Living a lie part 2 & last

Living a lie part 2 & last

By Janet Baldey

In another part of the house, a cistern flushed and I waited for sounds I was all too familiar with; the creak of floorboards, the slam of a door. My mind filled in the blanks and through the layers of brick and plaster, I imagined the sure, quick tapping of his fingertips on the keyboard. There would be no hesitation. The brain driving those fingers didn’t struggle; it spewed fantasies that boiled like rivers in spate, gathering momentum as they raced across the page.

I left my study and climbed the stairs. My husband was crouched in front of his computer like a spider about to devour its prey.

        

‘Morning Garry’. My lips brushed the back of his hair. As he turned his glasses reflected the sunlight making his eyes unreadable.

        

‘I’ve finished, Margot!’  He pressed ‘print’ and with a staccato rattle, pages rolled into sight.   

        

‘Well done.  Look forward to reading it later.’

        

All that day Garry had the jitters. He settled to nothing but walked about whistling tunelessly through his teeth, a habit he had when nervous and which drove me to distraction.  

        

‘Garry!’  I said. ‘Go for a walk. Leave me in peace and I’ll read your story.’

        

After I had finished, I sat for a long time watching the dusk slide across the lawn.     Eventually, I stirred myself and automatically picked up my coffee staring at its wrinkled surface in surprise. I glanced at my watch. The hours had flown by. Garry’s manuscript was magnificent. The others were good and I was sure one or two would be best-sellers but this one was different.  It swallowed the reader whole, spat him out and left him gasping for breath. It worried me. His writing had matured. Soon, he would no longer need me. I forced myself to face the truth - he didn’t need me now.  

        

I was smiling as I entered his room.  

        

‘This is good.’ I said.‘By far the best thing you’ve written so far.’ I opened a drawer and slipped it in to join its fellows; the pile of manuscripts that I secretly thought of as my pension pot.

        

Garry looked incredulous ‘Aren’t you going to send it to your Agent?’

        

‘You’re not quite ready Garry. Trust me.’

        

His pasty face flushed brick red as he stood up. ‘Margot, I’ve sweated blood over this.  I’m ready, I know I am.  And, I’m not the only one who thinks so…’

        

His voice trailed away but it was too late, the echo remained. As I stared at him, a muscle started to dance at the corner of his mouth.

        

‘Have you shown this to anyone Garry?’ 

        

His features sharpened and suddenly he looked crafty.  Then, his chin came up and his shoulders squared. ‘Look, Margot, I’m sorry but I think we’ve made a terrible mistake.’

        

‘A mistake?’

        

‘Our collaboration. Our marriage. Everything.’  He flung out his arms and looked miserable.

        

The tick of the clock sounded very loud as we stared at each other. In that moment, I knew the truth.  There was another woman. There must be. But who?  And when did they meet?  Garry rarely left the house. Then, I remembered the fat girl gazing at him in adoration.  Of course!   Wednesday evenings, when I was teaching.  She no longer attended and neither did Garry. At last, I remembered to breathe.

        

‘It’s been a long day Garry and you’ve been overworking.  Go to bed now and sleep on it.  We’ll discuss it over supper tomorrow. Maybe, I’m wrong.’

        

Of course, I was never stupid enough to believe that Garry had ever truly loved me.   When we met, he had been a driven loner, starved of human companionship. I had taken an interest in his writing and he had become infatuated.  I had taken advantage of this but now it seemed our marriage was threatened. I felt sick when I thought about the possible consequences. I took a deep breath and brought myself under control.  I thought of all the months I had spent coaching Garry and how far he had progressed and I clenched my teeth until my jaw ached. The more I thought about it, the more determined I became; there was no way that I would walk away and leave another woman to reap the benefit of my hard work. All through that endless night, I paced the floor, polishing a plan to a high gloss until it gleamed.

        

It was just after dawn when I left the house. Garry was particularly fond of wild mushrooms and they were best gathered early. The summer had been a disaster; for much of the time, the sky had hidden behind purple clouds that swelled and burst like ripe plums releasing a deluge of rain onto flooded land.  Now, as so often happens in early Autumn, the sky was a cloudless blue above a fleece of mist thrown over the fields.  Carving footsteps into the dew, I walked towards the woods, a basket on my arm. The wet summer had produced a bumper crop of mushrooms and soon my basket was full. But, I hadn’t finished, I was looking for something special and thought I knew where to find it.   As I walked between ragged trees I kicked up sparks of leaves, searching the forest floor.  At last, I saw it, half hidden behind a rotted stump. The glimmer of palest green like a piece of the moon fallen to earth. As I looked closer I saw there were two of them, huddled together in a sinister conspiracy. Pulling on rubber gloves, I picked them and a faint aroma of rose petals drifted towards me.  Amanita Phalloides.

