Category Story

Apr 13 2014

‘Express Holiday’

She tried so hard to be a mum to her husband’s children.

It didn’t help that their own son Michael Junior was a handful; younger than his half-siblings and testament to his father’s wandering eye. The boy wore a jumper with ‘Rebel’ written on it for good reason.

She found her stepson Lennie easy to deal with; the poor little soul had physical disabilities and was very small for his age.  He was compliant and sat at the table without any complaint – but then he had little choice.

His older sister Miranda  was a tough nut to crack.  A blonde, beautiful seven-year old; maternal towards her own brother but openly hostile to the small, loud intruder who claimed her Daddy’s attention so efficiently and bore his name as well.  She largely ignored her new stepmother, another intruder who was younger, prettier and happier than the Mummy they had left at home for the weekend, and who would inevitably be crying because she missed them both – and her ex-husband.

Michael Senior returned to the table empty-handed.  His wife and children looked hungry and crestfallen.

“No rice crispies but they have got cocoa pops. Are they allowed to have cocoa pops? Lennie, do you want toast?  I’m having the full English. Can they have fruit juice?”

She sighed.  Eighteen months ago Michael Senior had been living in the same house as his two eldest children.  She was aware from her own experience that he was not what you would call a ‘hands-on’ Daddy but surely he knew what his children liked to eat?

“Miranda can have cocoa pops…..”

“I want muesli. I don’t like cocoa pops.  Mummy never buys cocoa pops.  Mummy says they make your teeth go rotten and then Daddy will have to pay out for us to have new teeth.  Mummy says.”

Miranda’s face was set.  Michael Senior recognised that expression.  It was the one that drove into the arms of his sweet young receptionist and led to the birth of Michael Junior, a divorce settlement that he could ill-afford and the low-key shotgun wedding that mollified his new wife’s irate and somewhat shady brothers  – but only just.

“I’ll get you some muesli darling, and some toast for Lennie and Michael Junior. Shall I bring it back before I get my breakfast?”

“Yes please Michael, and can you bring some cutlery too? Michael Junior! Sit down!”

“Daddy! I want Daddy!”

“Daddy will be back in just a moment with some nice toast.”  How she prayed that Michael Senior would have the forethought to put the toast on plates and bring butter and Marmite too.

He hadn’t.

Miranda got her muesli.

The toast was piled up on one plate; no butter or spreads, nothing to spread them with anyway and two glasses of fruit juice that Miranda appropriated for herself and Lennie, leaving Michael Junior to set up another banshee wail.

“Juiiiiiiiice!  I want juiiiiiice!”

Michael Senior had already left the table at speed after spotting that a fresh tray of bacon, sausages and scrambled eggs had just been put out.

“Miranda?  Could you please keep an eye on your brothers while I get a knife and some spreads please?  Don’t let Mikey get down off his seat?”

Miranda scowled.  Mikey was Daddy’s name when Mummy was being nice about him and remembering the happy times.  She did not and would not recognise that screaming baby as her brother.

Michael Junior got down off the chair seconds after his mother had walked the few yards to the service counter and ran towards his father.

A lady and man were sitting at the next table.  The lady caught Miranda’s eye and said “Your little brother has got down from the table.  He’s gone that way.” She smiled but Miranda didn’t.  Her face was inscrutable as her stepmother returned dragging  a screaming Michael Junior by the hand.

Toast was buttered and anointed with Marmite, cut lovingly into soldiers for Michael Junior and Lennie.  Miranda listlessly chased her muesli round the bowl, her face coming to life when her Daddy reappeared with a loaded plate of food, a serviette and a single mug of coffee.

“There’s no room at this table; I’ll sit over here.”

Michael Senior seemed oblivious to the fact that his desertion had reduced his youngest son to tears and caused quiet disappointment to the other two.

His new wife, hungry and now unable to leave the children until Michael Senior had finished his breakfast and was free to mind them, took a deep breath and forced herself to stay silent.

The couple at the next table got to their feet; the lady waved at Miranda and smiled.  Surprisingly Miranda smiled back.  So did Lennie, and Michael Junior waved his soldier with a Marmite grin. His mother blushed.

“I’m sorry about all the noise. I hope it didn’t spoil your breakfast.”

The lady smiled again.  “It didn’t.  Our children are nineteen and nearly twenty-one.  They used to wander off and kick up a hell of a racket. It will get better, I promise you.  You have lovely children.  Have a good day but don’t forget to get some food for yourself.”

The words were the first drop of  praise she had heard all weekend.  Praise from a stranger.

Michael Senior was on his feet.

“Is everything alright?  Were the children making too much noise? Do I need to go after them and apologise?”

“No, the lady just said how lovely they all were.  Can you move back to this table please Michae,l whilst I get some breakfast too?”  She got to her feet .

“Of course.  Silly me. How could I forget about you my darling?” he said as he moved his breakfast back to the children’s table.

“You won’t again.” she said to herself as she walked slowly across the hotel dining room and picked up a coffee cup.

The lady stopped by the door and turned around just before leaving the room.  Their eyes met.  With a nod and a barely perceptible wink, the strength of ages was passed over from one mother to another.

She drank hot coffee for the first time in months whilst she waited for her toast and watched Michael Senior struggle to control his children.  Perhaps it was going to be a holiday after all.

 

”

 

Apr 10 2014

‘Auntie Glad’

It is Thursday and Thursdays are always good days because Auntie Glad used to visit on Thursdays.

