A Hard Life

A Hard Life 

By Janet Baldey

The boy was scowling. His mouth was sealed into a thin line and his eyes were sullen.

‘IF HE TOLD YOU WHERE TO GO, WOULD YOU STILL CARE

Julie read the caption under the poster and turned to her husband.

‘Not likely.  Imagine having to deal with a boy like that.’

Greg didn’t answer and Julie glanced at him. 

‘Maybe he’s had a hard life.’ He said at last.

‘Oh, come on! Face it, Greg. Some kids are born prison fodder’.

Just then a young mum came swinging along the pavement pushing a gleaming pram.  Julie craned her neck, trying to see the baby, but just caught a glimpse of a snowy mound of blankets edged with pink satin.     

Her heart shrivelled. How she longed to be that woman pushing her baby along the street; a tiny girl smelling of milk and rose-scented talcum powder.      

Greg’s arm slid around her.

‘You know, we could always adopt, or even foster’.

She froze as if he’d thrown iced water over her. 

‘What and end up with something like that?’ 

She flung out her arm in the direction of the poster. Knowing her dam of tears was about to burst, she turned away and was almost running by the time she reached home. Racing up the stairs she flung herself on the tiny bed, waves of misery rocking her body.  When she’d fallen pregnant the first time, they’d turned the box room into a nursery but ever since the last crushing disappointment, it had stood empty and now she only went in there once a week to vacuum. Now, she felt frightened because it wasn’t just that tears were dimming her vision, little by little the room was fading. Colour was leaching from the walls and the curtains were yellowing. Soon, it would be no more than an unused room.

* * *

Dumping a pan of cabbage into the colander, she peered through the steam at the clock and her lips tightened.

She’d told Greg dinner would be ready at seven and he was late.  From outside, she could hear the high pipe of childish voices mingling with a bass rumble.  He was playing football with the boys next door.    She banged hard on the kitchen window.  His eyes were sparkling when he eventually made an appearance.

‘Sorry, love’.   He said.

‘They’ve got a father of their own, you know’.  

The light died from Greg’s eyes as he winced.

‘I know, but he works such long hours.’

‘That’s not your problem.’

She turned away, hating herself for being jealous of other peoples’ children. She slammed down the plates and they ate in silence. In bed, each kept to their own side. Julie wondered if he felt as miserable as she did.  They were drifting apart and they couldn’t seem to do anything about it.

The next day the sky was suffocated by cloud and to kill time, she went shopping.   Drifting through the store, fingering clothes draped like empty promises upon their hangers, she vowed to stay away from the children’s department. Never again would she wander through aisles crammed with the delicate froth of pastel coloured dresses and cute babygro's.

Eventually, she glanced at her watch.  The over-heated store had made her throat dry.  There was a café opposite, it was a run-down place but it would have to do.

As she sat sipping her tea, the swing door bumped open and a grubby pushchair was wheeled into the crowded room.  A girl stood bowed over its handles, scouring the room from out of panda eyes, the studs in her face mimicking a bad case of acne.  Her lips were moving rhythmically, they stopped when she saw Julie’s table. 

‘D’yer mind?’  The girl pushed back a wisp of greasy hair.

‘Not at all.’  Julie said reluctantly.

The girl bent hoisted a small boy out of the pushchair and dumped him in the seat opposite.

‘Don’t you move.’   She commanded, disappearing towards the counter.

The child sat staring at Julie out of huge, unblinking eyes.  Slime trails of tears cut through the grime on his tiny face.  He seemed swallowed by clothes sizes too big for him and Julie wrinkled her nose as the sour smell of unwashed body wafted towards her.  

‘Here’ 

The girl plonked some chips and a drink in front of the child.  Silently he reached a grubby hand towards the food and began cramming it into his mouth.  Julie looked at his mother.   She was skinny, almost emaciated, and sat staring at her mobile phone.

 The child stopped chewing and reached for his drink.  As he did, he overbalanced -   the carton went flying and spilt sticky orange liquid that puddled on the table, slowly spreading towards the edge.