        

Many years earlier I’d had an affair with nature; I’ve forgotten most of what I learned but I’ve never forgotten Death Cap. For twenty four hours, there are no symptoms, then agonizing stomach cramps begin accompanied by diarrhoea and vomiting.  You’d wish for death. Then, you seem to recover but deadly toxins have invaded your body, destroying both liver and kidneys and a few days later, you get your wish. There is no cure. There is no treatment.

 Flavoured with garlic, cream and a dash of brandy, Garry never suspected the extra ingredient added to his portion. Anyway, he gobbled his food; just one of his habits I had grown to detest.

* * *

I thought I had been so careful but the trouble with living a lie is that one can never relax.    I didn’t release the first manuscript until six months after the funeral.  During those six months, I laboriously edited all of Garry’s work, altering the style ever so slightly until I thought no one would suspect.  My agent certainly didn’t.   She was ecstatic.

        

‘Just when I thought you were finished. You produce this masterpiece, you slyboots.’   Removing a cigarette from her cherry red lips, her mouth stretched into a delighted smile.

        

During the next few years, my life changed beyond all recognition.  Releasing other manuscripts like spurts from a rusty faucet, I became famous. I was courted, both by the literati and the general public, the latter helped by the universal appeal of my books and a generous portion of television interviews.  My life began to glitter.  People accosted me in the street, the money rolled in and I began to think of buying a castle in Scotland.  

Looking back, I realize that was when I made my mistake.  I became complacent. With sublime carelessness, I released Garry’s last novel almost unchanged.  It was a stupendous success.  Almost before the print had had time to dry, my phone rang off the hook with plans for TV mini-series and lecture tours, all offers being swept aside when a certain film producer entered the arena.

On the day my plan disintegrated, a wintry sun sparkled flecks of granite in the steps as I stood outside my publisher’s door.  Carefully, I made my way down to street level.  My head was reeling.  I had never been good with figures but one thing had got through to me during that euphoric meeting.  I now had enough money to live in luxury for the rest of my days.  But old habits die hard and I ignored the line of purring taxis and walked towards the Station.  On my way, I paused outside an exclusive patisserie ogling pyramids piled high with pastries studded with crystallized fruit and oozing cream.  On an impulse, I decided to treat myself.  I’d always had a weakness for afternoon tea and after all, money was no longer a problem.       

        

I was on my third meringue when I saw her. A great bear of a woman swathed in fur.   Trying hard not to choke I turned away quickly but was too late.  A moment later a shadow fell over my table and I was forced to feign surprise as I glanced up. I hadn’t seen Mary Ward for something like thirty years when we were both struggling would-be authors. Then I was discovered and we drifted apart.  I learned later she had married and left the country.  If weight equaled prosperity, she had done well.

        

‘Margot’ Her voice made the cutlery rattle. ‘I can’t believe my eyes.   It’s been so long…’   Without asking, she threw herself into the chair opposite. It groaned in protest.

Her face drooped in a semblance of pity. ‘I heard about your loss. So sad. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the funeral but I’ve been abroad.’

Tilting her head to one side, she looked at me.

‘You are looking extraordinarily well. I hear you are quite famous now. I’ve read all your novels.’ There was a long pause. ‘I must say I was surprised. They are so unlike your usual style.’

She laughed; a rippling sound that came from nowhere. ‘Perhaps something rubbed off.’

I stared at her in bewilderment.  Then she continued.

‘My daughter was devastated when Garry died.   She was a close friend of his, you know.  Or perhaps you didn’t?’

She raised one eyebrow. I began to feel uneasy.  What daughter? Then, my brain dropped into drive. I stared at her doughy features. I could see the resemblance clearly now. The fat girl was Mary’s daughter.  My stomach took a dive off a very high board.  

‘She showed me some of his work.’

The sentence hung in the air. The silence lengthened and I looked at her. Her eyes were as hard as marbles and I knew that she had guessed.

I had to do something.  Hating her, I turned my rings and reached across the table towards her. Cupping her hands between mine, I squeezed until the stones cut into her flesh.