My father was the youngest in a family of thirteen.  Gladys was the eldest and when their parents died, my father went to live with her and her husband.

She was always Auntie Glad to us as children; she was warm and cuddly, interested in all that we did, a loving sister-mum to our Dad and very supportive to our own Mum.

Not a ‘real’ grandmother in the truest sense of the word but to us she was better, and Thursdays were always the best.

My childhood memories up until the age of about eight or nine are almost completely happy.  Long summer days playing out and winter nights reading my way through the local library.  After proving that I really was reading every book that I took out, the librarian allowed me to take out four books on my ticket, smiling benevolently when I came back in the afternoon for four more.

Not on Thursdays though. Nothing was ever allowed to interfere with Auntie Glad’s visits.

Auntie Glad’s husband and grown-up daughter worked at the tobacco factory, so she would come over to our house on the bus after lunch and go back home on the bus in time to cook their dinner.  Somewhere en route she would buy us sweets.  Three crisp white paper bags containing rainbow drops – not those horrible brightly coloured puffed rice things – but little discs of milk chocolate covered on one side by hundreds and thousands.

Within half an hour the bags were empty: no longer crisp but limp, holed by small wet fingers desperate to get the last of the hundreds and thousands from the corners.

It didn’t matter how naughty we were.  Auntie Glad still visited and she still brought us rainbow drops.

I can remember a miserable Wednesday when I decided to scrawl across the wall with my crayons.  Berated by my mother as she tried to scrub off the marks, I wailed “I wish it was Thursday!”

“So do I!” was my mother’s heartfelt response.  Auntie Glad always used to make things better for her too.

When my mother went into hospital for a minor operation, I was sent to Auntie Glad’s for a week.  It was like being in heaven.  I pottered happily around the house following Auntie Glad and ‘helping’; was introduced to the joys of hot Oxo at bedtime; and watched a film called ‘The Rocking Horse Winner’ which both confused and excited me.  Auntie Glad’s husband and daughter came home from work and brought me comics and exciting little tin boxes that smelled of tobacco and had a sailor’s face on the front.

When Auntie Glad became ill, we went on the bus to see her. She became frail and had something mysterious called ‘shingles’ on her face.  It was always covered by a bandage and we could only kiss her on the other cheek and be extra gentle when we hugged.

I know now that she was in a great deal of pain at the time but she always made the effort to get dressed and be ready for our visits, determined not to upset us by showing us her pain.

Her death hit all of us hard. For my parents it was the death knell on their marriage: she had been the glue that held them together, the role model for my mother, and her understanding of my father’s depression always enabled her to bring him out of his black gloom.

A bright light went out for me.  Every time I thought of Auntie Glad I heard the words of the song ‘Puff the Magic Dragon‘.

“Then one night it happened, Jackie Paper came no more and Puff the Magic Dragon, he ceased his fearless roar“.

I know.  It was Jackie Paper that grew up and stopped visiting the land of Honalee, but when Auntie Glad died and there were no more wonderful Thursdays it was as if my own magic dragon had died too.

The Thursdays came back eventually as I discovered that there were other magical people in my world who could also make me happy.

Rainbow drops are still wonderful, even if they no longer come in little white paper bags and Thursdays will always be special days.

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Apr 8 2014

“Only Lazy Gods make snakes”. I’ve liked this as a title ever since I watched children using Play-Doh.’

For my big brother – a wonderful Grandad. 

 

Harry sat in the middle of a grassy lawn.  He was surrounded by beautiful flowers and fantastic insects.

He frowned with concentration as he picked out the colours and shapes.

Every object had to be different, and he smiled as he placed them on the grass and watched them come to life.

Other small gods occupied the lawn, each intent on their own marvellous creations.

The Big Benevolent One smiled as he wandered past looking at their labours.

His fingertips touched Harry’s head.

Harry looked up and smiled back.  He was very happy.

“Good job Harry.  You can move on to something bigger now.  Some animals and birds perhaps?”

Flushed with pride at such a compliment, Harry collected more materials and set to work.

He started small; a mouse and then a brightly coloured lizard.

Placed carefully on the grass, the mouse shook his whiskers and scurried off to make a home.

The lizard took his time. He stretched and let the sunshine warm his shimmering skin.

“Time for something bigger now.  I shall call it Dog and it will be my friend.” Harry said to himself and was just putting together the items he needed when he heard an unfamiliar sound.

The Big Benevolent One was standing in the corner of the lawn staring down at Milo; a slightly larger god who had put together some especially clumsy-looking cactus plants.

There was an ominous rumbling.

“You can do better than this Milo.  Look around you. Look at the colours and the shapes. Move on to something beautiful or you’ll have to spend time making rocks.”

Milo frowned. He hated making rocks. It was boring, hot and the other larger gods shouted at him.  They had only a few more days to finish the Earth after all. and everyone was working as hard as they could.

Except Milo, who just wanted to lie under the trees and watch everyone else working.

The Big Benevolent One moved on to admire someone else’s work and Milo sulkily picked up some brown clay.

He rolled it idly between his hands, then on a piece of flat stone until it grew longer and thinner.

He started another, and another until the stone was covered with a number of long thin brown snakes of varying sizes.

Harry glanced over at the snakes; all blind and hungry and dull.

He got to his feet, picked up a handful of pieces left over from the lizard and walked over to Milo who felt that he had done enough and had fallen asleep.

