2019-The Year in Travel

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One way or another, this year we’ve indulged in seven trips, which seems, on first reading to be self-indulgent [a view that is certainly hinted at by some]. I don’t like to call our pieces of travel ‘holidays’, because holiday is an ambiguous term that means different things to different people. A holiday to many [myself included when I was a proper working person] is simply a break from work, lolling on a sofa in pyjamas watching movies. To others it is somewhere hot, lolling by a pool in swimwear. For us it is a foray into learning about places-their history and geography, the art and the culture.

The first 2019 trip was in January-to Scotland in our camper van, which may appear a strange choice to some, but the weather, though cold [-6 at Loch Ness] was mainly crisp and sunny, ideal for seeing the dramatic scenery of The Cairngorms or the grandiose architecture of Glasgow.

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Next, in February, we made a self-indulgent winter sun visit to Barbados, a tiny, laid-back, friendly island, where we self-catered in a modest ‘apart-hotel’ and enjoyed the company of our fellow guests, jovial Canadians, most of them.

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In the spring we trundled off along the [extremely wet] north coast of Spain, a spectacular journey following the pilgrims route to Santiago de Compostela. This rugged coast includes many cliffside towns that would rival the Amalfi Coast, if only there was sunshine and dry weather. We continued on around the corner to Portugal, which defied our experience of always being warm and sunny to be cloudy and windy. There is not much left of Portugal we haven’t seen but it remains a favourite destination.

northern spanish coast

We undertook an early summer jaunt to Brittany, to cycle some of the Nantes-Brest canal. This was a spectacularly successful trip, the well-appointed, municipal sites along the canal cheap and conveniently placed by the towpath. But the temperature soared into the 40s, making cycling tricky even in the evenings. It was, however scenic, memorable and pleasant and we are likely to cycle some more French canal paths.

Brittany cycling

Later in the summer we stayed locally in a New Forest site by a small, handy railway station and a large pub, hosting a small granddaughter who had requested to come camping with us and fell in love with it all immediately, especially riding around on her bike, being surrounded by wild ponies and cows and eating outside in the fresh air.

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This was followed in the autumn by a visit to the outrageously gorgeous Italian lakes, starting with Lugano and continuing on to Como, Iseo, Garda and Maggiore-all very different but all breathtakingly beautiful-and new to us as a destination. The return drive over The Alps via the Simplon Pass was spectacular and I’ve no doubt we’ll return to the lakes at some point.

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Our last outing, in October,  was to visit Norwegian friends where they live overlooking a fjord near Aalesund. We were gifted with cool, clear sunshine and our hosts’ hospitality was lavish.

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So a brilliant year of travel; but where to in 2020? Well-weather permitting we’ll be sampling the delights of the Lake District, UK in January, then heading for long-haul sun in February. After that, who knows? Will European travel even be feasible? We can only wait to find out…

Ripple

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Ripple–here’s a repeat of a ghost story to take us into New Year-

             It’s there again, rippling the surface; an outline surfacing and receding against the background. Oliver rubs his eyes and peers again at the blue screen. Now there is nothing under the desktop shortcuts. He makes a mental note to take the laptop into town.
He stretches, rises and walks to the tall wall of glass where he gazes out over the cityscape. It is an arresting view, even for one who lives such a large part of his life in front of a screen. The city stretches away, a pleasing mix of old and new dotted with ancient steepled churches and elegant, high rise skyscrapers and further away the sweep of the harbour with a variety of shipping docking and embarking day and night. Immediately below his block the silver snake of the canal winds its way around the parks and estates on its way out to port. But Oliver does not glance down, ever. He prefers to see further into the distance and away.
His phone buzzes, breaking into his thoughts.
“Are you ok?”
Melanie. She has assumed responsibility for his wellbeing despite his protests that he is fine.
“Yes. I’m alright. You don’t need to keep ringing.”
Mel laughs. “You’re such a charmer, Olly! I’m only looking out for you.”
“You don’t need to.”
“Have you been out today? You should get out. It isn’t good to sit at home brooding.”
“I’m not brooding. I’m working. And I do have to go out because my laptop’s playing up. I may need to get a new one.”
His sister sighs. “Is that the only reason to go out? You could just walk! How about meeting for lunch somewhere? Or come here to eat this evening?”
Oliver shudders. He’d have to sit around the table with noisy, prattling kids, make small talk, Mel and Charlie tiptoeing around his feelings like bomb disposal experts.
He grabs a jacket, stuffs the errant laptop and lead into its bag, grabs his keys and steps out of the apartment to summon the lift. In the lobby he grunts a peremptory reply to the doorman’s greeting before exiting through the revolving glass door and down the steps to the street. Pulling his collar together tight against the blustery wind he turns left and left again rather than continuing along to Canal Street, which would be the shortest route into town. Oliver has not walked along the towpath for eight months and has no intention of going there again, ever.
Nerina haunts his thoughts as always, day and night. As he walks he tries to picture her but succeeds only in conjuring parts of his wife- her smooth, white throat as she laughed, the black curls that fell down her back, the velvet soft touch of her and her husky voice as she spoke in her accented English. How she’d mocked him, her sly, sideways look as she posed in front of their mirror before telling him she had to go out. The way she dressed, a sensuous smile as she pulled on a sheer stocking or applied glossy, red lipstick.
At the store counter he unpacks the laptop, explaining the issue with its screen. The assistant, Paula according to her badge, turns the screen to the side for him to show her the fault. But there is nothing; no vestige of the movement he’d been witnessing. Oliver frowns, feeling a heat rise to his face. Paula smiles an open, sympathetic grin.
“Don’t be embarrassed! It’s common for devices’ faults to disappear like magic as soon as customers step through the doors with them. It’s almost as if the threat of repair is enough to make them behave!” She laughs; a deep, throaty bellow that forces Oliver to stare up into her face. It is a broad, guileless face, not pretty but honest; a face accustomed to laughter. For a moment he feels his shoulders relaxing, feels the tension draining down towards his feet. He nods at Paula, stows the errant laptop in the bag and thanks her.
“Bring it back if it starts playing up again” she advises him, before turning to another customer.
Oliver feels lighter as he exits the store and heads for home. He’ll try and eat something then get on with the figures he is supposed to be producing for a company report.
In his kitchen he can think of nothing he wants to eat and opts instead for a couple of the prescription tablets, standing at the sink, pressing the tiny, white capsules from their foil wrapping and swilling them down with a mouthful of water.
At his desk he opens the laptop lid and switches on, waiting for his password prompt and taking the deep breaths he’s been coached to employ if he feels a sense of panic. As he taps in the password his palms grow damp and he wipes them on his jeans as he waits for everything to load. The desktop shortcuts appear, nothing else. He exhales and thinks of Paula’s kind, friendly face as he clicks on his work folder and scans the files for his current spreadsheet. The white screen underneath the figures is flat and stable. Oliver breathes, closing his eyes to relish the relief.
He begins to work, clicking on each cell, highlighting, deleting and replacing. Needing to refer to some previous notes he rifles through some papers in a cardboard folder beside the laptop. Sheet in hand he turns back to the screen. It is heart-stopping. Oliver feels his pulse thumping as he takes short, shallow breaths, the blood draining from his face. He stares. The outline has reappeared, more defined now, undulating but clear. It is a face; a face he knows; the pronounced cheek bones, almond-shaped eyes and full lips. Nerina. He starts as her eyes flash open, the paper dropping to the floor. Her sensual lips part in the shape of a word as the image floats on the screen. She smiles, continues to mouth the word.
Oliver has dreamed of hearing Nerina’s husky voice; has lain awake at night bathed in perspiration, longing for her but now he dreads to turn on the volume switch, fearful of listening, although he knows what it is she is saying. He should switch off. He should shut down, power off, pull the plug. He shudders, transfixed by her rippling features, strands of her curls drifting in a rectangular pool…