‘Darling, we have so much to catch up on.   Why don’t you come to supper?   I’ll cook us something special.’

Wincing, she removed her hands from my sweaty grasp.   She looked quickly at my cakes and then away again.

‘I think that would be an excellent idea.  But no food for me.’  She patted her waistline.  ‘Strict diet you know.’   

Copyright Janet Baldey

Living a Lie Part 1 of 2

Living  a Lie Part 1 of 2

By Janet Baldey

         The quartet of my novels stood to attention in the bookshelves behind me. Their presence was a reproach. A writer is only as good as their last book and now wraithlike ideas drift through my mind only to disappear as soon as I pick up my pen.

Just a short while ago, I was certain to become a has-been, living out my life in reflected glory while eking out an existence teaching others skills I no longer possessed. 

Then, I met Garry.

 I am a strong believer in destiny. When at your lowest ebb, sometimes you may meet someone who changes the whole course of your life and certainly my fate was sealed when he entered my classroom. I had looked up to see him hesitating in the doorway.  He was late and clearly unsure of his reception, his white lashed eyes blinked and a dribble of sand-coloured hair pasted itself to his forehead.

 ‘E..excuse m..me.’   The words were forced through his lips.

  

Oh, my God a stutterer! I thought, before fixing on a welcoming smile. ‘Hello there.  Are you lost?  This is Creative Writing.  Are you one of us?’

His face flooded with relief and he nodded.  I consulted my register. ‘Then you must be Garry’.  

Even now I can remember being taken back by the sweetness of his smile. I flapped my hand indicating the empty seats dominating the room.  

That first evening passed in a blur of half remembered names and false impressions.    Like most creative writing classes, the students were of mixed ability; some passable, the majority bloody awful.  None was outstanding but what they lacked in talent, they made up for in enthusiasm. All, except Garry. Invariably late, he would slink through the door and creep towards an empty table at the back of the room. There he would hunch over his table, scribbling for the entire two hours without uttering a single word. I could swear he never looked in my direction. After class one evening, doing what I thought was my duty, I made an attempt to engage him in conversation but his stutter made this an ordeal for both of us and after that, I left him alone.

 Despite this, his presence intrigued me and some weeks later, partly in deference to his impediment, I started setting written homework but no matter how many times I flicked through the pile of manuscripts, there was never anything from Garry. It was then that his presence started to annoy and eventually worry me. Why did he come to my class if he wasn’t prepared to contribute? My confidence in my teaching skills, never very high to begin with, sank to a new low. I started to have dreams during which I chased a shadowy figure in an endless game of catch.  Eventually, the figure would turn and Garry’s angelic smile would be the last thing I saw before I was startled awake, disorientated and clutching a damp twist of sheets.

        

 The turning point came a few weeks into the second term. My students’ first glow of enthusiasm was guttering, not helped by the dark nights as the year drifted towards Christmas. Only six of my pupils attended that particular evening, one of whom was Garry. The clock ticked, the minutes crawled and stories were droned in shades of monotone while I hunted for positive comments. The continuous scratching of Garry’s pen irritated me and at last I could bear it no longer.

        

‘Garry!’ I said. He looked up, startled.

        

‘You seem to be working hard.  I’m intrigued. What are you writing?  Won’t you share it with us?’ I smiled brightly and looked around the class, searching for allies. He sat as if stapled to the chair.

        

‘Come.’ I commanded, moving sideways to give him the floor.

        

Head down, he began reading in a nervous mutter that I had to strain my ears to hear.   Then, he gained confidence and forgot to stutter, his voice growing richer and deepening as he lost himself in his story. After he had finished, there was silence. Then,

        

‘Wow!’

        

An inane comment from an inane person I thought. looking at the fat girl gazing at Garry, her shiny complexion accentuated by the fawning glow on her face.  Down a long corridor of memory, a door cracked open. She reminded me of someone.

        

Then, I was distracted by more fatuous praise from another not qualified to judge.

‘That was fantastic!’ 

I ignored the remark and stared at Garry.  He’d obviously never listened to a word I’d said and had flouted all the rules I had been at pains to emphasize but although his story was as rough as an uncut gemstone, its brilliance was unmistakable and I was startled by a rush of envy. Then, I felt angry. His story didn’t deserve to work. Controlling myself with an effort, I delivered my verdict in cool and neutral tones.

‘Well done, Garry, your work shows some promise.’ I waved him back to his seat and turned my face away.