The snakes were given jewel-bright eyes and long forked tongues.  Harry striped their brown skin with green and white, red  and blue for the big ones, and for the last he covered the brown with yellow and white stripes.

Stroking the warm skin as it came to life, Harry smiled.

“You will be a corn snake and your name will be Dave.'”

Hearing the sound of the Big Benevolent One approaching, Harry got up and returned to creating Dog.

Milo woke and looked at the fabulous snakes slithering around happily in front of him.

“Well done Milo!  Take a little break now.  Usually only lazy gods make snakes but you have done well. ” The Big Benevolent One patted Milo’s head but looked across at Harry and winked.

Harry was happy, especially when Dog came to life, wagged his tail and licked Harry’s face.

Milo snored in the sunshine.

corn snake

Apr 6 2014

‘Clicketty-Click: Confessions of a really bad Bingo caller’

During a summer many years ago, I found myself working under  the job description of ‘Events Organiser (Elderly Persons).  This was a very grand title for one of a handful of people who went round the lunch clubs held at different homes for the elderly.  This was long before any swingeing governmental cuts;  in the days when most homes had at least one large lounge where the residents and day centre attendees could cluster and hopefully be entertained. The lounge would inevitably smell of disinfectant and the stale urine that lingered in the crevices of the institutional high-backed vinyl-covered chairs regimented in a semi-circle.  Faded silk flower displays cluttered the surfaces in a failed attempt to cheer up  the pale green or blue painted walls, dark spill-proof carpets and curtains that were never closed unless there was a funeral.

There was always a gentle rivalry between the residents and those who were brought to the home in the minibus from their own homes. Residents tended to be frail and confused whereas the day centre people were judged to be more self-caring but in many cases they were just hanging on to independence by their fingertips.  The day centres gave them the opportunity to go somewhere warm where they were guaranteed morning and afternoon coffee and biscuits, as well as a hot lunch and some form of ‘entertainment’.  I use that word very loosely.

I spent most of my time in the early part of that summer doing the washing up.   There was always a great deal of it and it was the ideal opportunity to escape from the scariness of old age and confusion.  No matter how hard I tried, I always left someone out on the coffee round, or failed to order enough lunches.  This kind of catastrophe resulted in a hurried reloading of plates by the kindly but gently disapproving volunteers who had been helping out at lunch clubs for years and were vaguely condescending to us paid employees.

As the summer wore on, I found myself participating and then eventually organising the activities for groups of twenty to thirty elderly people who weren’t always sure where they were or why. We had quizzes and memory games, local entertainers would come with a Bontempi organ, small amplifier and a microphone to sing wartime songs and send the odd hearing aid haywire .  There would be outings in the minibus; to garden centres, museums and sometimes the beach.  Long trips entailed the organisation of lunch somewhere, usually in a pub which could be guaranteed not to lose patience with our haphazard ordering and the probability that at least half of our charges would have forgotten what they had ordered beforehand anyway.

We couldn’t take everyone on these trips and it was always sad to see the faces of those left behind peering out from behind the ever-open curtains like disappointed children.

The mainstay of the lunch club entertainment was Bingo.  Every home had a box containing photocopied Bingo blanks, half-sized ball pens that had been pilfered from Argos or Littlewoods, a set of numbered balls in a black cloth bag, and the number chart and counters so that the caller could blank off the numbered ball  once it had been called.

Some homes were more sophisticated; they had invested in proper Bingo (or Lotto) sets with a see-through circular ball into which the numbered balls were loaded and dispensed randomly, defeating any allegations of cheating. I always got stuck with the black cloth bag.

The Bingo prizes were donated by the lunch club attendees and had to be closely vetted.  I remember one packet of coconut mallow biscuits that turned up at nearly every lunch club, donated by the person who won it last time.  The mallow had dried out, the biscuits were soft and the coconut had gathered in a pile at the bottom of the cellophane packet.  The sell-by date had been worn off by the many pairs of old, dry hands that had clutched the packet triumphantly.  I took an executive decision one day and binned them, together with out of date tins of baked beans, tomato soup and snails – probably an unwanted present from someone’s daughter-in-law after a family trip to France.

I replaced them with nicer, newer food from my own larder and was gently but firmly reprimanded by one of the older volunteers who felt that I shouldn’t be wasting my money. I was never quite sure why this lady volunteered.  She was always the first to snatch away half-drunk cups of coffee, half-eaten lunch plates and was hustling the day centre attendees into their coats long before the bus had arrived.  Every activity was accompanied by a long-suffering sigh and she spent even more time washing up than I did.

I will never forget the first time I was asked to do the Bingo.  I though it would be easy.  After all, I had spent many sessions observing and helping (badly) to cross off numbers once they were called.

Part of the job was remembering the names for the numbers; two fat ladies, Kelly’s eye, key to the door and my nemesis, clicketty-click. I was so bad at remembering the names that one of the old ladies very kindly wrote them down for me but her writing was so tiny and cramped that the stress of pulling the balls out of the bag rendered my list unreadable.

It seemed that whenever I did the Bingo there were no early winners, just a cluster of elderly people  fighting over tins and biscuits at the very end.  It got to the point where my ineptitude was so legendary that they would ask for me to do the Bingo just so they could have a good laugh. To this day I don’t know what I was doing wrong but Bingo is a game I avoid at all costs.  I tremble at the sight of halls full of people with their multiple cards and brightly coloured dabbers for marking off the numbers. Far more efficient than our badly photocopied blanks and tiny pens.