…His phone rings. Wrenching his eyes from the laptop he dives from the swivel chair and snaps the lid down on the device.
“Oliver Grantley” he croaks into his phone.
“Olly it’s only me, Mel! What’s with the formality?”
There is a pause. “Nothing. It’s nothing. I was working. The phone has broken my train of thought.” Oliver doesn’t want this. Doesn’t want his sister to know what he’s seen. She will think he’s lost it. Maybe he has lost it.
“I’m really sorry, Olly. It’s good that you’re working though. Are you sure you won’t change your mind and come round tonight?”
“I’m busy tonight, meeting a friend. We’re going for a drink.”
“Oh Olly! That’s great! Is it anyone we know? Male or female?”
Oliver stutters, frowning. “No. No one you know. It’s someone from work.”
“What’s her name then?”
Now all he wants is to tell his sister to get lost. “Paula. Her name’s Paula. Look, I have to go. I have a report to finish.”
“Alright Olly. But I want to know how it goes tonight. Call me back tomorrow!”
At last she hangs up. He tosses the phone on to the sofa, folds his arms and looks out at the city. After a moment he goes to the kitchen and swallows a couple more pills before going to his desk and glowering at the offending computer. He lunges forward, snatches it and stuffs it into his bag.
Outside the breeze has stiffened, whipping up eddies of litter and dust and tugging harder at his collar as he strides along. His deceased wife’s throaty laugh swirls around him in the wind. How many nights had he spent in the guest room after her claims of feeling ‘too exhausted for company’? How many times had he put his hand in his pocket to fund yet another ‘night out with a friend’? He could stand these deceits, and more if she’d shown him some affection instead of scornful jibes and mocking laughter.
He’s walked half a mile or so before he realises where he is; on the tow path. He stops, hitching the bag higher on his shoulder, takes a few steps to a bench and sits. The flowing canal is mesmerising, travelling along in its relentless passage to the harbour, carrying small islands of detritus-tangled sticks, discarded coffee cups and bits of polystyrene packaging or plastic bottles. He shivers. When they’d walked here last summer it had seemed romantic. He’d felt proud showing her the waterside. There had been swans bobbing on the water and a kingfisher darting amongst the willow trees that hung over the bank trailing leafy fronds, leaving ripples.
Today’s ripples are from the insistent, blustery wind. Beneath the surface there are dark, wavy shapes like hair; like black, glossy hair and the air is rank with an earthy smell of rotting vegetation. He leaves his bag on the bench and shuffles towards the canal side, drawn by the undulating contours below the water. He peers down. She’d asked him if there were fish he remembers and they’d leaned down to see. He’d put a restraining arm around her for protection. Weeks later he’d followed her, watching her swaying hips as she made her way down to the canal, hiding in the lush undergrowth while she lay on the bench with her lover, her skirt pushed up and her head thrown back as the other man drew his lips along her long, white throat.
Afterwards the man had left without a backward glance, striding away on the path, smoothing his hair and tucking his shirt in.
Under the wrinkly surface there are pale shapes, sometimes still, sometimes moving like soft, creamy limbs in the flow. This is where they’d found her. Oliver had been in the flat when they came to tell him how they’d pulled her from the canal, speaking in hushed voices, solicitous, offering counselling, offering to call someone. He shouldn’t be on his own, they’d said.
Later he’d had to go and identify her as she lay on a slab, her cold features bleached, her ivory skin blue-tinged; no trace of scorn remained on her pale lips, no remnant of guile under her dark eyelashes.
They’d found the man from forensic traces along the path.
“He got what he deserved” Mel had said when Nerina’s lover was sentenced to life.            But Oliver knows better.
He is on the edge now, leaning forwards towards the shapes, drawn by them. She’d stood on the verge, her back to him as he’d emerged from his hiding place. He’d only meant to shock her, to make her see sense, to see how angry he was. She’d hit the water without much of a splash and the sounds were more like strangled squeaks than a scream, her slender arms flaying a little, making circles of ripples that radiated out from her head as it sank. A steady flow of bubbles rose to the surface, slowing after a couple of minutes then the brown, snaking canal had continued on as before.
A white hand flutters among the weed, beckoning. On the surface her face is appearing again, swaying in the ripples, mouth half open, smiling. A gust of wind rushes through the trees on the bank, roaring in his ears as he takes another step towards the undulating shape, where her arms are open to receive him.
In the bag on the bench Oliver’s laptop is wide awake, its blue screen oscillating as a gentle stream of bubbles rises from the bottom to the top in a never-ending stream.