When we broke for tea, Garry was surrounded by his colleagues, for once the centre of attention.   I gritted my teeth and waited.   At the end of the evening, when everyone had gone, I beckoned to him. With delicate cruelty I shredded his story until it hung in tatters, unravelling each sentence until the words were strung out like a line of shoddy fairground lights

A rabbit caught in a lamper’s searchlight, he stared at me. At that moment, I almost felt sorry for him; he was young and vulnerable with no idea of just how much talent he had. It was then that a germ of an idea began to fester. He had the talent, I had the experience; it had been done before. I softened the lines of my face and smiled.

        

‘I’m sorry if I seem harsh, Garry. But if you want to progress, you need to be able to take criticism. Perhaps you’ll show me more of your work and I’ll do my best to help’.

        

I was true to my word.  After class every Wednesday evening, we drew our desks together and worked as the frost silvered the roofs.  His ideas were original and his writing style haunting. That was on the plus side. His grammar was terrible, punctuation almost non-existent and his spelling laughable. This was where I came into my own, and together we beat his stories into shape.     

        

One evening, I looked up and caught him staring at me. With a quick duck of his head, he turned, pretending to stare out of the window but as I watched, crimson mottled the back of his neck. That night I lay staring into the darkness. I had not reckoned on love but I realized it could be turned to my advantage.

        

Copyright Janet Baldey

Planting Memories

Planting Memories

By Sis Unsworth

The harvest moons reflecting light, enhanced the summer flowers,

a basket & a window box, still moist from evening showers.

He sighed and smelt the rich perfume, while memories did race,

back to the time, not long ago when they first came to this place.

Old age had come, their garden gone, a small flat gave them hope,

A basket and the window box they felt they both could cope.

They planted seeds and bulbs for spring with purple winter heather, 

and reminisced of times gone by, their garden gone for ever.

The spring bulbs had long since gone, his thoughts could now recall.

The summer plants cascading down, against the plain brick wall,

The basket and the window box, had made the flat their own,

It gave purpose to each day, to see how it had grown.

The spring and summer plants she’d loved, they had both seen together,

But, now he knew she’d never see the purple winter heather.

The winds of change had touched again, the fragile life they’d known.

The basket and the window box, next year he’d plant alone.

Copyright Sis Unsworth

A Trip in Time

A Trip in Time 

By Rosemary Clarke

   Andrew excitedly tore open the wrapping paper having waited three days, before opening it, due to Covid, strange, he thought as he pulled out the plastic packet from E-Bay.  Would he have been excited by Liverpool face masks before Covid?  He grinned, he would always be excited by anything Liverpool. which made him recall a disastrous day from his childhood...
    

 The red Ford Mondeo skidded its way along the wet tarmac as yet another ‘London sign’ sped past.  Andrew's calculated in his fourteen-year-old brain, sighing he picked up his black plastic ‘DS Lite’ flicking the on switch at the side for his FIFA football game: London in the rain with Nan, Mum and Dad what a life!  The rustle of paper told him that once again his mother was donning her spectacles, scanning the map for any sign of the elusive M11.  He couldn't help but smile, the way his dad had told them sounded very much like the way to El Dorado or The Lost Sea Scrolls..' Find the M11 and we're on our way!'
     Oh boy, Liverpool v Aston Villa on TV and the family decide to grab junior, stuff him in the car and zoom off to Madame Tussauds well, supposedly the Science Museum but once again Dad lost the way.
     Oh yeah, he loved the prospect of being scrunched in the middle of a shoving crowd through most of the exhibits; he'd spotted Kylie, she was looking a bit worse for wear now, shame, no Aleisha Dixon or Shakira shaking her tush for all she was worth, shimmy shimmy.. now that would be worth seeing!
     "Wait 'til I get someplace to park and I'll look!" Dad was on the warpath again.
     "Are you telling me that I can't read maps?  What makes you think builders can do any better?" Mum said. 

