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…

The Exchange

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I’m away. Here’s an old story… travel tales begin next week…

            I am first. I am always first; always too early. I don’t mind. Getting here before the others gives me an opportunity to peruse the cakes and pastries at my leisure without the pressure of pretending disinterest. By the time they turn up I’ll have chosen; even, perhaps have consumed something. I’m leaning in favour of the ‘special’, a slice of Christmas cake, a rich, aromatic slab speckled with fruit and topped with a glistening, tooth tingling band of white icing and a dark green fondant holly leaf.

On the other hand, if I buy it now I may not have finished devouring it by the time one, or both of them appear, which would present an unseemly image. I should wait. I exert a seldom utilised self control, and having made a mental note of my preferred option I go straight to a table-the only remaining table, which is next to the toilets.

There are diners who are perfectly at home eating alone, able to consume an entire meal in solitude without appearing uncomfortable. They pull out a phone or a tablet with what seems like an endless deluge of emails, texts or photos, or they have some absorbing task to complete. I could take out my phone, but then I’d have to feign interest in the one text I’ve received today, from ‘Store 21’, alerting me to their ten percent off day, a snippet of information I have already viewed and which is unlikely to sustain my interest for the unspecified period I must wait. I fall, instead to studying the menu and have read it all through twice and memorised it before I spot Beverley weaving her way through the tables towards me.

While her sunglasses are incongruous on a winter’s day in the gloom of this dark corner of the café by the lavatories, she is dressed in her customary way, in flowing layers and expensive fabrics. She is a tall, statuesque woman and can get away with this look in a way that the shorter and dumpier of us cannot.

I rise to greet her and we embrace gingerly, like wary politicians before she discards her tweed cape and sinks down on to the seat. She is forcing a wan smile, which may indicate tiredness or something more sinister. When she tells me that Ava will be late I can only smile. Ava is late in the same way that I am early-by default. Not wanting to share too much before she arrives we talk of the weather, the traffic, how busy the shops are. I know my eyes are straying towards the menu as my stomach growls in an impatient demand for the cake, although Beverley is occupied in checking her phone to see if Ava has called again.

Then she is coming in, bumping tables and customers with assorted bags, turning this way and that as she scans the café for us. For a few moments I observe Ava, taking in her discomfort, her small, breathless panic as she stares over the heads of the assembled diners until at last I relent and offer a wave.

She bustles up, all puffing and blustering excuses. ‘What a busy life I lead’, she seems to say, though the bulging bags of her purchases tell a different tale. She is so sorry to have kept us waiting and only wants a black coffee. She places a solicitous, manicured hand on Beverley’s arm and inquires if she’s alright because she looks tired. I volunteer to order, more a ploy to ensure the capture of the Christmas cake than a magnanimous gesture, returning to the table to find them already engaged in showing each other photos on their phones. In the competition of life’s successes Beverley has scored the giant prize of acquiring a grandchild.

They turn to me-a diplomatic nod of interest in my unglamorous existence. Has George retired yet? Is Jacob working now? Still living at home? Such a shame.

The order arrives; black coffee for Ava, cappuccino for Beverley, hot chocolate and the cake for me. There is a slight pause as we all regard the cake, before I lever off the first, sweet, rich forkful.

Ava is asking Beverley how Rob’s business is going now, since he had to reorganise and lay off staff. Bev removes her sunglasses and rubs her eyes, bloodshot and dark ringed. The business is ‘ticking over’. They’ve begun looking for a smaller property in a less expensive area, seeking to down-size, to release capital. She speaks to Ava, avoiding my gaze. I am allowing a chip of hard, sugary icing to melt on my tongue, recalling how I visited for coffee one morning and found her in the kitchen, working her way through the contents of a vodka bottle with a determination that had eclipsed her memory the invitation. The failure of the business is not the sole reason for needing to release capital.

She straightens, takes a sip of the creamy cappuccino. In an abrupt change of subject she questions Ava about Matthew. Does Ava have any recent pictures? Ava reddens as she fumbles with her phone, then hands it across the table. Bev studies the photo of Matthew for what seems like a screen bite as Ava glances at me, eyes wide in her frightened face. Matthew is only two, an ‘afterthought’ as Ava describes him. Holding out the phone, Beverley frowns at the tiny sparrow of a woman opposite her and declares she cannot see anything of Steven in Matthew and I’m thinking, no, because there is nothing of Steven in Matthew-a fact that Ava confessed to me prior to his birth when faced with the dilemma of whether to tell her husband he was not the father. I lick my finger to sweep the remaining crumbs from the plate, wondering how three years can have passed since Ava blurted the tale of her sordid affair out to me in a moment of tearful desperation. What should she do? Should she tell Rob he could be the father of her baby? I’d advised her to leave well alone-after all he might not be the father. Who would know? She was frantic, sobbing. The child might resemble her friend’s husband; and of course, now he is older, he does.

Check last Sunday’s post for Part 1…

I ask Ava if she has any photos of Lucy and I am rewarded by her feverish, relieved smile as she replaces Matthew’s guilt-inducing image with that of her student daughter.