The girl’s head whipped around as she exploded into life.

‘Now look what you’ve done, you little bugger’.  The girl screamed, veins protruding from her scrawny neck.  ‘Can’t take you nowhere.  You’re always making a bleedin’ nuisance of yerself.’

Her screeches reverberated in the suddenly shocked silence and heads turned to look.  

‘What are you lot starin’ at?’ the girl yelled.   Abruptly she got up and stormed off.

The child sat as if frozen.  His small face seemed to shrink and Julie saw teardrops begin their familiar journey.

‘Where’s my mummy gone?’   His lips quivered and Julie’s heartfelt as if it would break.

‘She’ll be back soon.  Don’t worry. Let’s get you cleaned up.’

Getting up, she lifted him from his seat, amazed at how light he was.

Julie hardly noticed the journey back home.  She kept remembering how delicate and vulnerable the child had felt. The girl had eventually returned to claim him and Julie had stared out of the window long after the girl’s bobbing head had disappeared into the crowd.  She was marvelling at the child’s unconditional love. His eyes had lit up when he saw his mother but part of her also wondered how long it would take for his love to turn to resentment.

She thought about the boy in the poster. Perhaps Greg was right after all.  Maybe the boy in the poster had had a hard life and it just might be that the same sort of unconditional love might just be enough to turn his life around.

As the train drew into the station, Julie hoped Greg wouldn’t be working late. They had a lot to talk about and afterwards there would be all those forms to fill in.

  

      Copyright Janet Baldey

Fifty Word Snippets.

Fifty Word Snippets.

by Len Morgan

I submitted a dozen snippets for publication & these were the rejects:

Common Courtesy

Not so common, courtesy is, showing good manners and respect for others.   A simple please and thank you, a genuine enquiry after another persons well being; showing you care, endears you to others.   Giving a helping hand to somebody will cost you nothing, and it could well be returned tenfold.

50 words

God Doesn’t exist - Thank GOD!

If he did how would he view our involvement in Afghanistan, Kosovo, Iraq, and with global warming?   Could he forgive our failure to aid - Biafra, Ethiopia, and ‘street children’ worldwide?   How would he view our designs to infest the Galaxy, like a plague, what would he do!  Send us Covid-19?

50 words

The Journalist.

The journalist should be dispassionate, non-judgmental, like a fly on the wall.   He should see with his own eyes, hear with his own ears, and feel with his heart.   He should bear witness, remember, and tell all.   Laziness, anger, fear, sympathy, and vanity, can play no part in this process.

50 words

Genome.

In 1998 $3,000,000,000 were committed to finance the sequencing of the human genome.    It revealed a continuous spectrum of relatedness between all living organisms.   At molecular level fungi, bacteria, and man, share more similarities than differences.   Which includes a common system, for storing and expressing information, namely the DNA Helix.

50 words 

Perfection

Perfection is a wonderful goal to strive for.   But, failing to attain it ourselves, we often fall into the trap of expecting it in others.   Let’s for a moment flip the coin and, instead of criticising their failure, try to ‘catch them doing something right’ and offer them due praise.

50 words

Responsibility 

You are responsible for the manner in which you live your life.   But, you should also allow others to take responsibility for their lives.   Too many people go through life acting as a crutch for others, who choose not to stand on their own two feet.   Don’t be a crutch!

50 words

The Writer

Is an artist who paints, with words, on the canvas that is your mind.   Reading is sharing those thoughts and ideas.   The vividness of the imagery is dependent upon what the reader is prepared to contribute to the symbiosis; what you get back is proportional to what you put in.

50 words

If it costs nothing it’s worthless

If you have an idea, for a product, or a service to sell, people will gladly pay you for it and show their appreciation.   However, if you try to give it away ‘free gratis’ you will be treated with suspicion and have a very much harder task ahead of you.

50 words 

History is written by the Victor.

As such its credibility depends on the viewer’s perspective.   Issues are seldom black and white, so to base a judgment or your beliefs on a perceived truth, rightly or wrongly, is to make a flawed judgement.   An arbitrator should therefore always seek to promote a win/win solution to any dispute.