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com


 

Renaissance

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This, again, is my homage to The Woodentops, a children’s TV programme of the fifties. It was probably my favourite among the offerings of the time, which were, of course all made in black and white and without the technological advances of today. To catch a sample of The Woodentops click here. https://www.bing.com/videos/riverview/relatedvideo?q=the+woodentops+tv+series&&mid=CB54C44233820CDCA9FDCB54C44233820CDCA9FD&FORM=VAMGZC

                She stirs. Her eyelids part in a narrow slit although it is still dark. What has woken her? She shudders and feels a sharp intrusive dig on her left side, wedged as she is between two others.  There it is again; a blow to her ribs. Her eyelids widen as she gasps, feeling around with her right hand for the offending weapon. An elbow.

‘Jenny!’

She stiffens. ‘Get off me! What are you doing?’ Her small, high voice is thick and slurred from under-use.

‘There’s someone out there. I can hear sounds-steps. Listen.’

Jenny groans. ‘Leave me alone, Will. I’m asleep.’

‘You’re not asleep. You are talking to me.’

She lifts her head as far as the space will allow. In the oppressive darkness of their space there are rhythmic snores amid the sighing breaths and snuffles of sleep as well as an occasional whimpering yap from the dog as he dreams of biscuits and buried bones.

‘There!’

She feels her brother’s hissing breath as the sound of steps approaching and receding invades her consciousness. In the gloom she knows he is listening too just as she knows everything he is thinking. After a moment a thin strip of light appears below them along the floor. She takes in a sharp breath and needs to cough but stifles it, reaching instead for her twin’s hand. There is an abrupt rattle as the door knob is twisted which prompts rousing from the others and whimpering from the baby, who threatens to howl.

‘Did you hear the voices?’ Jenny can feel Will trembling. The dog is stirring, a low growl heralding what could become a tirade of barking.

‘Don’t panic. I’ve got him.’ It is their father who has wrapped a restraining hand around the dog’s muzzle.

They are all awake now and straining to hear. The footsteps have disappeared but the light remains. Jenny frowns, trying to think how long they’ve been here and what prompted them to have been banished to this dark, musty cell. She can remember someone saying they should be kept as she was brought in but none of them knew what they did to be banished and hidden away like pariahs. If the footsteps return they might find out. She allows herself to hope.

She tries to stretch her limbs but in doing so elicits an outraged ‘Oy! Watch yourself!’’ from Sam who is squeezed next to her other side.

Mrs Scrubitt’s voice is tremulous as she utters, voicing all their thoughts into the half- light. “What are they going to do with us? They might be having a clear-out, like. Will they be…doing away with us, do you think?’

Jenny trembles. Sam’s mum is right. They could be cast into a bin somewhere or thrown on to a bonfire. Mummy intervenes. ‘There’s no use in worrying what’ll happen. What will be, will be. Whatever they do we’ll be all together, like always.’

They are startled into silence then as the footsteps return, more this time. There are voices at the door and they hear a key in the lock. The door opens, deluging their small closet with blinding light, forcing them to wince and squint at the unaccustomed brightness.

Jenny swallows and lifts her chin as they prepare to face whatever fate awaits them. A large face looms into hers and she shrinks back into a space she does not have. There are two of them scrutinising, exclaiming.

‘Take care! They’re very old, you know-nearly seventy years!’ The voice booms like a fog-horn in the little cupboard until Jenny’s ears feel like exploding balloons.

‘They’re in good shape though!’ The second voice is softer. After a moment a warm, scooping hand envelops her and she is off the shelf, travelling outside the safety of the cubby-hole and along a bright, white corridor. She closes her eyes as the glare prompts tears to stream down her face. Then she is in a large room, comforted to be sitting on a surface she recognises as wood and mummy and baby are placed next to her.

The two giants discuss them. ‘Of course, if we’re going to remake it there will need to be changes. The show was made before political correctness was thought of.’

The other one chuckles. ‘Yes of course. We can’t have a Mrs Scrubitt and we’ll need to address the nuclear family issue. Plus the fact that they are all white, fully-abled and middle class.’