Plates of beer battered cod with potato wedges and mushy peas are delivered to a neighbouring table, momentarily distracting me with the waft of delicious, hot grease. It is what I would choose if I were lunching.

We three have less in common these days; now that our children have grown. Once, as young mothers meeting at the school gate, starved of adult company, we could never see enough of each other. When I look at them now I think how age is most cruel to the once beautiful; Beverley no longer the willowy, well healed style guru, Ava’s slender, elfin appeal grown brittle as a dried twig. Beverley didn’t understand Rob, she’d explained when justifying her adultery to me. He’d needed someone to talk to, someone to console him when things went wrong with the business. If I’d considered that she’d undertaken the consolation with a little too much enthusiasm I’d kept the thought to myself. In any case, Beverley was too embroiled in her own dalliance with Mr Smirnoff to care or even to notice what her husband did.

All that remains of the hot chocolate is a circle of glossy, brown sludge in the bottom of the mug, a last scraping I might attempt to access with the long spoon if I were on my own. Ava still has half a cup of cold, black coffee, impressive as ever in her ability to make a coffee last for the duration. She is reaching into one of the bags to bring out two small parcels wrapped in co-ordinating Christmas paper from Marks with matching gift tags. Not for her the ironed out, salvaged wrapping from last year or three-for-a-pound from Savers. I wonder why it is we’ve continued with this ritual.

We have exchanged gifts every Christmas since we met, the first few years’ offerings being humble, home-made items, sewn or baked or grown, rather than the competitive quandary the exchange has now become.

Beverley presents her own gifts. They will have been purchased from a craft stall or a tiny, beach front gallery; a driftwood photo frame, shell jewellery or a hand-thrown pot. They are wrapped with that artful carelessness she retains, as though she has scoured the beach for cast off paper and string. Ava plucks her package from the table and turns it in her red-tipped fingers, exclaiming how interesting it looks. I assume from the shape that she has the pot this year. Sensing their expectation I withdraw the two, identical parcels from my bag.

Infrequent as they have become, I have grown weary of these meetings; weary of these two self absorbed women and their confessional outbursts, the inconsequential chatter and the shadowy events that lie under each rendezvous like bubbling volcanic pools. I have extracted what I needed from them only as recompense for my services over the years as confidante, counsellor, shoulder-to-cry-on and keeper of secrets. Now I am ready to move on.

Ava thinks the parcels look the same. They look like books. Is it a novel? Do they have the same gift? I nod. The same book?  Yes. Is the author someone they’ve heard of? I’m still nodding. When she tells me she hopes it ends happily because she can’t bear sad endings I say she will have to wait and see. Bev has shown little interest and has stowed her holiday reading away in the leather appliqué satchel she brought and stood up. I’m guessing she is anticipating her first, warming, reassuring slug of liquor of the day as if she were going to meet her own secret lover.

Ava straightens and tuts, rearranging the silk scarf around her neck, smoothing her blond, highlighted hair. I wait for her to say she must look a sight but she gathers her bags and reels off a list of appointments she has before picking Matthew up from nursery; travel agent, chiropodist, the returns counter at Burberry. She wants to know where I’m parked because we can walk together and I know she is anxious to find out if I think Bev suspects anything. I could tell her that Beverley wouldn’t notice if a bomb exploded here in the café but I surprise her, instead by deciding to stay here, in my seat, alone at the table.

Then they are gone; the farewells said; the promises to meet again soon and the air kissing are all done. I don’t need to consult the menu before returning to the counter, since the seductive, lingering aroma of cod and chips is pulling at my senses and cannot be ignored. I am happy to sit alone now while I wait for my lunch, and contemplate a future which exists without Ava and Beverley but with a significant upturn in my fortunes, now that the royalties for ‘The Exchange’ are flowing in such a satisfying way and my account is inflated by a substantial advance for the second novel. Is it a sequel? No. I have said everything I want to say about those two parasites. They can edit their own future. I’m still working on mine…

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

A Day to Remember

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It was rare for Shirley and Brian to visit London these days but it was a special birthday for Shirley, who’d expressed a desire to see ‘Phantom’ and had managed to drag Brian along this time; Brian, who was not fond of shows and would have preferred to have visited the museums or Kew Gardens.

Deciding to make the most of their day, the couple bought a newspaper for him and a magazine for her before settling into a seat with a table on the train, where, on glancing at the headline on the front of his paper, Brian read, ‘World Summit to be Hit by Protest’. He frowned.

‘Looks like we’ve chosen a bad day to visit. There’s to be some sort of demonstration. Let’s hope the transport system isn’t affected.’

Shirley looked up from the article she was reading about William and Kate’s likely choice of baby names.

‘Well. I don’t suppose they’ll be going where we’re going, will they? They’ll all go to Trafalgar Square, or wherever it is they gather up for these protests, not Oxford Street shops and the theatres.’

While they had coffee, Brian studied his map of the London underground. As he was so much more adept at finding his way round than she, Shirley left all the navigating to her husband, who prided himself on his ability to understand maps and directions. He’d been persuaded to further indulge his wife by accompanying her to various department stores, despite his innate aversion to such establishments, although he harboured a secret hope that she would not want to linger too long in Selfridges and John Lewis.