50 words

Rob’s Lockdown

Rob’s Lockdown

Robert Kingston

What I did besides chores, DIY, reading a book (The man in the high castle by Philip K Dick of Blade Runner fame. A great sci-fi read if anyone is interested.  (Here to borrow) in lockdown.

Sculptures

A story on covid in three sculptures.
The sculptures are shown in reverse order of creation. None were drawn or given deep thought before they were started.

No 3 Journey's end

Sail photo

Simply named "journey" this piece represents how the direction of the virus, people and government change on a daily basis. Made of oak to represent the strength of resolve we the people of Britain portray...

No 2
Waffle

Photo

This to me represents our government's handling of the crisis. Given we are in unprecedented times, I believe things could be managed better. The shape represents all the waffle

Made of pine,

No 1

Bubble

Photo


The bubble was my first attempt at wood sculpting. Unless you class a branch picked up to walk with (later whittled) as a sculpture.

At the point of creation of we were still in lockdown I was getting few vibes for writing and picked up a piece of leftover oak from what is our stairs handrail,
At the same time conversations on a family WhatsApp chat had turned to what family members were doing and how some of the things related to what the elders did in their younger years. Changing direction with my mentioning a wood sculpture my sister created at school. Her sculpture sat on top of our electric cupboard in the family home but was sadly lost in my father's later move. Four times larger than mine and more oblong than round, I believe it was a catalyst for my piece.
The piece represented my own bubble at home at the time.

Dictionary

bubble

noun

1.

a thin sphere of liquid enclosing air or another gas.

"we'd shake up a piece of soap in a tin of warm water and blow bubbles"

2.

used to refer to a good or fortunate situation that is isolated from reality or unlikely to last.

Robert Kingston

STOUT THOUGHTS

STOUT THOUGHTS

By Peter Woodgate

The pint of Guinness stood upon the table

A creamy head complete with shamrock leaves

And I was looking forward to consuming

That liquid velvet sliding down with ease.

When I was halfway through my Irish nectar

I stopped to think, and pondered for a while

Had I enjoyed the half-consumed or would the half to come

Be relished more? This strange thought made me smile.

But what of life, when do the thoughts

Revert from front to back?

And all those dreams that once we had

Are simply things we lack.

This cunning cogitation would not leave me

And made me feel quite sad and somewhat blue

I then picked up the glass and drank the other half

Went to the bar and then drank quite a few.

Copyright Peter Woodgate

Your Luck

Your Luck

By Len Morgan

   If you consider yourself to be an unlucky person, think on this, and discover just how lucky you really are:  

  It is estimated that - worldwide - there are 100 million couples, engaging in sexual intercourse, each day.   Of these 910,000 will result in conception.   Nine months later, as a direct result, there will be 400,000 live births.   The odds, therefore, appear to be 1 in 250 but hang on, that is not the full story.

 Each conception relies on just one sperm surviving to fertilise an egg.   Each ejaculation produces, on average, 50 million sperm; the odds of you existing at all are therefore 1/250 x 50,000,000 or 1 in 12,500,000,000.   In other words, you would be 500 times more likely to win the lottery than to be born, is that lucky?

 In my experience, you make your own luck; be positive and it will always be good.

WELL:

It was a good idea for an article but I’ve never been good at Sums so maybe some kind mathematician could tell me if my calculations are correct or pie in the sky…

Charlies Good Company.

Charlies Good Company.

By Len Morgan

“Evening Charlie,” said the newcomer sitting on the bench opposite.  “Who were you talking to when I arrived?”

“His name was Henry, I’ve never met him before,  but he gave me these,” I said emptying the leather drawstring pouch onto the table. 

 “Twelve coins?  They look like gold sovereigns, they'll be worth a bob or two, and what did you have to do for them?”