For my last day at the lunch clubs, before moving on to bigger and more challenging things, I was allowed to organise a day trip, and to bring my husband along – such a very supportive man.  I arranged for us all to have lunch in a pub that we knew would be particularly sympathetic, was wheelchair accessible, had disabled toilet facilities ( a rarity in those days) and wasn’t far from our afternoon excursion to the beach at Mudeford.

Lunch went off with only one wrong order – and that was the bus driver.  We loaded our satiated charges back onto the bus and headed for the sea.  It was sunny but one of those pleasantly balmy afternoons where you can happily sit for a while and bask without burning.

There were no mishaps at the beach either; Dame Fortune smiled on me that day but was probably smiling at the sight of two dozen elderly people paddling in the sea or sitting in the wheelchairs on the sea wall clutching their 99 ice creams in the sunshine.

It was truly a grand day out.

 

 

Apr 5 2014

‘Five a day – What fruit are you?’

At any given time you can log on to FaceAche and find at least one question application that will help you to appreciate who or what you are – allegedly.

Sometimes I ignore them, sometimes I click and complete the questionnaire but don’t post them to my timeline because the outcome is fairly predictable.  Occasionally I come across one that makes me smile and want to share it with others.  These are a rarity though.

‘What fruit are you?’ aroused my interest for a minute or two and then I was distracted and moved off in another direction.  I lost the app because I couldn’t remember who, amongst my friends and family had posted it originally.

Later that day, still curious and with a few minutes to spare, I did a search on Google and found loads of  fruity personality quizzes – some of them highly unlikely to give any clue to your personality, they were clumsy and poorly spelled, the worst of them contained the following questions:

3. Do you prefer to work alone or as a team?
As a team, but I am always the leader
As a team, then I don’t get the blame when it goes wrong
On my own, because I hate my other colleagues
On my own, because I feel I work better that way
I don’t care
and
7. If you found a wallet with a large amount of money in it whilst walking in a field would you?
Keep it, finders keepers, losers weepers
Take the wallet to the police but take the money
Take the wallet with the money to the police
Don’t know
Apparently this app can conclude from your answers whether you are a:
Succulent strawberry?
Lonesome pear?
Jolly banana?
Ambiguous tomato?
Bitter lemon!
I am a succulent strawberry apparently:
How sweet.  I must put this in my CV.  Why not have a look yourself – http://www.fruitquiz.co.uk/
This wasn’t actually the app that I saw on FaceAche.  I found it later and discovered that the questions were a bit more sophisticated and that I wasn’t a strawberry after all but a grape! As a grape I am ‘adaptable and intelligent, always one step ahead, my friends rely on me to know answers to questions (hope no one asks anything about maths or science – gulp) and if I wrote the ‘Rules for Life’ the world would be a better place‘.
Wow. Go me!
I could have been a banana, an apple, an orange or a watermelon on this site. Having tripped through the 9  questions giving different answers, I turned into an orange and then a watermelon. I also came to the conclusion that the app had a random generator effect and that the answers to the questions bore no relevance to the fruit designation you receive at the end. Having looked at the personality descriptions allotted to each fruit – yeah – they are all a bit ambiguous and generalised. Bananas are stolid, apples are boring, oranges are not the only fruit and I’m very glad that I’m not a watermelon.
I’m not a strawberry or a grape.  I’m a cherry.
Well that’s half an hour of my life I’ll never get back again.
Apr 4 2014

‘Sally Forth’

Her husband held her particularly close that morning as he left for work. She waved him goodbye and checked her watch.  Six fifteen. Shower first or breakfast?

The dog’s soft whine and imploring eyes were a momentary distraction from her purpose. She stuffed her feet into a pair of old suede boots, pulled on her duffel coat and opened the patio doors.  He ran out into the garden with a joyous abandon that made her smile initially, then feel slightly envious. Picking up his lead and some doggy treats, she gingerly stepped out in the courtyard to join him.

There were few cars and even fewer people around at that time of the morning.  The dog performed a ten-second wee, then dragged her back towards the house.  His momentary distraction by a low-flying wood-pigeon nearly pulled her off-balance and she felt the racing pulse of fear begin. The dog seemed to sense that something was wrong however, He stopped pulling and waited patiently for her to open the gate that would let them back into the safety of the courtyard.

Back inside the house, she sat down briefly in order to calm herself.  The doggy brown eyes worked their charm again; he was soon settled with his breakfast and she was free to continue with her own preparations. She checked the clock. Twenty to seven.

Breakfast first and she took the easy way out with cereal and fruit juice.  Knocking back the parade of pills lined up on the counter top, she wondered if she would ever get back to a time when she was pill-free? Pain-free? Panic-free?

The dog joined her on the sofa as she crunched her way through the cereal.  The BBC news provided a slight distraction but the dog’s warmth on her leg, the touch of his silky ears and the occasional grateful lick, all these provided her with the reassurance she needed for now.

She washed up her bowl and glass, leaving them on the drainer to put away when she returned.  If she returned.  How silly! Of course she would return.

Giving the dog a brief hug, she went off for a shower, hoping that the hot water would wash the muzziness away and help her to think more clearly.