‘What exactly do you want to buy?’ he’d quizzed her, prior to to setting off, but her motives had been as unfocused as usual.

‘Oh nothing special,’ she’d told him. ‘I just want to look.’ After all it was her birthday.

He’d felt noble in keeping his exasperation in check, owing to the celebratory nature of the occasion nut nevertheless the following couple of hours until lunch stretched ahead like a wide yawn; a boredom endurance test when he’d be trailing around after her while she flitted from one display to another in a kind of random exploration of merchandise.

A successful negotiation of the tube saw them surface at Oxford Circus, where throngs of purposeful pedestrians surrounded them, buffeting them as they stopped to get their bearings. Shirley’s face bore a momentary, wide-eyed look of panic.

‘Brian! We must have got mixed up in the Summit protest!’

‘No love, It’s just busy. It’s always like this. You haven’t been up here for a few years’

He took her arm and propelled her in the direction of John Lewis, holding tight to her elbow while they tackled the barrage of oncoming pedestrian traffic that surged towards them like a tidal wave. Having gained the sanctuary of the store, Shirley appeared to rally and Brian was obliged to follow in her wake as she floor hopped bedding to kitchenware, from toys to lingerie.

At one thirty, by which time Brian’s stomach was growling starvation warnings, they decided to look for a lunch venue, choosing to walk up Regent Street towards Piccadilly Circus on the grounds that it was quieter and easier to travel along, besides which there would be a more salubrious selection of restaurants and cafes around Wardour Street and Leicester Square, where the theatre crowds were catered for.

There was a slight altercation at Piccadilly Circus. Brian favoured a pie and a pint in the dark, gloomy and comfortable interior of The Captain’s Cabin, whereas Shirley hankered after the more opulent and upmarket decor of The Criterion. It was while they stood on the steps under the statue of Eros in a dither of procrastination that the young man approached them, gesturing towards the London Undergound map that Brian clutched in his hand.

‘Excuse me, but could I borrow your map a moment?’ he asked.

Shirley looked him up and down in a rapid appraisal, taking in his dark eyes, his neat, dark hair, his pale, grey T-shirt with a surfing logo and the dark blue rucksack on his back. He must be a student, she decided, perhaps doing some travelling before taking up a university place. She smiled encouragement, thinking of their own son, James, who’d taken a gap year to Australia a few years ago. Beside her, she could see Brian’s shoulders straightening in preparation for the directions he was about to give the young man.

‘Where are you trying to get to?’ he asked him.

‘I’m heading for Trafalgar Square.’ The student’s face was inscrutable, like the Mona Lisa in that painting. Shirley and Brian had been to Paris last Spring and visited The Louvre.

‘Was it The National Gallery you wanted? It might not be the best day, you know. There’s a big demonstration going on there today; huge crowds. Tomorrow could be better!’

A small, tolerant smile twitched at the corner of his lips.

‘Please,’ he said, holding out his hand for the map. Brian kept hold of it, leaning towards the young man and pointing.

‘We are here- Piccadilly Circus. You go down and take the Bakerloo Line to Charing Cross. That’ll be your nearest to Trafalgar Square, OK?’

‘Thank you.’

He turned and they watched as he crossed the road and disappeared down into the subway.

Forty minutes later, the pair were sitting at a window table in The Captain’s Cabin when they heard a loud sound and tailed others out on to the pavement to look for a cause. After a few moments it was followed by the disquieting shriek of sirens as emergency vehicles forged their way through the streets. A stricken look passed between Shirley and Brian.

They were late home and were glad to climb into bed after the exertions of the day.

Next morning they switched on the television news to see an image of a young man they recognised. It was the unmistakeable face of the lovely student they’d met. Hussein Omar, he was called, the suicide bomber of Trafalgar Square.

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

A Matter of Time

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This is an ancient story- one of my first. It was also the inspiration for my second novel, ‘The Conways at Earthsend’. It set me wondering what life will be like in the far future. Recent world events, however have left me feeling it’s better that I’ll never know…

Frith steps out into the grey, depressing familiarity of the patch she still thinks of as a garden at a time she knows is morning from her ancient alarm clock. She glances up into the hazy fog as she does each day, to assess the extent to which a semblance of light may be penetrating. This morning, within the billowing folds of damp cloud a sulphurous, bilious glow hovers like a searchlight beam, providing little in the way of illumination and no warmth, although Frith allows a small thread of encouragement to weave into the start of her day.

Along the cinder pathway fresh layers of fine dust display the prints of the girl’s boots as she moves towards a network of raised beds rising like ghostly islands in the gloom. She pauses by the first rectangular slab, a dark oblong mound constrained by timber planks, crumbling a little now from prolonged exposure to damp and housing what would have been a robust crop of potato plants. Frith adjusts the filter masking her nose and mouth before bending to inspect the nearest plant. A few dark, brittle leaves have struggled to the surface of the dusty heap of soil. She peers at them, unsurprised by their insidious coating and searches for any sign of a flower. They will need to be earthed up again, she decides, grimacing at the idea of the task; digging into the tainted earth will produce a storm of silver powder pluming up and coating all in its descent, including herself.