Now, he thought, what to do to shut them up, should he bother?  What would Gerrard do, run for it if he had any sense.  If the stars of football had a family like his maybe that was why they liked playing away, give their ears a rest.
 “Why don't you ask someone, that would be the sensible thing to do!"
Oh yeah Nan, ever the doctor, always sensible things; wouldn't take anyone else's advice though, oh no.  He didn't have a BA or some other letters so why listen to him?  Andrew rubbed his hand flat over his straight dark hair, sneaking a Mars bar out of his denim jacket pocket.
     "I hope you brush your teeth when you get home!"
God, Nan didn't miss a trick, what did she think he was two?  He gave a nod turning back to the window.
     "Haven't you got a tongue in your head, when I was a girl my mother would've given me a smack for being so rude!  Vera, hasn't he found his manners yet?  I don't know what they teach in these schools!"
It was his mother's turn to sigh.
     "Mum, don't keep on at him; he gets enough of that at school,"
Dad erupted.
     "Did you see that sign?  What did it say?  Did anyone see it?"
Nan looked over disdainfully, her short sharp nose directed at the driver's seat.
     "Of course we didn't see anything; you just drive round and round.  I told you about that turning to the City ages ago but would you listen? No! That's why the world's in such a state, no one listens."
Dad flew around, his dark brows knotting nastily, "Look, I'm only the driver!  I just drive the damn thing!  It was your idea to come here.  we would've been watching TV Liverpool are on today, but oh no..' Let's go to the Science Museum give the lad a bit of culture.'
   

"And did we get there?  No!  We walked up and down looking at waxworks!  None of us has had dinner so just find your damn road and get us home!" 

Dad's face resembled a ripened tomato. "What do you think I'm doing!"
Nan stared matter of factly, her most annoying trait. "Well, I would say trying to get us killed, by the hooting of that car."
Andrew suddenly sat up; a lie was needed urgently. "Dad I'm sure that sign said M11, follow that one."
Sooner or later, he thought, they'd get away from London.

Holidays, this time next week?  No school for a whole week, great! 

Andrew smiled happily remembering.  He settled down with his family to watch the match. Now married with kids everything had changed but not Liverpool, and he'd look great in the street wearing the red and white team colours proudly on his mask!  He smiled again.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

Backup

I wrote this a few months after Nick Leeson brought Barings Bank to its knees around 1996, tongue in cheek, it's full of flaws and past its Sell-by date ~ but it still makes me smile, & I desperately needed a story:   Yer Tiz!

Backup

By Len Morgan

Pete crouched over his ancient laptop watching the Windows Screen Saver, repeating over and over until it finally shut down.   He got up and made himself a mug of coffee. 

 “Aaah!”   The strong hot liquid scalded his tongue.  He tapped angrily at the space bar with his thumb impatient for the page to refresh.   Re-reading a dozen lines of 10 point Arial his expression soured.   Hi-lighting the text he pressed the [DEL] button.   After a second more tentative sip of coffee, he sat composing his thoughts, then began to type:

        If he had survived a worse predicament Jake Standon really couldn’t remember it.   He backed towards the edge cutting left and right with his machete, keeping the wild-eyed tribesmen out of range.   But, there were seven of them.   As he turned left they closed in on his right, spears levelled, they inevitably drove him closer to the precipice…

“Think Jake,” Pete said his desperation evident as he willed his key character to come up with some inspired course of action.   He felt a pair of hands come to rest on his shoulders.

“Hit a sticky patch Hon?”   Suzie’s husky voice asked.   Her hand reached over his shoulder to pick up his, still steaming, mug of coffee.   He turned and watched in amazement as she drained it in one go.

“How do you do that?”  He asked with incredulity, folding his burned tongue in half, sucking it gently to ease the pain.

She grinned and tousled her short dusty blonde hair.  She was wearing a flimsy figure-hugging little black thing with matching slippers.  

She looked so inviting, in the moonlight, silhouetted, against the French windows.

“I’ll get some more coffee,” she offered to avoid his question.  

With two steaming mugs on the table he began to explain Jake’s predicament.

“Usually I write and he seems to find his own way out of these situations.   But, this time nothing!   It’s as if he wants to fall over that cliff.”

“Then let him,” she answered, “just see what happens?”

“But…” he began.

“Do it!”  She said.

He swayed from side to side narrowly avoiding their penetrating attacks.  But, they relentlessly pushed him back, his heels were on the brink.   He dare not look down or he would lose his balance; he was close to exhaustion.   He knew in his heart this was the end.   His rear foot slipped right over the edge.  He grinned as a sudden, icy calm, of acceptance pervaded his mind.   He slashed out attacking with all hope gone.  Staggering forward he fell to his knees but instead of finishing him off his attackers drew back.   The ground shook beneath him.   A crack appeared in the earth, describing an arc around him.   As he watched it widened, edge to edge, separating him from them.   The world tipped at a crazy angle and the lip passed his eye level, in slomo, only then did he glance down…

“That’s good,” said Suzie.