The stimulus lasted long enough to help her choose her clothes for the day. Nothing sloppy but nothing too restrictive or uncomfortable.  She needed to be comfortable.  The last thing she wanted to worry about was her appearance but she took extra time drying her hair, applying her brave face and finally, getting dressed. She checked her watch. Had a whole hour and a half gone past?

There was still no need to rush though.  They had arranged to meet at ten o’clock. It took five minutes to walk to the bus stop (ten to allow for her reduced speed of walking).  She had checked the bus timetables on-line and the journey took twenty-five minutes provided the bus arrived on time.  She had a back up  bus going from the other side of the road in case the first bus failed to turn up.  She dared not think any further than that because the panic rally would set in and she’d never leave the house.

Standing in the kitchen, fully dressed now, she checked that everything was there. Keys, purse, phone and rucksack so that she could carry her worldly goods and still have her hands free.  The Midas card that she and her husband had purchased two days earlier so that she didn’t have to get anxious about having the correct money for the bus.  The walking stick.  Her constant companion for the past nine months, only ever replaced by the support and comfort of her husband’s arm.

She went back in and gave the dog another hug, knowing that she was procrastinating.  It was time to go. Her heart pounded as she pulled on her coat, filled the pockets with the items she needed immediately and pushed her arms through the straps of the rucksack.

Locking the door was achievable, so was walking down the garden path to the point where the dog regularly watered the shrubs by the front door. Opening the gate was harder.  She took a deep breath and hurried through, pulling it closed behind with a clang.  The stick!  She forgot the walking stick! Retracing her steps with a speed that had been alien to her for so many months, she unlocked the door, grabbed the hated stick, locked up again and was back onto the pavement before she realised it.

She checked her watch. Only seven minutes to get to the bus stop! Concentrate. Walk fast but don’t fall.  The stick will help you.  She could see people waiting at the bus stop.  Would they ask the driver to wait for her if they saw her hobbling down the road? Would she fall? Would she lie there like a stranded fish; unable to get up, embarrassed by the concern and kindness of other people again?

She put on an exceptionally brave spurt of speed and got to the bus stop with time to spare, joining the queue of elderly people and their walking sticks.  She looked down at hers, feeling less resentful and more grateful for the support it had provided.

The bus arrived. There were plenty of seats. The Midas card worked and as she picked up her ticket and sat down, she could feel some of the anxieties ebbing away; each one a hurdle that she had overcome.

She checked her watch again. On time and only one more obstacle along the way.

As the bus neared town, she felt herself grow cold. As she approached the scene of the accident she grew hot again. For nine months they had driven the other way, had avoided the place where the careless driver had hit her as she crossed the road, throwing her into the air and against a wall, where she lay, winded, confused and in such pain. Nine months ago.

Nine months of struggling to walk again.  Nine months of being too afraid to go out alone in case she fell. Nine months of falling in the house, of not being strong enough to take the dog out for a walk, of needing her husband’s arm to support her.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying desperately hard not to panic. She had to do this.

The bus stopped and opening her eyes, she realised that the danger had passed.  They were at the bus station.  She was safe again.  She got to her feet to join the other passengers and as she and the stick got off the bus she heard a sound that made her smile and banished all the fear. She turned and saw her friend, grinning like a loon and hurrying towards her.

“Sally! You did it! I’m so proud of you! ”

 

Apr 2 2014

‘Seconds Away! Round Two’

Saturday afternoons. ‘World of Sport‘ in the mid 1960s.

Curled up on the sofa next to her beloved Daddy for a whole three-quarters of an hour that seemed to go in a flash.

A fair-haired tomboy who lived for the moment that her Daddy came home from work mid-afternoon, reveled in the joy that was British wrestling, then stole quietly from the room so as not to disturb him whilst he listened to the final scores and checked his pools coupon.

Jackie Pallo, Mick McManus, Kendo Nagasaki, Big Daddy (why would anyone call a boy Shirley?) and best of all, Les Kellett.

It never occurred to her that anyone got hurt when they wrestled; they seemed to be made of india-rubber, and although there were times when her funny hero Les appeared to have been worn out and in pain, she learned quickly that this was just part of his act.  He would be on the verge of collapse but once his opponent had been lulled into a false sense of security, Les would come back with a vengeance and wipe the floor with him.

Together the child and her Daddy shouted encouragement and hissed at the designated ‘baddy’ who in turn was hurling mild insults at the umbrella wielding grannies ringside. It was real and scary and exciting; at that time there was little talk of fixing matches and the limited black and white camera shots showed only what the producers wanted the public to see.

It was bliss. It belonged to a time when she was Daddy’s little ‘Chuckles’.  A time when she first encountered the consequences of choice.  Coming home on the bus from her Auntie’s house in the early evening.  Should she fall asleep leaning against the warm cloth of Daddy’s coat sleeve, then be carried home in his loving arms and put straight to bed.  Or should she stay awake, enjoy the ride, skip home holding his hand and have  the luxury of a few extra minutes before it was bedtime?

Mummy was home; laughter and mock anger, the shaking fist whenever they tried to take a photograph of her, the steak and kidney pie which always had a little bit of pastry left over so that the child could make a grey and grimy jam tart.  Mummy was the one that read books and answered questions.  If she didn’t know then the four handsome blue and gold-bound volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica did.