She walks to the apple tree, a spectral giant in the mist hung with fringes of dull spores and remembers her grandmother describing summer afternoons as a child lying in the shade of it with a book or clambering to the top to teeter on a spindly branch and marvel at the view across the sunlit valley. She shivers, conscious of the oppressive silence that hangs over the garden like the fog. On the tree’s lower branches one or two tiny, misshapen fruits cling in a valiant effort to perpetuate.

Beyond the tree, by the low stone wall that once marked the boundary with a neighbouring property there is a brave, rebellious clump of brambles making a stand against the suffocating effects of fungal invasion, producing fierce, protective thorns and exuberant, wet foliage tinged with hints of green amongst the smoky coating. Frith allows herself to hope for blackberries later on, in the time that used to be called autumn when there were seasons marking changes in climate; months when days were warm, hot even, and periods of fierce cold when the land lay dormant.

The greenhouse is barely visible at the end of the monochrome garden until Frith is near enough to touch its damp and slimy surface. She pulls the door open and steps inside. The tender plants here have not escaped the blight and she surveys the spindly pepper bushes, brittle stalks smothered in grey and moves slowly on towards the end of the small structure where she’s been nursing the tomato seedlings. She stops; holds her breath.

There is a diminutive, amber globe attached to one of the plants, glowing like warm, evening sunlight. She bends to peer at its parent plant. There are two more ripening fruits clinging to the foliage, shining with impudent optimism. Frith stares then throws her head back, an almost hysterical laugh erupting from her lips and her eyes wet with tears.

The sound of footsteps crunching on the path causes her to turn and see the tall, bulky figure of Cal approaching then he is there filling the doorway, his woolly hat jammed tight over his dreadlocks and long scarf wound around his face and neck.

“A brace of coneys,” he tells her. “Not much meat on them but they don’t look to be in too bad a state. We’ll get some broth out of them anyway.”

Her eyes, turned to him are radiant. She shows him the tiny tomatoes illuminating their corner of the greenhouse. “Should we move the plant, do you think, Cal? We could take it inside the house. It might be special, have some immunity. And if we kept the seeds maybe they’d grow into stronger plants still!”

Cal reaches out to pull her to him, enclosing her in his arms, her cheek against the rough tweed of his overcoat. He looks over the top of her head towards the little plant with its defiant tomato warriors and thinks of the children he and Frith might have had. Her face, when it turns up to his, still damp from tears is itself reminiscent of a child’s.

“We’ll leave it be, love. If it is going to resist the blight it’ll do it here. Moving it will make no difference. Come back to the house now and help me skin the rabbits.”

He watches her later, staring at the flames flickering blue around the remnants of decaying logs in the fireplace and knows she is allowing herself to dream of a future.

“Frith love,” he murmurs. “Don’t get your hopes up. I know it was good to see, but not enough to signal any kind of recovery.”

She looks up, frowning, irritated; the extinction of possibility is hard to bear. He takes her hand. “We’ll keep watching it. It could be resistant. Only time will tell.” And he turns back to where the flames are ebbing in the fireplace, reducing the logs to glowing, flaky ash.

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

Ceasefire at Havelock Terrace

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Today’s post is a flash fiction story…

Everyone in Little Pewsey knew of the feud between next-door neighbours Arnold Stopes and Bernard Shrigley, which had raged for more than fifty years, although few could say what had started it. Born within months of each other in adjoining cottages in Havelock Terrace, Arnie and Bernie had been walked together in prams, begun school on the same day, attended cubs and later, scouts and had their collective ears boxed for scrumping apples. They’d shared sweets, the Beano, secrets and girlfriends.

Both keen gardeners, they nevertheless adhered to strict individual notions for what constituted an ideal garden, most of which conflicted. Over the years, these conflicts had escalated to a point where verbal communication had ceased, to be replaced by physical acts, that is to say, retribution.

When Arnold’s magnificent flowering cherry tree had the audacity to extend its boughs over the hedge that formed the border between their properties, casting a shadow over Bernard’s patio, Bernard took his shiny loppers and hacked off the offending branches, thus decimating the graceful symmetry of the tree. Thereafter, on sunny afternoons, Arnold made sure to give Bernard’s patio a liberal dousing during watering sessions. Bernard’s mongrel dog, Tinker was fond of plunging through the hedge to dig holes in Arnold’s cabbage patch, provoking Arnold to retaliate by cultivating a luxuriant weed patch next to Bernard’s raised vegetable beds.

It was on a warm, balmy September evening that Arnold, straightening up from his labour of lifting potatoes, felt a sharp paintravel along his arm before tumbling to the ground and breathing his last, watched by his neighbour, who went to bed, fell asleep and was never to wake again.

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

Asking For It

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Now I’m old I sleep a lot, like everyone else in this place, this fusty living mausoleum for the almost dead. And even when I’m not fully asleep, I daydream; always about the past, almost always about Paddy. While he haunts too many of my dreams for one known to me for such a short period I can still see him- his dark, laughing eyes, swarthy, tanned skin and the curly black tendrils of hair adhering to his neck as he climbed the ladder, a pile of bricks on his shoulder, whistling some old, Irish tune. He’d wear a singlet in all weathers, better to display the rippling muscles of his arms, covered in a fine sheen of sweat, because he knew the effect he had on women. Oh yes, he knew, He drew women like a magnet.