“But, he’s going to die...”

“Maybe, maybe not Pete, have a little faith.   The three of us have been through a lot of late nights together.   We’ve put a lot of miles on the clock but he’s still alive and breathing, figuratively speaking.   I just know he’ll find a way out you’ll see.  Tomorrow is another day.  Now for goodness sake, save it, and let’s get to bed,” she said.

He looked at her, with admiration and followed without further protest.

  His descent was abruptly interrupted.   He felt a sharp pain between his legs.   The world rotated, through one eighty degrees, but he clung on grimly, with his calves and crossed legs. Raising his hands he grasped the stunted bush that had arrested his fall.   Instinctively he edged in, towards the cliff face, as rocks and other debris hurtled past too close for comfort.   His eyes stung from the excruciating pain, but fortune smiled, and nothing actually hit him.   At the face, he realised just how precarious his situation was.  Several of the roots, anchoring the bush, had already torn free from the sparse soil.   He needed to transfer as much of his weight as possible, from the bush, by establishing finger holds on the rock face itself.   For minutes he clung on, sinews stretched and aching; beyond pain.   He could no longer be seen from above, and the silence suggested his attackers had moved on; there was no profit in chasing him, other than to get him out of their territory.   They’d seen him fall so he was no longer a threat.   He cast around, for new finger and toe holds.   He still had to climb back up at least twenty feet.   His machete had gone, with the cliff edge, but he still had the knife sheathed at his hip.   The rock was crumbly, not ideal for climbing, but he was able to make steady progress by cutting into the face with his blade.   Just below the overhanging lip, he realised that, because of the unstable nature of the stuff, it wouldn’t bear his weight.  Another collapse and a fatal fall would be a certainty.  Possibly he could dig in and tunnel up?   He worked on it for close to an hour then, without warning, the face collapsed inwards.

  

“Aaah!”   He yelled, falling into dark oblivion…

                                           .-…-.

“Coffee and muffins, on the table Pete, come and get it!”  Suzie yelled.

“Shit shit shit!”

“What’s up Hon?”

“Stupid laptop won’t boot up.   It just says ‘FATAL ERROR - hardware fault’ - OK!   It’s not bloody OK!   What am I gonna do?”

“Use the machine in the study,” she suggested.

He ate hurriedly gingerly sipping cool coffee as he took the floppy disks into the study.  There was silence for several minutes…

“Shit!”   Two minutes of silence followed his outburst.   “Shit – Dung in a bucket!”  The angry curses continued, like a scratched CD, until Suzie went to investigate.

“What’s happened?”

“The backups are both BLANK!” he moaned.

“Hard copy?”

His anguished blank stare spoke volumes.

“Men!”  She said under her breath; shaking her head as she returned to her breakfast.  

.-…-.

Jake hit the water, sinking into the deep cold, fast running underground stream; it saved his life.   He was chilled to the marrow and almost out of air when finally he surfaced.   There was light above and as his eyes became accustomed he realised he was in the middle of a fast-running underground river.  

But, at least he’d escaped.  He struggled to the bank & crawled out.   No more Pete throwing him into impossible situations, sending him on crazy missions, at last, he could live a normal life.   He’d always fancied himself as a dealer on the Hon Kong, London or New York Stock Exchange; now there’s excitement, he thought.

Copyright Len Morgan

The Glue that holds us together.

The Glue that holds us together.

By Rosemary Clarke

We're writing at all moments
and in all kinds of weather,

But there's one person we all know
Who sticks this group together.
To all she offers comfort
In good times and distress
She makes the evenings ring with mirth
And clears up all the mess.
She's always thinking of us
Her poetry is great
We never will go hungry
Doesn't moan if we are late.
She offers good words of advice
And always ones of cheer
She ought to have the biggest prize
For what she does all year.
We're always welcomed in her home
And plied with tea and cake
All of it being homemade
Because she likes to bake.
Yes, the real main person of this group
The one we would all miss
Let's give a roaring cheer
To a V.I.P called Sis.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