It was a time of few complications. Of a large and loving family, of sunny evenings playing out with her friends, of learning to ride a friend’s bicycle, despite it being too big and the cause of her falling off often only to get straight back on it again.  The fearlessness of this action impressed her Daddy so much that he walked five miles to the nearest bicycle shop, bought a bicycle that they could ill-afford and proudly walked it back home. To see the look of joy on the child’s face and watch her, wobbling at first but growing in confidence as she rode round and round the grassy triangle outside the house, it made it all worthwhile.

Halcyon days with no indication of the storms to come.

In any relationship between two people there will be issues and challenges. Opposites may attract but the strength of a relationship depends not on the ability of one person to change the other, but on the desire to adapt to each other, to grow together or to part before any real damage is done.

Take a volatile woman with ambitions; with a need to acquire knowledge and experiences.

Take a man with a tendency to dark moods; with a history of war horrors and a need for quiet domesticity.

Take a child who loved them both dearly and who was growing distressed by her Daddy’s constant pleas that she would stay with him and always be his Chuckles, and by the increasing amount of time that her mother was spending at work .

The storm broke late one night. Her Mummy had been out at work, her Daddy had been particularly sad and demanding when she had wanted to be left to read her book.  She had felt resentful towards both of them and went off to bed early.  Raised voices from downstairs woke her and the child was witness to the sight of her Mummy, knife in hand, being strangled by her beloved Daddy.  The presence of the screaming child brought them to their senses and they backed away from each other, not realising that the scene would be imprinted in the child’s memory for many years, and that she would always feel that she was the cause of their separation.

Bags were packed, a taxi called and the child left with her Mummy in the middle of the night. She was shocked by the sudden change of circumstances and guilty because she felt that somehow, it must be her fault for having been cross with her parents.

She saw her Daddy once but the visit was spoiled by his insistence that her Mummy was a bad woman who had split the family up.  She wanted reassurance from him but all she got was anger and hurt.  She concentrated on her relationship with her Mummy from then on and her anger became focused instead on her Daddy.

The child stayed away from him for five years. Her Mum remarried and the child became a resentful and truculent teenager.

Adolescence raises many questions and circumstances led to a reconciliation.  An unspoken decision between the girl and her Dad meant that they never discussed her Mum.  The girl visited him once a week and ate his overcooked meals and eye-watering pickled onions with a love that repaired their separation.

There was no need for choice anymore.  She loved them both and the passage of time had mellowed the hurt for all of them.

The girl became a woman and after a series of wrong turnings, she found the right man.  Her Mum loved him and so did her Dad.  She knew she had made the right choice and was determined that if they had children, they would never have to experience the sudden shock of separation as she had, would never be frightened  by the murderous anger between two people who once loved each other.

Both parents are gone now but they lived to see their children make happy marriages and to know their beloved grandchildren.

For a long time the woman continued to blame herself for the events that led up to that night when she so nearly lost both her parents.  Eventually, and with some help, she realised that her parents – as adults – were  responsible for all that happened.  How could she, as a child, possibly have influenced their actions?  Her presence had not caused the split but it had certainly prevented a potential death and incarceration.

She broached the subject with her Mum some years after her Dad’s death, only to find that time had eroded the details of that night and been minimised to a minor spat, engineered by her Mum because she needed to escape the marriage so desperately.

The woman was glad that she had never discussed it with her Dad.

Saturday afternoons. Seconds Away!  Round Two.

 

Apr 1 2014

‘Won’t get fooled again’ The Who

I don’t remember exactly when we first met him.  It’s been twenty-five years now and memory has the fortunate trick of losing those details that are irrelevant or unpleasant.

He was a young chap; slim, active, passably good-looking, with the ability to charm the women  and be blokey to the men. Everyone else in our social circle thought he was a great guy and welcomed him into their homes. Right from the start he gave me a feeling of unease that I couldn’t explain so I did my best to be pleasant too.

None of us were well off and most of the group had small children.  An evening out usually consisted of sitting in someone else’s house, drinking endless cups of cheap coffee, putting the world to rights and watching videos – yes, it was that long ago. We were more mobile than everyone else because we hadn’t started our family yet but we lived on the other side of town  so we were never in the habit of just dropping in on anyone.

We spent many such happy evenings at the home of my oldest friend and her husband.  They had three small children and we enjoyed helping them  with bathing and bedtime, then settling down for a companionable evening.  We were arranging our wedding for the following year and our friends were very much involved.  I always phoned ahead though, to check that they had no other plans and that we were welcome.

Occasionally there would be a bit of a party amongst our group, where we all contributed food and drink; liasing with each other beforehand so that there wasn’t a plethora of garlic bread – the must-have ingredient for any social scene at the time but not so enjoyable if there was nothing else to eat.

A few weeks after the young man had appeared in our midst, I noticed that he had taken to dropping in on my friends.  No courtesy call, just turning up on the doorstep, sometimes with a bottle of wine or some biscuits, usually empty-handed but always with his winning smile.

We were polite at first; after all, our friends liked him and we had no right to dictate about who came to their house, but he had a tendency to dominate the conversation and there were times when we found that we couldn’t talk freely when he was around.  He had taken to repeating things we’d  said, to other friends, and always with a little extra added – of his own invention.  We laughed it off  and said that he must have mis-heard but I was beginning to feel that the young man was out to cause mischief – and we were the targets

I mentioned this to my friend.  She laughed and said she’d have a word with him but that she was sure that he meant no harm.  I wanted to tell her how uncomfortable he made me feel but I said nothing.