My status as a newly married woman should have been enough to stop me, but I couldn’t help myself. It was all innocence at the start, taking a tray of teas round and flirting, until one day he pulled me into a doorway in the alley between our yard and the building site and we began kissing. I became infatuated, an addict needing the next fix. A small, scruffy outhouse in our neighbour’s yard became the venue for our afternoon assignations, a grubby mattress dragged from the end of the alley where it had been dumped. Nevertheless, I was transported from the tawdry surroundings, mad for him.

I’ll never know what made Paddy think we had money. He must have watched my husband from his lofty perch, carrying a briefcase and wearing a smart suit as he came out of our house, offered me a peck on the cheek and walked briskly away to the station. He must have assumed he had a good job, a position in a company, in finance or commodities. He couldn’t have known he was a humble bank clerk, So when he demanded two hundred pounds to keep our trysts secret I panicked. There was no way I could get that kind of money.

I was meant to meet him in the alley. After dark, I said would be best because no one would see us. But I nipped out early with the envelope I’d prepared. I went over the fence into the site and climbed all three ladders. I was shivering when I got to the top and not just from the cold. When I spotted him, I hummed his Irish tune so he’d spot me, waving the padded envelope. I looked over as he began to climb, his upturned face a pale oval in the dark night. By the time he’d started on the third ladder I was ready, lying with my feet braced against the two ends, then I gathered all my strength and pushed the ladder until it shifted away from the scaffolding. There was a moment’s suspension like eternity while the ladder wavered and I prayed it wouldn’t come back in to rest on the scaffold. But then he was cast out like a fishing hook out and down. I heard the dull thud and looked over. His limbs were arranged at unnatural angles like a demonic marionette’s, his eyes open in surprise, not laughing any more. I thought that nobody would ever know this wasn’t a tragic accident.

I had a wonderful marriage. It lasted fifty three years, until my husband died of a stroke. But it’s Paddy’s face I see and Paddy I dream about, always.

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

A Prize Dinner [Scene 2]

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Concludes today. Scene 1 can be read in last week’s post

My phone buzzes and I glance down at a text. It’s an update from our sixteen year old babysitter, who lives two doors along. Baby Rosie hasn’t stirred and she’s managed to get Lulu off to bed but Connor is proving more resistant and has yet to succumb. I send a quick message with ideas for threats then finish my last, sublime mouthful of salmon. I want to delay our return until we’ve finished pudding, at least. I’ve chosen creme brulee, which is what I would always choose if it’s on offer. Gary is having sticky toffee pudding. My mother is a devotee of meringue and has pavlova. Saintly Melissa has passed on the pudding.

‘We can’t stay for coffee’ I tell my mother and she frowns. ‘Sophie the babysitter will need rescuing and I said we’d be back before midnight’.

‘What about the cheese and biscuits?’ she says. Gary gives me a sidelong glance.

‘Perhaps you can get them to box up some for us to take?’ I say.

As we prepare to leave them, Mum tells me that James and Melissa are going on holiday to Mauritius in a couple of weeks and she and Dad will be looking after their house and garden, as well as the two rabbits. Perhaps we’d like to bring the children to see the rabbits? I murmur something non-comital, as I imagine their neighbours would like to come home and find their rabbits in good health, or alive at least.

Months go by and life continues in the usual chaotic fashion. I’ve begun negotiating the customary, delicate timetable of Christmas visiting, juggling Gary’s parents, my parents and various obligatory dropping in to friends and relations. In reality, I long for Christmas here, amongst the comforting mayhem of our own hovel, where sticky messes, broken items, noise and squabbles don’t matter.

My mother phones, ostensibly to discuss Christmas but I can tell she has other, more pressing news to impart. She begins slowly then speeds up as she tells me the tale of woe.

‘Sarah- I thought I should tell you because you’ve met James and Melissa and you know that we’ve got to know and like them so much. They’re having a terrible time.’

‘Oh?’ I wait, wondering what I feel; not joyful or triumphant [as in the carol], not desperately sad. I feel a sense of detachment, rather like hearing the news on the radio about folks I’ve never met.

‘Well,’ she continues, ‘you know Benji was doing so well at uni? It seems he’s been arrrested on a drugs charge.’

‘Oh dear,’ I murmur.

‘Yes and not just that. He’s dropped out of college and shacked up with some girl and got her pregnant!’ There’s a catch in Mum’s voice as if she might burst into tears. ‘Melissa’s been coming over to ours every day, so upset. James is furious, of course and talking about disowning and disinheriting Benjamin. It’s so distressing for them. We don’t know what to do for the best!’

At this point, all kinds of suggestions pop into my head, none of them helpful to my mother, who seems to have forgotten that I, myself dropped out of uni owing to an unplanned pregnancy. When I try to bring the conversation back to Christmas, she wails that James and Melissa’s Christmas will, of course be ruined and I’m proud of myself for saying that nobody in our family needs to have a spoiled Christmas because of it.