Jenny glances across at Mrs Scrubitt whose face has become an unnerving, chalky white and whose mouth is open in a silent cry.

‘I’m not so sure that they were middle class. He is a farmer.’

‘Yes but Mum doesn’t go out to work and they can afford to employ servants.’

‘OK. Well maybe we can use Mrs Scrubitt as extended family and Mum can be a farm worker, too? And how about giving one of the twins a disability? I don’t know about Sam Scrubitt though. There may not be a role for him.’

Jenny and Will exchange a stricken look as Mrs Scrubitt claps a terrified hand over her mouth.

Four months later they are on set. Jenny has become adept at the sign language she must use to communicate with her twin, they have all learned to call Mrs Scrubitt ‘Grandma’, Mum has had a new wardrobe consisting of overalls, has got the hang of the power tools she must use and they’ve all adjusted to their new, ebony colour as well as remembering to call Sam, who’s been given some exuberant dreadlocks, ‘Denzil’.

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Night Walkers

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Here’s a brand new, short fiction for the last post of 2025. Seasons greetings to all Anecdotage followers, old and new and to visitors. A Happy New Year to all!

The Pullen sisters were nocturnal. When she’d first heard this, trying to decode the adult conversation in the post office while she waited in the queue with her mum, Jessie hadn’t understood ‘nocturnal’. Over time though, after having overheard more gossip amongst the adults and the older children in her school playground, she realised it meant they only emerged at night, rather than in the daytime, like hedgehogs and owls.

There had been plenty of occasions when she’d tried to look out and spot them. Her bedroom window faced out across the lane with a direct view of the Pullens’ dilapidated cottage, weeds growing out of their thatched roof and here and there, a hint of plastic bag poking out. This, Jessie’s dad had explained, was because their roof leaked. She had asked why they didn’t get it repaired and received a lecture on how lucky some people were compared to others.

Jessie attempted to stay awake after bedtime, in order to creep across to the window and watch for the sisters but so far, had failed to stay awake long enough. What did they do at night? Did they eat meals? Read? Tend their garden? Surely not- in the darkness? She tried asking her older brothers about the Pullens but they didn’t seem interested, batting her away as usual, like an annoying fly.

In December, Jessie succumbed to the flu virus that had been running riot around her school. She came home feeling hot, with a scratchy throat. In their house, illness meant bed, with no compromises; no lolling on the sofa in pyjamas and dressing gown watching television. If you were ill you went to bed and stayed there until you were better. You had to suffer drinking things like hot milk with sugar or Bovril in a cup, neither of which Jessie could stomach or wanted at all when she was feeling so sick. There was also a hot water bottle to endure, which she slid under the bed once her mother had left the room. She was hot enough without it.

On the third night of the flu, Jessie woke from a fitful, feverish sleep. Her skin felt clammy, her pyjamas damp with sweat and her head ached. She swung her legs out of bed and crossed to the window, where a cold, blue light shone in a line between the curtains. She sat on the ottoman and pulled one of the curtains aside. There was a clear sky dominated by a nearly full moon giving enough light for an almost daytime view over the lane and the Pullens’ cottage.

Jessie closed her eyes for a minute and shivered. The damp pyjamas were getting cold, too, now, sticking to her goose-bumpy skin. But when she she looked out again, she caught a movement off to the side, where the sisters had a tall, wooden, arched gate leading to their garden. The gate was opening. Jessie held her breath. Two, shadowy figures were emerging and walking out to the lane. In the half light, the figures looked identical. Were they twins? There were identical twins in Jessie’s class at school.

The view of the two women became clearer as they got to the lane, strolling arm-in-arm, heads turning to each other as if chatting. They were portly, middle-aged, older than her parents. Whenever she’d heard gossip about the women it had sounded as if they were sad, unhappy people who’d been damaged by life and were now hiding away from village society but here they appeared cheerful, enjoying their outing and each other’s company.

They walked on, drew out of sight. Jessie sighed and yawned. She dropped the curtain and padded back to bed, shedding her damp pyjamas on the way. She clambered back in and snuggled down. As she drifted off, images of nocturnal creatures filtered into her dreams.

She didn’t wake until her mother came in next morning, whisking back the curtains to allow bright sunlight in. She felt Jessie’s forehead and asked how she felt. Jessie frowned.

‘I had strange dreams’

Her mother smiled. ‘Your temperature is down. You’ve got some colour. I think you can get up for a while today.’

Jess got out and pulled on her dressing gown then padded to the bathroom. She puzzled while cleaning her teeth. Had she dreamt the Pullens? Or had she seen ghosts in the night? They’d been chatting and smiling as they walked in the darkness. They hadn’t looked at all damaged or sad.

Realising she was ravenous with hunger, she went down to the kitchen to have breakfast. Afterwards, she sat at her desk and drew a picture, using her pastel colours; two ladies walking under a bright, yellowish moon and smiling at each other. She folded the picture, found an envelope to slide it into, then stored it under her pillow.

A few days later, she was able to return to school, but on her way home, trailing behind her mother and her friend, she dashed down the Pullens’ path and posted the picture through their letter box. She’d seen them happy, the sisters, and she wanted them to know.

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Winding Down

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The day of the Alcazar visit arrives- the penultimate day of our week in Seville. And it’s hot- possibly the hottest day of a very warm week.