It wasn’t so bad when he turned up mid-evening; we’d already had a chance to spend some time with our friends and their children.  We’d often make our excuses and leave earlier than was our habit. Then the pattern changed and we’d arrive at our usual time only to find that he was already there, had helped with bedtime and was ensconced on the sofa, grinning – perhaps smirking – or was that just my imagination?

The only mobile phones around in those days were huge black monsters that made you look ridiculous so I continued to phone from home first before we visited. If my friend told me that the young man was already there, I’d make more excuses and cancel.  I felt a distance growing between us; my dearest friend was in thrall to this young man and could see no wrong in him.  I made some vague mention about his always being there  and her response was full of empathy; how he had nowhere else to go, no family in the area, had no phone so he couldn’t call first and see if they were busy, and how helpful he had been to her, especially when her husband was at work.  I said nothing.

A couple of weeks later we attended my friend’s birthday party.  Life was busy and it was easy enough to manufacture reasons for staying away in the meantime but we had missed our friends. Missed the children and the late night badinage.  We couldn’t help but feel resentful towards this cuckoo in the nest but we said nothing and set off for the party with our wine and garlic bread.

Needless to say he was already in control of the party.  Filling glasses, handing round food, chatting as he passed from couple to couple, and always with that charming smile.

Because we hadn’t been round for a while, we were greeted by our friends with even more enthusiasm than usual, and as we hugged, I glanced over my friend’s shoulder and saw the young man staring.  His smile had been replaced by a glare of such malevolence that it sent a shiver down my spine.

I spent the evening avoiding him but as we were putting our coats on to go home, he came up to us, all smiles and arms outstretched.   He gave me a hug and whispered in my ear “You can’t beat me, you bitch.  I always win.” He backed away, still smiling and rejoined the party.

I told my husband-to-be as soon as we were safely in the car.  We were due to go away on holiday later that month and decided that this would be a good enough reason to keep out of the way.  I felt saddened by the loss of time with our friends and frightened by the evil I  had heard in the young man’s voice and seen in his eyes.  What was it that he wanted to win? What was the prize? Was it just to have our friends to himself, or had he realised that because I had seen through the unctuous manner to the unpleasant persona beneath, I was a threat to him?

We had a lovely holiday and tried to forget about what had happened at the party.  We sent a postcard to our friends and hoped that they were okay.

On returning home we found that the answer phone was full of messages.  I rewound the tape.

The first message was from my friend.  She sounded strange; nervous giggles punctuated a tale of how she had come down from settling the children for bed to find that her husband had been called into work, and that the young man was vacuuming the front room. Except that he was naked apart from her apron. She said that she laughed, then told him to put his clothes back on, before running back upstairs to her children. She picked up the extension phone to call her husband at work but all she could hear was heavy breathing on the line. She felt trapped and was so terrified that she pulled a heavy chest of drawers across the door and sat huddled on the floor between beds and the sleeping children.

She thought she heard the front door slam but wasn’t prepared to go downstairs in case it was a trick.  Gingerly she had picked up the phone and on hearing the dialling tone, called her husband and begged him to come home.  She was still upstairs behind the barred door when he returned but the young man had gone, leaving the apron and the vacuum cleaner in the middle of the front room.

Neither of them were sure if it was a joke; my friend had often said that one of her fantasies was to have a handsome young man in an apron do her housework for her, but it was then that my friend remembered my misgivings about the young man. My friend needed to let me know that she understood my discomfort and that was why she left the message on my answerphone.

The next message was from another of our friends. They had come home from work to find all the lights on in the house, and the young man sitting in their living room watching their TV and drinking their coffee.  He said that he had come round to see them and thought they were being burgled so he climbed in through a window and checked the house for them before making himself at home. They politely asked him to leave and when he had gone, they found money and some small but treasured items were missing.

There were two more messages from other friends; the first stating that the young man had turned up at their house in tears claiming that we had been spreading rumours about him and trying to turn everyone against him. The second was from a friend who lived alone.  She sounded scared.  She had forgotten that we were away.  The young man was outside her house, banging on the door and screaming at her to open it. She rang off saying that she was dialling 999.

We phoned her first to check that she was okay.  The call had been made two days earlier. I felt relieved when she picked up the phone.  The reign of terror had begun the day we went on holiday. No one had seen the young man since that evening.  He ran off before the police arrived and there were signs that he had packed up and left his flat when the police called there looking for him. The items that had been removed from our other friends were left in the middle of the floor. Just trophies.

Things returned to  – whatever normal is  – after that.  We carried on planning the wedding; no one spoke about the young man again and though I desperately wanted to jump up and down shouting “I told you there was something strange about him.”  Was he mad or bad or both? I said nothing.

Several months later my friend received a postcard from the young man. He had moved to another seaside town, changed his name and become very involved with the gay community there.  He said that his actions were due to a nervous breakdown and apologised for his behaviour.  He blamed me because I had never made him feel welcome.  My friend tore up the card and gave me a hug.

Since then I have come across a handful of people who evoked the same feelings of unease.  Without exception my first impressions have turned out to be correct, although friends and colleagues have been charmed and chided me for being too judgemental.  No one ever says “Sorry, you were right all along” when the person finally shows their true colours.

I know who my real friends are these days and who I can rely on.

Caution is my watchword.

Won’t get fooled again.

 

 

 

 

Feb 16 2014

“Rage, rage against the dying of the light” Dylan Thomas

Something written a couple of years ago after my lovely step dad died in hospital; his ending was not as we would have wanted it to be, not what he deserved.