Schadenfreude is not an empathetic emotion, nevertheless when at last I have achieved three children’s bedtimes, loaded the dishwasher, prepared packed lunches and fallen into bed beside my snoring husband I’m not able to resist a small sigh of satisfaction. How the mighty are fallen…

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

A Prize Dinner [Scene1]

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A new two-parter begins today…

I am sitting at my parents’ dinner table, a glass of prawn cocktail before me on one of my mother’s best, porcelain plates. It’s a rare opportunity to eat prawns, as Gray won’t allow anything fish related to cross the threshold at our own house. From the corner of my eye I can see he’s edging his chair away and I know he’ll have an expression of disgust on his face. But I’m not going to pass up the chance of a treat.

We’ve had a choice of starters- soup, pate or the prawns. Gary’s gone for the soup and has begun slurping it, even before the others have been served, ignoring my sidelong glance and attempt to shake my head. We’ve all selected our meal options in advance, a choice from three for each course.

Next to me, my mother is smiling her beatific smile at we, her gathering. She has made this happen, this event. She’s dug out her best, white linen tablecloth and the rarely used, flowery table mats as well as the drawing room cutlery and crystal glasses, all shined and sparkling. My father is at the head of the table, of course, talking to James about music concerts. Opposite me, James’s wife, Melissa, leans forwards.

‘Do you like music, Sarah?’

My mother is regarding me with an intense stare, still smiling but I know she is willing me to say something profound and intelligent. When I was a child and visitors came, she’d mouth soundlessly along to all my utterances in desperate hopes that I’d make an impression.

‘Um..yeah.’ I say. But I don’t tell her I like loud rock bands, that I don’t get to go out to concerts, that I don’t go out.

Melissa plays the flute.’ Mum tells me, beaming with pride at being Melissa’s neighbour.

‘So are you in an orchestra or anything?’ I ask Mum’s talented neighbour.

‘I sometimes play for village events, but mostly for personal pleasure,’ she replies. ‘Do you play any instruments, Gary?’

My husband looks up from the soup, startled. ‘Guitar,’ he says and resumes slurping.

‘He used to play guitar,’ I correct.

Everyone has their starter now. James takes his napkin and unfurls it with a flourish before smoothing it on to his lap and I see Gary’s remains in place by his bowl.

The prawn starter is delicious. I’m eating slowly to make it last as I catch James looking across to Gary. ‘Do you play any sport, Gary?’ he asks and I wonder why he hasn’t asked me, or addressed his question to both of us. Gary looks bewildered.

‘No’ he splutters. James persists.

‘Follow any sport?’ James and my father go to cricket matches together and talk endlessly about it, according to my mother, who seems to think it’s a good thing.

‘Gary likes football,’ I tell him. He turns back to Dad and starts a conversation about the West Indies and South Africa match. Mum tells me that James and Melissa’s son, Benjamin is doing very well at Oxford and enjoying it. ‘That’s nice,’ I say. ‘Does he live in, Melissa?’ I learn that Benji has a room at Queen’s College, that he loves it and they are looking forward to visiting next weekend.

The main courses begin arriving to the table. I’ve chosen poached salmon, much to Gary’s annoyance. He has a steak.

My mother rang me three weeks ago in a fever of excitement, to say they’d won a meal for six in a raffle at the village hall and wanted us to take part. James and Melissa would be coming. I’d considered telling her we couldn’t make it. that we couldn’t get a babysitter or that we were busy but I doubted she’d have believed me and besides, the pull of a meal cooked by someone else was too strong to refuse. I accepted without asking Gary, who would object on the grounds that he’d miss ‘Match of the Day’ on TV.

I knew all about James and Melissa of course, as since they’d moved in opposite my parents nine months ago, Mum and Dad have talked of little else.

It occurs to me now, setting about the salmon in its glossy bath of Bearnaise sauce that my mother wants to show us off to each other, to show her neighbours off to us and to show us off to them, only there is little about Gary and me to brag about, of course. We live in a run-down terraced house in a down-at-heel part of Sowerbury. Gary, having dropped out of polytechnic works shifts as a warehouseman and I do shifts as a receptionist at a GP surgery, having failed to finish my degree in medicine because I became pregnant in my first year. Now we have three children under five and our cramped, two bedroom house resembles a bomb site. We take turns looking after the children between bouts of work, lurching from crisis to crisis as bits of house fail, children get sick or the car breaks down,

My mother nudges me, James is addressing me. I look up from my salmon.

‘Sorry? I missed that.’

‘I was saying, you’ve got three little ones, is that right?’ I note that he is asking me this and not Gary. Melissa is smiling. ‘That must be lovely.’ she gushes. ‘We wanted more babies after Benji but…’ she sighs. James breaks in.

‘Benji was hard work. I didn’t want Melissa to go through that again.’

I know that Melissa doesn’t have a job and is a lady of leisure, because she frequently comes over for coffee with my parents, and according to my mother, is a member of almost all the village societies, besides playing her flute ‘for pleasure’. I try to think when I last did anything for pleasure, aside from sleeping, so a little, prickly annoyance gets the better of me.

‘What do you do for work, Melissa?’