During the second half of the week, we’ve been using the supermarkets opposite the hotel to gather brunch items- baguettes, cheese and cold meats, which is all very handy. Judging by the fellow guests by the swimming pool, this is what everyone else is doing, too!

We have our tickets for the visit and a time slot, so we set off down to Seville centre- a route we’ve become familiar with now, except that although we’ve visited the cathedral- and we know the Alcazar is nearby somewhere- we can’t seem to find it.

We wander round, scrutinise our map, walk again. It’s hot. I feel for the poor horses, lined up- albeit in the shade, to pull tourists around on carts.

Finally, we trudge up a narrow lane at the side of the cathedral and there it is, which makes me feel foolish, as it was behind the cathedral all the time. At first, on seeing long queues for the Alcazar, we feel smug to have bought tickets- that is until we see that of course- so has everyone else. Despite the allotted time slot, we must queue with everyone else. There are some pockets of shade though, thank goodness!

At last we’re through the gate and at first there’s nothing to hint at what lies inside the tall, ancient walls. We go first inside the building and up the stairs, where there’s an exhibition of very old tiles- 16th and 17th century- so astonishingly fresh and contemporary-looking, I’d be happy for my bathroom to be clothed in them! There is also a tiled portrayal of the crucifixion.

Downstairs the building consists of a series of small courtyards, shaded and charming. but the real beauty of the Alcazar lies in its vast and gorgeous garden, Moorish in design and set out in garden ‘rooms’. It’s very formal and there is a sense of calm in the lines of hedging, the squares, the symmetry and the planting.

We descend steps to a raised pond, where a few hopeful ducks swim within arm’s reach. A woman holds out a carefully manicured finger and I hold my breath until the nearest duck snaps at it, then I’m disappointed when she withdraws just in time.

Each area, marked by low hedges, is planted with shrubs, palms, trees and flowers- a rose garden being one. It’s a riot of flowers and colour for November. Further on the garden becomes less formal and wooded, a sea of green Mediterranean shrubs beneath the trees.

A staircase leads up to the top of the retaining wall, a covered corridor with views over the garden; a great way to end the visit.

At the end of our week, we make one more visit to the restaurant we found where we had a simple but delicious steak, then it’s time to take our leave of Seville- an elegant and beautiful city with a thrilling array of grand, historic sights…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

The Best of the Rest

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In the middle of our week in Seville, the weather turns sultry and cloudy. We are setting off to walk what we’d discovered was the route to the ‘sights’ and as we leave the hotel, are warned by a doorman that a big storm is coming, which was good of him. We determine, however that we’ll be back before any harm befalls us.

On this day, the parks and gardens are all firmly shut and locked, the result of accidental tree falls in previous storms. The authorities are taking no chances! These closures include the park in which the Plaza de Espana is located, although we are able to get into it by ascending steps and through a doorway.

In the event, there are a few grumbles of thunder and some gloomy, electric -looking clouds plus a few spots of drizzle. On our way back, and wanting brunch, we stop at one cafe, sparsely peopled and are asked if we have booked a table! We move to the next cafe, which is quiet. We have to use the QR code method for the menu [a system I’m not fond of] but manage to order a few items. We wait. We begin to realise why the cafe might be quiet when the wait extends and becomes over-long. A large party of Frenchmen arrive and order a lot of things, some of which arrive before our brunch, which is annoying. Husband is nervous about the coming storm [although this does not become an issue]. At long last, our meals arrive. It’s not so far to walk back to the hotel and as it happens, there isn’t really a storm.

The afternoon is still warm and, wanting to relax with a book by the pool, we get the lift to the third floor. The pool area, however has been stripped of all its comfortable cushions and quite a few of the loungers are gone, presumably in preparation for the ‘storm’ which hasn’t arrived! We make the best of it, using the loungers that remain and we have the place to ourselves.

In the evening, we venture to the top of our street and across to a restaurant we’ve spotted. It has evening outside heaters and a very cosy interior, plus a promising menu. We both choose steaks, which arrive on slates, mine still sizzling on arrival and it ranks amongst the very best steaks I’ve had, simply accompanied by chips [fries], tomatoes and okra. We order a glass each of their house wine. It is all delicious.

Another meal, at the ‘California Burger’ is a resounding failure and epitomises everything loathsome about fast food- a nasty, greasy, falling-apart in my hand load of gloop served in disposable cardboard- and resulting in a morning’s incarceration in the toilet for me and my UC-inflicted gut.

I’ve learned that if we want to visit the ‘Alcazar’ [which we do], we need to book tickets. We can do this at our hotel reception, which we do, choosing our penultimate day. This is something I am looking forward to!

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Orientation

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An exploration of the locality surrounding our Seville hotel reveals two useful supermarkets [one exactly opposite us] and a network of small streets in which there are plenty of cafes, bars and restaurants. Every one has outside tables with people sitting and partaking. One reason could be that we’re in an area of university student accommodation blocks.

Exploring further, we meander towards the historic part of the city. Seville is blessed with a network of green spaces- gardens and parks- many with water features and all with beautiful, landscaped planting; palms, exotic trees and flowers and of course, the ubiquitous citrus trees.

At last we arrive at Plaza de Espana, an iconic space that was built in 1929. It is vast, a Spanish square, though the curved canal and semi surround render it less ‘square’- like. It’s hard not to be impressed, even though the ornamental canal is depleted of water. The park the square sits in is closed off due to storm warnings, but we are able to access the Plaza via steps and through the building [which houses a military museum]. The lower part of the curved wall of the museum displays mosaic maps of the Spanish provinces. Today, at the base of the main steps, a Flamenco dancer accompanied by a singing Spanish guitarist is entertaining a crowd.