The Darker Half Chapter 12

The Darker Half Chapter 12

By Janet Baldey

Part 2

         Oh for heaven's sake!  Anna groaned and covered her ears. She stared down at her desk but she could still hear the overwhelming County bray filling the room; upper class confidence asserting its right to disrupt.  It didn't matter one jot to Celia Hartop that, maybe, some of her classmates actually wanted to learn Spanish, a language she obviously had zero interest in, along with most of the other subjects in the curriculum. From the very start, Celia had made it no secret that she was interested in just one thing, killing time until she was old enough to train to be a nurse. A nurse!  Anna's eyes had bulged the first time she'd heard this. Weren't nurses supposed to be caring?  She shuddered at the thought of Celia with a syringe. She was the last person that should be allowed anywhere near the sick. Anna wondered where she'd got the idea?  Maybe days out with the local Hunt had taught her that she enjoyed the sight of suffering?  Meanwhile, she was alleviating her boredom by taunting the tutor she'd labelled a Commie, partly because of his views on the Spanish Civil War but also because he wore sandals and a Fair Isle cardigan.  For the life of her, Anna couldn't see the connection, other than Celia and her ilk were so prejudiced that any break with tradition was a personal insult. Surely, that was stereotyping to the nth degree.

      "Okay then, Mr Colledge, what do you think about the Hungarian uprising?  Do you think Khrushchev was right to send in the tanks and kill all those people?"

      Sensing blood, Celia's eyes glittered.

      Anna raised her head and looked at her tutor who brushed his floppy hair away from his eyes as he opened his mouth to reply. To her surprise, he seemed to be enjoying the debate - maybe his boredom matched Celia's. In any event, he was parrying her charges, obviously taking delight in exposing ignorance that would have shamed anyone with a thinner hide. He was wasting his time, Anna thought. Celia's resembled a rhino's.  He'd never puncture her innate conviction that she'd been bred to be right.

         Anna couldn't bear it any longer. She loathed the mouthy Celia and her fawning coterie. Most of all she loathed herself for not having the courage to stand up to her. Her chair screeched as she stood up and began to stuff her books into her bag, making no attempt to hide her exasperation. She glanced around the room but everyone's eyes were fixed on the battle being played out before them. All except one - a girl was looking at her and as their eyes collided, the girl winked and gathered her own books together.

         As they left the room, Celia's voice followed them like a bad smell and the girl grinned.

         "Tally-ho," she said.

         Anna flicked her a glance. She didn't know what to say. She'd never had any communication with the girl before although she had noticed her. It was difficult not to.  Always dressed in black, the girl stood out against the froth of pastels and today her shapeless tent dress didn't succeed in hiding her looks, which were spectacular.  At close range, they were no less so and Anna felt a twinge of envy as she glanced at the girl's perfect profile, trying to find even the slightest flaw. Abruptly, the girl turned to face her, a swirl of auburn hair following the sudden movement.

         "Don't tell me you've only just noticed my second head!"

         To her horror, Anna felt her cheeks burn."Sorry." She muttered, "it's just that I was trying to remember your name. Don't remember names very well." 

         "Neither do I, but I know yours - it's Anna isn't it?"

      "That's right. How did you guess?"

         " I have a system. Anna is "A" for angelic - it's because you're nice," she explained.  "Celia is "C" for codswallop - which is what she talks most of the time. I'm Lucinda, by the way, although I prefer to be called Lucy."

         If that was the case, Anna thought she must be "L" for lovely.  At home, her Mum and Dad sometimes had a glass of sherry on special occasions and every time they did,  Dad would hold up his glass." Just look at that," he'd say, "pure amber!" Anna had the feeling he'd say the same thing about Lucy's hair, although, in her opinion, her most striking assets were her eyes: deep blue, almost purple, the colour of bluebells in the shade.  It seemed grossly unfair that she also had delicate features and perfect skin.

         "Come on." Tucking her arm underneath Anna's, Lucinda hurried her along.

         "Where are we going?"

         "No idea, but we're out of that classroom with time to kill, so let's make the most of it."

         Anna allowed herself to be pulled along but she was puzzled. Up until today, the girl hadn't shown the slightest interest in her and Anna had put her down as being a cold fish but today she seemed completely different. It could be that mutual dislike of Celia had united them but it still seemed slightly odd.

      "I know, what about a coffee?" she said.

      "Never drink the stuff, but yeah that's fine by me."

      It was too early for lunch but the cafeteria was open so Anna bought herself a frothy coffee while Lucy fluttered her eyelashes at the youth behind the counter and asked for tap water.  Anna couldn't help noticing that, as the boy looked into Lucy's black-lashed eyes, he turned a muddy beetroot colour. As they turned away, she glanced back and sure enough, he was standing staring as if mesmerised, a goofy look on his face.