“I don’t rightly know?  I was just sitting here minding my own business when he arrived.   He sat in the shadows where you are now. He wore a dark jacket with the hood pulled up.   I could just see his pale face in the moonlight.   He sat for some time agonising over whether or not he would speak to me, then finally he made up his mind and started to speak.   From memory, he said:"

 I find it harder each day to make sense of this crazy world, so much has changed.    Everyone I ever knew is gone.   I should have gone too, long ago, but I was too clever for my own good.   Indulge me stranger, share this bottle of wine with me, and I will reward you well.   Let me regale you with my tale, for it beggar’s belief.

"He placed two tulip glasses on the table in front of us and carefully filled them.   I sipped the wine, it was good, the best I’ve ever had. We drank slowly savouring it, for a while neither of us spoke.   When I put down my glass he refilled it, and continued his tale:"

You see, I‘ve lived a uniquely privileged life, my family were moneyed, I went to the best schools, belonged to the most exclusive clubs.   I enjoyed the company of many beautiful women.   Life was good!  I had wealth, power, friends, influence and popularity.  Then on the eve of my seventieth Christmas, whilst enjoying the company of convivial companions, I had occasion to visit my cellar to fetch a special bottle of wine.   As I made to rejoin my guests a figure appeared from the shadows.

"Who are you?"  I demanded.

“Henry!   It is your time,” he said in a voice to chill the grave, “come with me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous I have company…” I said.

“I am the Dark Angel,” he said.

“You want me to desert my guests?   You would deny me a final drink with my friends?”   I said with incredulity.

“Five minutes” said the spectre.

“Dash it; why not simply grant me leave to consume this fine bottle - in good company,” I appealed.  

“When the last drop is consumed you will come?” said the Dark Angel.

“My word on it,” I said.

‘When he departed, I returned this bottle to its rack, taking another in its stead.   That was in 1854.   A clever ruse I thought but, I grew older, my looks faded as my body aged and I became abhorrent to look upon.   Still, the Dark Angel did not return for me; even though I had long outstayed my time.   It is enough I want it ended.   I know now what I must do.   This is the very bottle of which I spoke.   It has to be consumed, in good company, in order for me to gain my release; am I in good company Charles?”  He asked.

I nodded and smiled so he recharged our glasses until the bottle was empty.

“Your health” he said as we drained our final glass together.   He placed this pouch in my hand, just as those clouds obscured the moon, and when the light returned he was gone, and there you were?  Very strange.   

 “Before he arrived I was about to bed down for the night, now your here,” I said pointedly.  

The constable dipped his forefinger into the glass.   “Ugh, vinegar!” his face wrinkled with distaste.   Then he read the label on the bottle, “Chateaux Lafite-Rothschild 1846,” he examined the coins more closely, “Mmm not one dated after 1854.   They are probably worth about £200 each and that was a damn good story, Charlie,” he smiled benevolently.    “Come on old lad, pack up your things, we're going back to the nick.   It's damn cold here and you could do with a good hot meal.   There’re worse places for a fellow to spend Christmas Eve.   So what if you’re not in ‘The Job’; I have it on high authority that you’re good company to be with,” he smiled.

I nodded “That would be nice,” I said as he picked up my bedroll.

Copyright Len Morgan

Honest Money

Honest Money

By Janet Baldey

The metallic rattle of the window blind woke him; a sudden breeze had sprung up and Ben was grateful for the draught.   He struggled into a sitting position and caught sight of the clock; school was over and he sat listening for the patter of Charlie’s footsteps.  Sure enough, within a few minutes, the door handle turned and Charlie’s small figure slipped into the room.

         ‘Hi Dad.  How are you?’  His voice was anxious.

         ‘Fine son.  But I’d like some water.  My mouth feels like the bottom of a birdcage.’

         Charlie picked up the jug with both hands and carefully filled a glass.  

         Ben’s mouth twitched.  Charlie was always such a serious little lad; in many ways, he reminded him of his father. 

         ‘So.  What did you do at school today?’

         Charlie shrugged.

         ‘Stuff.  History mostly. We’ve all got to trace our family tree.’

         Ben’s chest tightened.