She colours and I notice James is paying attention. He interjects.

‘We thought about it, now that Benji isn’t at home full time but Mel doesn’t need to work and I do like that she can pursue her interests and keep the home fires burning, so to speak.’

Gary is regarding James with interest, now that his steak and potatoes Dauphinoise have been demolished. I’m hoping he won’t ask James what he does or how much he earns, information that I know already, of course, from Mum’s phone calls. James works for the BBC local TV station as a news editor…

A Prize Dinner continues in next week’s post…

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

The Best Days

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‘Right, everyone settle down. Who’d like to start? Bradley?’

‘Sir’

‘Your work placement; where was it and what were your first impressions?’

‘Sir. It was awesome, sir,’

Justin affects a disconsolate slump as he regards Bradley Chard, a large, gregarious boy to whom life has provided a bottomless pit of entertaining and amusing opportunities. Bradley launches into a garbled, pink-faced, grinning depiction of his work experience at the advertisinf agency, sprinkling his account liberally with ‘cool’, ‘fit’, ‘wicked’ and ‘sorted’. AS far as Justin can ascertain, Bradley spent his week playing computer games, eating Pot Noodles and leering and female members of the agency team. Mr Hesketh wears an expression of weary tolerance, developed over years of listening to adolescent narrative.

‘Yes. Thank you Bradley.’

Justin slides further down in his chair in a futile attempt to become invisible and is reprieved temporarily by the selection of Harry Binks, who, to the envy of all, spent his week cleaning the team boots at Braishfield Rovers. As his attention wanders from Harry’s breathless, star-struck account of his encounter with striker Mick Barnes, Justin wonders what he can say of his own foray into the world of work:

His feelings on arriving at the HMV store of cringing, squirming self-consciousness, his initial meeting meeting with Dan, the store manager with whom he’d had to shake hands, aware of his clammy palms in contrast to Dan’s manly grip, the moment he’d been instructed to ‘shadow’ Jessica, sales assistant and goddess, hanging about behind her at the counter, unsure of what to do with his hands, tongue-tied and useless, mumbling incoherent utterances in response to her questions and requests, watching her serve customers until she’d coaxed him with an encouraging smile.

‘You can serve the next one, OK?’

Swallowing, mouth too dry to speak, eyeing the open door, willing it to remain unbreached, a couple approaching the counter, looking around for Jessica, who’s moved away to the other end to study a catalogue. The woman of the couple asking Justin a question- something to do with Bach and organs. At a loss, squeaking that he’ll get someone, sliding shame-faced up to Jessica and pointing back at the couple.

He’d fetched his parka at midday in response to the managers instruction to ‘go for lunch’ and spotted Dan and Jessica deep in discussion, casting looks in his direction. Returning at one to learn the result of this conversation, he found himself banished to the stock room to unpack items and tidy up.

‘Justin?’

Startled back to the present, Justin has no time to panic about his feedback.

‘Sir.’

In the ensuing pause, Justin has the undivided attention of his peers and catching sight of a sneering Bradley Chard sporting a superior, pitying look he is undeterred.

‘I did learn something, Sir. School’s better, I’d rather be in a classroom than in a stockroom for a week.’

This revelation is met with stunned silence until Mr Hesketh concludes the lesson.

‘You’re right, lad. The best days of your life!’

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

Spring Waking

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A week ago, I went outside and opened the gardening container, where the tools are kept, to be greeted by a hedgehog. He [or she] was standing at the front as if I was an expected visitor. So in my usual, anthropomorphic way, I addressed the creature and asked him what on Earth he was doing in there, receiving no answer, of course. After a moment, the hedgehog made an attempt to turn and retreat behind a spade, prompting me to withdraw around the corner of the container. I found some gloves and a woolly hat, placed the hat over him and lifted him out. He curled up inside the hat and I took him down the garden to our wild area, where there is a pile of logs and leaves, placing him carefully down there.

It was a few minutes before he uncurled. Then he turned and began to come back. ‘No. no, no!’ I said. I left for a moment and collected some bird nuts, which he tucked into with gusto. I was about to leave him when a high-pitched ‘pseep, pseep’ made me look round. Two, pink, fluffy long-tailed tits were perched behind me on the rose arch, near enough to touch. I froze in situ until they hopped into the cherry tree. Goodness!

Our intrepid hedgehog, having had his fill of bird nuts, came forward and lapped some moisture from a leaf before seeking refuge in the log pile at last.

If hedgehogs are out and about during the daytime, it means they’re in a spot of bother. I’ve no idea how long this one had been confined to the garden container- days perhaps- but there is nothing to eat in there. He must have sought warmth and shelter while it was open and nobody had noticed, then got very hungry, hence his needing to exit when the doors were open.

Close encounters with garden wildlife are a privilege and a pleasure. They are also a sign that spring is on its way at last, after a harsh and extremely wet winter here in the south west of the UK.

A few days later, Husband summons me downstairs where a black triangle is adhering to a curtain. The black triangle is a closed pair of wings and belongs to a peacock butterfly. It’s anyone’s guess how a butterfly would be here in the house so early in the year, but we know that Spring is arriving ever earlier now.