      She nudged Lucy's arm.

      "He's going to dream of you tonight," she said.

      Lucinda uttered a shrill yelp of laughter and slightly startled, Anna swivelled her head and saw that the boy's flush had deepened.

      "Ssssh," she said. "I think he heard you."

      Lucy giggled.  "Sorry.  He's sweet but not my type.  I prefer my men more dangerous."

      Anna grinned but later when she recalled their conversation, she'd shuddered. Lucy hadn't known then what really dangerous men could do.

      "Shame we can't get an early lunch," Anna said as they seated themselves at an empty booth.  

      "That's OK by me. I never eat it anyway."

      "Never?  What, not even soup and a sweet?"

      "Nothing.  The food here is rubbish."

      "But what do you do with your lunch tickets?"

      Each student was allowed one free lunch ticket daily which covered the cost of soup and a sweet. It could also be put towards the cost of the main meal but few bothered to pay the extra, preferring to spend their money on something other than food.

      "Sell them. Our beloved Celia is a good customer. She's got to be good for something and she does love her stomach."

      For the first time, Anna noticed how thin the girl was.  If she'd wanted, she could have easily circled her wrists between her thumb and middle fingers and her jutting collarbones were clearly visible beneath the flimsy material of her dress.   

      "But, don't you get hungry?  Even if I have breakfast, I'm starving by lunchtime."

      "Breakfast - what's that?  Couldn't possibly eat that early."

      "So, no breakfast, no lunch - how do you last until supper?  Please tell me you have supper."

      "Sure.  I really pig out."

      "Somehow, I doubt that.  Come on, what do you have?"

      Lucy slumped in her seat while her fingers played with her water glass.  "What's it to you what I eat. I exist, don't I?  But if you must know, sometimes I have soup, sometimes a jam sandwich.  I love jam, especially strawberry."

      "Hardly a balanced diet, is it?"

      "Who are you, my mother?"

      "Now you mention it - doesn't your mum worry about you?"

      Lucy's eyelids closed and when she opened them, her eyes had a queer, metallic glitter.

      "She might, I suppose if she gave a hoot. But as she doesn't and as I can't remember when I last saw her, she doesn't figure in the equation."

      "So, you don't live with her?"

      "Nope.  The YWCA is the place I call home."

      Anna stared, not knowing what to say. Her own relationship with her mother wasn't easy but even so, she couldn't imagine not living with her; although the idea flashed into her mind that it would be good to get away from Alec.  She opened her mouth to probe further but then closed it. Lucy was right. It really was none of her business and obviously, Lucy was resenting what she saw as "nosiness."  All the same, she felt worried about her, although she didn't quite know why, after all, they'd only just met.  Anna wondered if it was possible that they might become friends.  Now that was a novel idea; she found having and keeping friends difficult.  Alec's behaviour always scared them off, although there had been Greta. But then, Greta was different. She had brothers of her own and was perfectly capable of dealing with Alec although he had won in the end.  Her thoughts wandered, it had been a long time ago but she still felt a hot flush of shame whenever she thought about what had happened and even now her nights were sometimes disturbed by small slips of folded over paper fluttering around like a cloud of cabbage white butterflies.  Not as innocent as butterflies though.  She felt sick as she remembered the words -  nasty words, venomous words.  Not hers, although everybody had thought they were.   She came to and looked up as Lucy's chair creaked.

      "Right, I'm off.   Things to do, people to see and all that jazz.  Are you coming?"

      "Yeah, sure.  Hang on a minute."

      Hastily, Anna swallowed the dregs of her coffee.  She followed Lucy out of the canteen hardly noticing where they were going. Without realising it, Lucy had planted a germ of an idea and the more Anna thought about it, the more attractive it seemed.  She was nearing the end of her course now and would soon be looking for a job.  It wasn't one she had mapped out for herself and she knew her father had been disappointed that she'd left school early. She hadn't told him the real reason. The fact that Greta refused to speak to her and the other kids sniggered behind her back - all her brother's fault of course. Alec had scuppered her career before it had even started and her present course was very much a second choice, but at least it led to qualifications which could pave the way to a well paid job. With a bit of luck, she could leave home and be rid of Alex for good.  Suddenly the day was clothed in sunshine as she rushed to catch up with Lucy.

Copyright Janet Baldey