An open top bus tour seems a good idea next day. It’s something we often do in an unknown city- a good way to understand the layout of a place and identify sights we may wish to visit.

One issue we find is that, like Madrid, there is a dearth of public lavatories, although we get lucky and having bought the bus tickets we are directed to one attached to a cafe in the park opposite the bus stop. Husband declines the use of the commentary on board the open top bus, resulting in my having to hiss information to him piecemeal as I receive it. The bus drives us past a lot of famous bits we’d never have time to visit on foot- the ‘pavilions’, a set of buildings from south American countries, the palace of justice, the golden tower, the river Guadalquivir and its beautiful bridges, the technology centre with a replica of Europe’s Ariane space rocket, the old Romany quarter, an area famous for tile-making and the Macarena district- an area I especially like, with its narrow streets of historic houses and beautiful squares.

Seville’s streets are decked with Christmas decorations, all ready for the festive season, although [just as in Adelaide] it feels bizarre to see sparkly Christmas baubles in warm sunshine. When the bus loops back to the river we get off by the golden tower- the Torre del Oro. It’s a wide promenade overlooking the water where there’s a ‘galleon’ moored.

We’re in need of some refreshment by now and have walked back into the city centre and to the area housing the huge cathedral, the street thronged with visitors and trams swishing by. There is an inevitable Starbucks and we dive in there, as much for the toilet facilities as anything else, although there is no lock on the ladies’ ,which makes for a nerve-wracking few minutes for me!

As with so many iconic buildings these days, we are supposed to have bought tickets for the cathedral, but we discover we can buy them from a counter, which we do, then we’re in straight away…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Flight from Gloom

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It’s a return to travel tales in this week’s post…

The UK autumn descended into gloom with the clock hands depriving of us light and the weather becoming unsettled.

At the end of October, we got the go-ahead to collect Jazzer, the campervan from its enforced incarceration in a French garage, where it had finally been repaired. Husband went off to collect it, retracing the steps we’d taken as foot passengers a couple of months before when we’d had to abort our late summer trip and come home.

Once the van was back, we could reclaim all the things we’d missed, plus a lot of things we’d forgotten about. Items of clothing, items of kitchenware- even a few food items were still in date and edible!

Having had weeks of waiting and telephoning, writing emails and stressing, now we were ready for some kind of holiday. I’d been Googling ‘warmest place in Europe today’ for weeks. Now we could go. The warmest places, I’d learned, were not Majorca or the Canary Islands- no- the warmest place was Seville, Spain.

We’d been to Seville many years ago, with our first van, a little, white VW with a pop-up roof- a thing of beauty and gorgeousness- but no longer suitable for our needs. At that time, we were still constrained by school holidays and been restricted to the hottest, summer months, so It was mega-hot in inland Spain. We’d found a site somewhere near the airport and although we’d planned to visit the city, we spent the stifling daytime in the site’s swimming pool. We’d managed a trip into town later in the day but sightseeing was impossible due to searing heat.

Similarly, Seville has languished this last summer in temperatures of C40+, brutal conditions for everyday life. No wonder that we are greeted on our first morning’s reccy by the sight of locals wrapped up in woollies and puffa jackets in the moderate 20+ temperature.! Meanwhile we’re attired in shorts and T-shirts, which must look bizarre to them.

We got picked up from the airport [eventually] and dropped at our hotel a little later than expected, due to a flight delay. The hotel- which is a massive structure, has a ground floor cafe serving a range of light meals, drinks etc and is open until midnight. Having checked in, we descend the nine floors from our room and get perfectly acceptable meals. So far so good.

The next morning, we set off [in our shorts and T-shirts] in search of brunch, having first bought a phone charger due to not packing one, from a store at the end of our street. There’s a breakfast cafe just around the corner which looks promising, although the menu is beyond my rusty Spanish skills [which were never great to start with] and the staff seem unwilling to engage in a ‘Spanglais’ garbled conversation. Plates of toasted baguettes with delicious toppings keep emerging, which we decide would be perfect for us- but what are they?

We sit at a table. A nearby diner indicates that we need to queue at the counter first and order. Husband, who considers that I must take responsibility for linguistics, prods me in the direction of said counter. I put on what I hope is a winning smile and attempt to engage with the harassed woman on the other side. ‘Er…tostado?’ I splutter, at which she looks baffled. She calls a man from the other end of the bar. He speaks English, at which I am both relieved and feel a failure. At last we are seated and get a delicious brunch and luscious, freshly squeezed orange juice. There is no shortage of oranges in Seville in November. The pavements are lined with orange trees and ripe fruit covers the ground beneath each tree.

The day begins to heat up and it feels like some relaxation might be in order. The hotel has a third floor swimming pool and sun deck- minus a bar at this time of year, but with comfortable loungers and sofas with cushions. We can explore a bit once we’ve acclimatised and it isn’t so hot. For now- we take books to the sun deck and take in the views over the city- phew!

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Two Sisters [Part 5. Finale]

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Previous episodes of Two Sisters can be read in previous posts on Anecdotage.

I hear no more. A week later, Christmas is cranking up and we’re busier than ever at the agency, arranging a festive meal and entertainment for our elderly and disabled clients and sorting out their transport to the venue, on top of our usual, caring duties. We all feel the need of a knees-up so we gather at our local, which is hosting a DJ night and three-for-two on cocktails and spirits. By the time it winds up we’re all merry, also hoarse from all the screeching at each other. It’s in this festive, warm afterglow that I get off at my nearest bus stop and make my way to the flats, looking forward to sliding between the sheets and enjoying the heat of the electric blanket.