Detaching the butterfly from its chosen spot without damaging it is tricky. Once separated, it stays on my hand and needs coaxing to climb on to a crocus flower. Watching its spindly proboscis unfurl and reach into the orange centre of the crocus is fascinating, but while Husband goes to fetch the camera the butterfly, having sucked in enough nourishment, spreads its wings and makes a sudden leap into the air, grazing my hair en route.

Sadly, then, none of these meetings with garden wildlife were to be recorded on camera. So the photos are of their habitats and surroundings instead!

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

Blind Date

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“Erica, is it?”

“Yes; Hello and you must be Roger.”

“That’s me! Roger the Dodger! Not really-just my bit of fun. What can I get you, Erica? Glass of champagne? You do like champagne, I hope?”

“Just a small glass of white, please. I do drink champagne but only on special occasions. Pinot Grigio is fine.”

“So what are you saying? This is not a special occasion, is that it?”

“Oh no, of course I didn’t mean…”

“Don’t worry love. I’m not offended. I’m only having a laugh. A glass of your best Pinot for the lady, my man, and I’ll have a single malt, no ice.

Did you find this place alright, Erica? Didn’t get lost?”

“No. I am familiar with the area. I have one or two friends who live around Fratton. That’s not far, is it?”

“No, but this side of the golf course is better; nicer properties. You can see my place from the first fairway. Did you notice my motor on your way in? Remember I said on the phone, look out for the Merc with the special plate-did you see it?”

“Yes. ‘RU55BIT’. Was that it?”

“That’s the one. Do you get it? RU-that’s me, Roger Urquart, then the 55-that’s meant to be two Fs. That spells RUFF. Then there is BIT. It says ‘Rough Bit’. It’s rather droll, don’t you think?

Well, Erica, what sort of things do you get up to? What ‘floats your boat’ as they say?”

“All the usual things, I suppose. I like to read, go to the theatre, see friends. I go for an occasional meal, go to the gym; but work takes up a lot of my time.”

“No special hobbies then? How’s the wine? OK?

Tell you what; I bet you’d like a spin in my little kite, wouldn’t you? It’s a thing that’s dear to my heart. She’s a Piper Cherokee, a little cracker! I don’t mean she’s got cracks in! I’m only joking! She flies like a dream. I take her over to Le Touquet some weekends. Do you like France? I can go over there for lunch and be back home for dinner. Do you like the sound of that?”

“It sounds…interesting.”

“Oh it is. It always goes down very well with the ladies. I don’t mean ‘goes down’ as in crashes! I’m jesting! You’ll soon get to know me. I’m a laugh-a-minute bloke.

Did you say you were divorced?”

“Yes, three years ago, but it is all quite amicable now and the children spend plenty of time with their father.”

“Ha! I’ve been married three times. That’s a triumph of optimism over bankruptcy, you might say! Especially now I’m young, free and single again. I get on alright with Mary, my first wife, but the other two; they’re a couple of scroungers. Gold diggers, I call them, the pair of them; always after something. If I had all the dosh I’ve spent on maintenance payments I’d be minted now. You know what Rod Stewart said? ‘I’m not getting married again, I’m just going to find a woman I don’t like and give her a house’-So true!”

“I wonder why he did get married then, if he didn’t like the woman.”

“Fancied the pants off her, I expect, if you’ll excuse the expression. Doesn’t last though, does it, Erica? ‘Once the thrill is gone’ and all that?

So have you done a lot of this Internet dating malarkey? Met many blokes yet?”

“No, you are only the third person I’ve met.”

“What was wrong with the other two then?”

“Nothing was wrong with them. They were perfectly pleasant people. There just wasn’t a connection, a spark. Perhaps I didn’t have much in common with either of them.”

“What do you reckon it is that gives you a spark? Give us a clue! If I can find out where the other two went wrong I’m in with a chance. What sort of men do you go for?”

“I like the people I meet to be well mannered, I enjoy stimulating conversation and of course a sense of humour is a very attractive quality, I think.”

“Phew! That’s lucky. I’m doing alright so far.

I must tell you, Erica that I’ve met quite a lot of ladies in this Internet game and you are by far the most attractive. In fact I’d say you are in a different league to all the other ones. For a start most are very economical with the truth where their age is concerned. Some of the ones who say they’re in their mid forties, they’re either lying or they’ve lived hard lives. Mid sixties would be nearer the mark. How’s the wine? Can I get you another?”

“I shouldn’t have another, thanks. I can’t be late or drink too much. I have an early meeting to get to in the morning.”

“Soft drink then or a coffee?”

“I won’t, thank you. I must be getting home.”

“What a shame! We should have met up at the weekend. We’d have had more time to get to know each other. Still, there’s always next time. When are you free? I’ll take you up in my little plane; show you my joystick! Boom boom!”

“It is a tempting offer, Roger, but I’m going to decline. If I have to be honest I don’t really think I’m your type. I wish you luck with your future Internet dating though, and thanks for the drink.”

“Ah well, you can’t win them all. I can’t say I’m not disappointed, but you know my number if you change your mind. It was lovely meeting you. Don’t forget your coat, love. Bye bye.

It’s your loss.”

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