bus stop the conductor yells “Ulsoor, Ulsoor.” 

“Oh yes, that’s our bus,” thinks Anita. She carefully boards the bus with her two little girls.

The conductor shows her a seat. She comfortably sits with her daughters. As the bus moves around the town, the girls spend time glancing out of the window.

Anita is drawn back to her dreams, today is one of those days which she has always dreamt of. Neatly dressed, boarding the bus with her children, on a bright morning, travelling to work.

However, she was not travelling to work but travelling to school for the admission of her daughters. It was a very important day for her. A few events in this day somehow resembled her dream and therefore she couldn’t stop being drawn back into her dream world, despite it being a busy morning.

“Anita has finished her school, and she is nearly 18 we must get her married soon. We must find her a suitable match. Or else it is going to become a difficult job by each passing day.’’

Anita overheard her mother say these words to her father, concerned about her marriage. She can still hear those echoes in her mind.

“Only if, mother understood then, that marriage is not what a girl seeks, at the young tender age of 18. It isn’t marriage a woman needs, to enable her to raise her head with pride in the society. Only if she could understand education and knowledge does not follow gender discrimination. Because of the female biological formation of my being, I was denied dreaming and living, freely.”

And before she was in her mid-twenties, Anita and Sunil have been married for 7 years, they had two young daughters. The couple had moved miles away from their comfortable familiar home to the unknown alien land of Bangalore. Land of different culture, different language, and new lifestyle altogether. Everything was distinct from her native town; the locals did not speak Hindi at all. Her new world was challenging and lonely.

Every day in Bangalore she finds herself, struggling and coping with the demands of living away from home in a big metropolitan city. Chasing, a better life. Life was certainly stranger and weirder than fiction for her.

 “Mummy can you tie my belt for me, I am struggling with it.” says Anita’s younger daughter.

Anita smiles and tightness the golden dotted belt for her. Anita looks at her older daughter and finds her looking out of the window, spellbound in her magical world.

Anita’s glance stays at her daughters and she reaffirms her pledge and says to herself, “I promise to you my little angels I will not chop off your wings. I will give you a chance to spread your wings and reach for the skies, you shall get a chance to study and live life for yourself.’’

“Madam, can I occupy the seat next to you.”, says a woman in crisp voice, in a slightly Asian accent.

The women wore a dark brown saree, she loosely tied her hair and deeply filled her parting with vermilion.

“Oh yes!” exclaims Anita.

“Thank you. Do you work?” ask the women in dark brown saree to Anita.

Anita always came across strangers who ask her this question, because during the early 70’s not many women went out to earn a living. Despite not been able to study and work Anita always kept her dream alive by taking care of her looks. She may not be a teacher, but she never accepted looking an ordinary home maker. She always wore a neat dress, her lipstick, bindi and saree were always in place.

Anita felt pride and despair at the same time. She replied with a shine in her eyes “No I don’t, I am a homemaker.”

Anita looked down she reached out, held the hands of her daughters and yet again she reminds herself “but, one day my daughters will be professional women, not homemakers like me.”

Copyright Sujata Narang