I push open the outer door into the hallway, delving into my bag for my key and look up to see a woman, slumped on the carpet by the console table that houses our mail. I have to do a double-take before I realise it’s her, Terry, collapsed on the carpet, bundled in her coat, handbag spilling out next to her. She raises her face to mine. Her face is ravaged, smeared lipstick, mascara streaks and red, swollen eyes. I pull her to her feet and she sags against me, weeping.

Not wishing to conduct enquiries here in the hallway, I pull her towards and up the stairs to my floor, into the flat and lower her down on to the sofa, where she sinks, sobbing. I switch on the electric fire, manoeuvre her out of her coat and sit down next to her, waiting for the shuddering sobs to subside.

In the aftermath, I acknowledge that the entire, sorry saga has been predictable. Should I have tried harder to prevent the disaster that befell her? I’ve had to conclude that nothing I could have said or done would have caused her to give up her scheme or be more circumspect in her relationship with Julian- if indeed that was his name.

She’s not recognisable as the woman she was. I come home from work each day and she is sprawled on the sofa in front of the TV watching anything and everything. Most days, she’s still in the pyjamas I had to give her and won’t have washed or brushed her hair, which has grown long and straggly, the blond highlights making their way down the sides of her face to make way for grey.

On my days off, I make attempts to get her out of the flat but so far I’ve been unsuccessful. She has nothing but her state pension and I’ve suggested she finds some employment, although she shows no sign of searching for jobs on my old, battered laptop or making any attempts to compile a CV. Her conversation is, at best, monosyllabic. She neither shops nor cooks and does no housework.

I have managed to worm the gist of what happened out of her, of what became of her home and all of her belongings, including her sporty BMW car. She seems adamant that there’s nothing to be done. She signed everything over to him; her savings, her property, her house contents- all passed to him like a dish of peas. She can no more gain entry to her former home or business than she can fairyland, since it’s locked up and in the hands of estate agents. Where is ‘Julian’? Fleecing some other unsuspecting, gullible, older woman by now, no doubt.

I haven’t given up my bedroom and she must sleep on the sofa-bed, the one that my daughter uses when she stays, only now she has to share with me when she visits. I bought a small, second hand TV for my bedroom, which I’ve converted into a bed-sitting room so that I can escape from the gloomy cloud that hangs around her in her despondency/

I don’t invite her to join in my nights out with the girls. I need my own space away from her and besides, she wouldn’t want to come. It’s a world away from the yacht club or cruising and she wouldn’t want to admit how far she’s fallen. The girls tell me I should throw her out, her and her arrogant, self-centred ways and I should reclaim my flat and my life. But I’m not able to, not able to throw her out on the street.

She’s my sister…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Two Sisters [Part 4]

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Previous chapters of this story can be read in the last 3 weeks’ posts-

For a week or so I hear nothing. It’s a relief to get on with my work and my social life without the interference of my sister. I assume she’s busy serving wealthy, glamorous customers and I adopt an ‘out-of-sight-out-of-mind’ attitude.

I’m getting done up for the night when she texts me, wanting to know why I haven’t visited the shop yet. She will give me a ‘special discount’ on anything I would like to buy. I snort at this. Fifty per cent off any item in her clothing range would still take half my salary for a week. After this, I’m deluged with a torrent of texts which become ever more reproachful as they continue to plop into my phone. I suppose I must pop in tomorrow, which is Saturday and see her, although I resolve not to buy anything. It’s not simply a matter of price, but the clothes are not my style, consisting of shiny, hugely patterned kaftans, sparkly, skimpy boob tubes and furry stoles.

I look in on my way to Lidl. As I push open the door, a bell tinkles and Terry looks up from a magazine she’s reading as she leans her elbows on the oak counter. There’s no one else in the store- no prospective customers perusing the rails, nobody in a changing cubicle or holding up a dress or peering at the ostentatious jewellery and accessories. There is no Julian, either.

She looks up and beams at me.

‘Darling! How lovely to see you! I’m so glad you found the time to visit. I keep finding things that would be perfect for you. I see a top and I think, ‘that’d be fabulous on Sherry’. Come and see!’

I begin to splutter replies about cash flow but she silences me, holding a hand up. ‘Darling! You must let me treat you to something. I won’t hear of you spending your hard-earned pennies on anything in here. Come on!’

I trail after her along the rails as she plucks out various items, finishing by pushing me towards a curtained cubicle and thrusting the pile of clothes inside.

‘I want to see you in everything!’ she warns. I sink down on the stool in the cubicle and survey the price tags on the items, choosing the cheapest, a tiny, orange vest top embellished with purple faux jewels. It’s ghastly.

I leave the boutique an hour later, having managed to convince her I neither want or need anything to wear and having had a coffee with her. During all of this time, no one else has entered the shop. When I ask her where Julian is, she mutters something about suppliers and accountants, which strikes me as odd, since she’d assured me that Julian was, himself a qualified accountant.

I wander past the shop on occasions after this but don’t enter, preferring to glance in past the displays and see how busy it is. Once or twice I spot a young woman at the counter, staring at her phone but never serving anyone. Terry must have taken her on to give herself some time off. I can only guess at how boring it must be to man a shop day after day and not see any customers.