         Charlie was quiet for a moment, then he looked up.  Again, Ben thought of his father.  Charlie’s eyes were the same intense shade of blue.  When he blinked it was like the flash of a kingfisher’s wing.

         ‘Dad, what sort of work did Grandad do?’

Taking a sip of water, Ben looked at his son and struggled to keep his voice even.

‘He worked in the City; for one of the top investment banks.   Very boring.  Like doing maths all day long, and you know how much you love maths!

         Charlie giggled.  ‘Will you help me with the family tree dad?’

         ‘Course I will son.  But not tonight.  I’d like a nap now and you’ve got other homework to do.   Come in and give us a kiss before you go to bed.’

         Ben lay back on his pillows and wondered what to tell his son.   His family had led a pretty luxurious lifestyle when he was young.   They had a cottage in Gloucestershire and a holiday home in France as well as a penthouse suite on the River.  They’d lived there mostly, to be near Dad because he worked such long hours.  Some evenings Ben would stand on the balcony and look towards the City, imagining his father at his desk.   As it got dark the lights glittered better than any jewels you could buy, especially the oval building near Aldgate.  The one they called ‘The Gherkin.’

         One night he’d dreamed that he was in the middle of a storm; thunder was growling overhead, every now and then erupting into earsplitting cracks.   One had woken him but the dream hadn’t ended.   Then he’d realised the noise was coming from downstairs – his parents were shouting at each other.   He’d crept out of his room and looked over the bannisters; his father was sitting slumped in a chair while his mother paced around the room.   He was sure he hadn’t made a sound but suddenly she looked up and sent him back to bed.

         The next was just like any other day but after school, his father’s Mercedes was waiting to pick him up.  

         ‘Surprise.  We’re going on holiday.  Just us.  Mum’s too busy.’

         The moment the car nosed towards the coast he’d realised where they were going.   His parents kept a yacht moored near Southampton and Dad had always promised him a sea voyage.

Ben closed his eyes, remembering his mounting anticipation as the lights of the motorway streamed by and his excitement when, at last, he saw the moon shivering on the waves.  That night, he was too excited to sleep but lay listening to the halyards talking to each other.

         They were at sea for a long time but he wasn’t bored.  Most of the time he was in the wheelhouse with his father watching the ocean roll by.  He’d seen dolphins, porpoises and even a whale.   But he’d thought his Dad was better at maths than navigating because one morning he’d woken to find themselves beached on an island.   His father had told him that something had gone wrong with the engine and they’d have to stay there until he fixed it.   It seemed to take a long time but Ben didn’t mind.   Living on an island was so exciting.   Every day they explored a little further, finding fresh water, coconut palms and a lagoon where fish were falling over themselves to be caught.   Not that they’d needed them, his father had brought a mountain of tinned stuff as well as all sorts of things to do.  

         Ben closed his eyes trying to recapture that time.  It had been magic, just him and his Dad and it seemed that every day they grew closer.

         Their idyll ended one morning when he’d woken to find the sky black with helicopters and his father’s face as white as the surf that fringed the island.   They hadn’t been rescued.   They’d been apprehended.  Once back in England, he’d been parted from his Dad, never to see him again.  As his mother drove him home, he’d been amazed at all the boarded-up shops lining the rainswept streets.  Suddenly, he’d seen a placard; its caption read ‘ROGUE TRADER CAUGHT’ and underneath was a picture of his father.   They told him that he’d gambled with billions of other people’s money and when his luck finally ran out the losses had led both to the fall of the Bank and the fragile house of cards propping up the economy.

Ben thought of Charlie again.  How on earth was he going to explain what happened?   Most importantly, how would he persuade him that his grandfather was not a crook?

         Deep inside him, pain flared.  The Bible said that God visited the sins of the father on the children.  He’d spent months being burned nut brown by a tropical sun.  Maybe that was why he’d developed the melanoma.   Lines deepened on his face as he thought of his own son facing a fatherless future in spite of the fact that he’d done his best to make sure that Charlie was provided for – he’d never live in luxury but at least the money was honest.

Copyright Janet Baldey