There’s a long, restful period with no communication from Terry and it’s the run up to Christmas. Her window displays look good, colour themed, with fake snow, Christmas trees and mannequins decked out in fur capes. I’ve been too busy to meet up with my sister and the girls and I have been planning out Christmas get together.

A month passes before I hear from her, a voice message and she sounds anxious rather than excited. Once home from work, I ring her but she doesn’t pick up so I say I’m returning her call. Then I go off out. It’s my choir night. I’m not much of a singer but I enjoy the company and the shared activity. I try ringing a couple more times when I get home, with no response…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Two Sisters [Part 3]

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[Parts 1 and 2 of ‘Two Sisters’ can be read in the previous 2 weeks’ posts]

I decide to accept the taxi offer. Wearing my good, black trousers and a silk shirt, I climb out of the cab and enter the restaurant. Renoir’s is one of those eateries with a long waiting list for tables. It has an extravagant exterior, with exotic, fake blooms framing the entrance and inside there are fake trees smothered in more fake flowers dotted around the tables. It’s a cavernous place and I need to ask the waiter who took the booking where to find my sister and Julian. We get there in the end- a table by the window which overlooks the street.

They spot me winding my way through the diners. Julian stands, comes around and proffers a hand to shake then goes to pull out a chair for me. I catch Terry’s eye and she’s grinning like the proverbial cat, which makes me frown.

Her man is solicitous and charming, pouring wine, complimenting, asking about my work, professing admiration. He has a George Clooney look: silver streaked hair swept back, yachtsman’s tan, navy, Lacoste cotton sweater slung casually around his shoulders, immaculate pale blue shirt, chinos and loafers. Everything about him says ‘Look how well-to-do I am’.

Terry is smitten. She hangs on his every word. I notice all her sentences now begin with ‘we’, meaning herself and Julian. When the waiter arrives, I choose my starter, unbothered by the expense. Julian is paying.

‘We’d love you to come and see the shop now, Sherry,’ Terry gushes, ‘It’s looking just marvellous, isn’t it, darling?’ She places a hand over his.

‘Mm,’ I murmur, picking up my glass and sipping.

She continues, describing all the changes that have taken place, the rich magenta walls, the changing cubicles with their dark, red velvet curtains, the rails and shelving, the magnificent oak counter that Julian has sourced from an antique dealer he knows. I allow a faint smile and nod from time to time throughout this monologue. Julian watches her, grinning, not interrupting until at last, she comes to a halt.

Our starters come. I apply myself to the crayfish bisque, having decided I may as well enjoy the food, if nothing else. My sister looks up from her pate de foie gras, small crumbs of toast adhering to her lips.

‘I haven’t told you the best bit, Sheridan.’ I’m startled. She rarely calls me by my full name. Perhaps it’s for Julian’s benefit?

‘What?’ I look down at my dish, wondering if I can get away with soaking up the last smears of bisque with the remains of the sliced ciabatta.

‘Well darling, best of all, Julian is moving in with me!’ She sits back, shedding crumbs on to her cleavage, an expectant look ion her face. Now, why am I not surprised?

I place my spoon into the bowl, dab my lips with the pristine, linen napkin and sit back. ‘Um…well I suppose congratulations are in order.’

She chatters on, Julian nodding along. They laugh, heads drawing together. I learn that Julian has been married and has two sons, both working in the United States in finance of some sort. Julian has been living on his yacht until now, sailing wherever the weather of his fancy takes him. He loves Monaco and wouldn’t have minded living there if he hadn’t met Terry. He shows me a photo of the yacht, a gin palace moored in some sun-soaked destination.

I’m relieved when our main courses arrive and I can give my full attention to the fillet steak and bearnaise sauce. When Julian gets up, excuses himself and goes to the men’s room, she leans towards me. ‘Well? What do you think, darling? Isn’t he gorgeous? I’m so lucky! I want to find you somebody like him, now. It’s a shame he doesn’t have a twin brother!’

‘Terry, you know very well I have no interest at all in finding a man. I like my life as it is, thanks!’ I know, however that I’ll never convince her.

I don’t hear from my sister for another couple of weeks, then she phones to invite me to the grand opening of ‘Cruise Collections’. She’s excited. It’s to be a classy do with champagne and canapes, all bought in of course. I fail to see how I can escape this shindig, which is next Saturday evening, starting at seven pm. She’s got some models coming to do a show displaying some of the outfits and to showcase her ideas for capsule wardrobes, for those who can’t think how to pack for a cruise. She’s managed to get replies from a crowd of her acquaintances from golf, horse-racing, motor racing and sailing.

On Saturday evening I put on my good, black trousers and a different silk shirt and go along, arriving at about seven thirty, hoping to sidle in among the well-heeled and glamorous and lurk in a dark corner, however she pounces on me as soon as she spots me and drags me through the milling party-goers, grabbing a champagne flute from a passing tray and thrusting me into a group of elegant women in sparkly outfits.

‘This is my sister, Sheridan, everyone, I couldn’t have done all this without her!’ She melts away then, leaving me to filed questions about what part I’ve played in the assemblage of this brand, new business. I hedge and duck their probing until they lose interest and return to their gossip, excusing myself to dive through into the tiny kitchen area where the drinks and canapes are laid out. Grabbing a tray, I return to the shop area and circle with it, bumping into Julian as I’m about to return and fetch another round.

I greet him. He returns a vague nod and moves away. So he doesn’t remember me, his possible sister-in-law. This both amuses and alarms me…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com