It was her stillness that first caught his attention.  Glimpsed through a half-open door; she was serene.  Other visitors watched the television screen, read magazines, kept up a stream of inane chatter and occasionally fell asleep.  She did none of these things but sat quietly holding the hand of the man in the bed.  A man who slept most of the time but when he was awake, shouted and screamed foul abuse at her.

Ben marvelled at her composure.  He had been in his new job for two days and could see her from his office across the corridor.  He never heard her so much as raise her voice in response to the vile accusations and recriminations that poured forth and polluted the otherwise tranquil atmosphere of the hospice.  Fearful for this woman’s safety, Ben sought advice from his supervisor Marian.  She had smiled at him benignly.

“Speak to her.  It’s the only way that you’ll understand.  I could tell you all about them but not as eloquently as she can.  Her name is Lily.” She looked at her watch.   “I expect you’ll see her out in the corridor in about half an hour when the nurses carry out their obs.  Take her for a coffee?”

Ben returned to the office and left the door wide open.  He wanted to cheat and check the computer system but Marian’s words had made him curious and he felt that he owed it to this obviously dedicated woman to let her explain why she suffered the abuse so calmly.

A sound in the corridor outside made him look up and Lily was standing in the doorway.  He got to his feet quickly and walked towards her, extending his hand.

“Hi, my name’s Ben.  I’m new here. I’m an advocate; I speak for people who don’t have anyone who can make their wishes known.”

She took his hand in both of hers; warm soft hands that gripped but didn’t crush.  “Marian asked me to come and see you whilst the nurses are seeing to my Tommy.  Are you free to come for coffee?”

“Yes,” he replied, slightly taken aback. “I’d love to.”

Closing the office door behind him, he followed her into the lounge and Lily poured them both some filter coffee.  She led the way to two armchairs that had a view of the sensory garden; a place guaranteed to both stimulate and soothe.  Ben could smell lavender and rosemary in the breeze.

“I hope Tommy hasn’t disturbed you; he does shout so but he doesn’t mean any of it.”  Lily took a sip of coffee and smiled at Ben.

“I was a bit concerned; for you having to listen to all that abuse.”

She shook her head and smiled again.  “He would never hurt me.  We’ve been together sixty years and he never so much as raised a hand to me.  We’ve always sorted things out between us.  I wish you could have known him when he was younger.”

“Sixty years is a long time to be married.” said Ben.

“He was such a charmer; when I first met him he was running a greengrocer’s.  My friend Sylvia introduced me to him and I used to pop into the shop in my lunch hour.  I worked in the haberdasher’s across the road.  He was a stickler for business though.   If I went into the shop for just an apple I had to pay for it, but when he took me out for the evening he’d pay for everything and make me feel really special.  He was so dashing; always well-turned out.  He’d been around a bit too, he did his National Service in the RAF and I think I fell in love with him the first time I saw him in uniform.”  Lily giggled and smiled to herself, remembering the moment and the handsome young man in his airforce blue.

Ben still looked dubious and she leaned across and touched his hand.   “We have two children; two lovely girls.  They married well and I have seven grandchildren and three great-grandchildren all together.  Not all of them live close by any more but they visit regularly, and we used to go and stay with them till Tommy took ill.  My eldest granddaughter keeps asking me to have a break from all this but I can’t leave him, not now.”

“This must be terribly draining for you.  Marian says you stay here all the time.” said Ben.

“No, no.  I have a little break when the nurses see to him.  He doesn’t like me to be present when they do the personal things.  Tommy’s always been a proud man like that. He’s in so much pain and I can’t bear the thought of not being there when he finally leaves me.  The only time we’ve ever been parted was when I was in hospital after I had the first baby.  I had my second at home.  They didn’t make such a fuss about having babies at home then.  You just got on with it.  Like dying really.  Part of me wants Tommy to let go; just go to sleep and not wake up but that’s not what we agreed to.”

“What do you mean?” asked Ben.

“My Tommy didn’t hold with painkillers.  He wouldn’t even have a jab when he went to the dentist, and when he started getting these pains in his stomach I had the devil’s own job getting him to the doctor.  I only went with him the once, after that he went on his own and he wouldn’t tell me what the consultant said.  He didn’t want to worry me but of course I knew things weren’t right.  He stopped eating and drinking; I tried everything to tempt him but nothing appealed to him.  I came home from doing some shopping with my granddaughter and found him on the floor.  His hands and feet were purple and swollen; I’d only been out a couple of hours.  We had to call an ambulance and I thought he was going to die.”  She gasped a little at the memory and pulled a tissue from her cardigan sleeve, dabbing it at her eyes but smiling nevertheless.

“Tommy won’t take the drugs that would help him.  He says that they will take his memories away; he wanted to see my face and always know that I was there with him.  The doctors and nurses tried to explain to him that the pain would become unbearable and that there were things they could do to keep him comfortable but he won’t have it.  It comes in waves you see, the pain.  He sleeps for a while but when he wakes up it hurts him so much and the only way he can cope is to shout and scream at me.  He doesn’t mean those dreadful things and he can’t say them to anyone but me because no one else in the world loves him the way I do.  No one else understands him like me.  Marian says that eventually his body will stop fighting but his mind is still so alive and scared.”

“I could sit with him, if you wanted a longer break, to get out of here for a while.”  Ben desperately wanted to do something but no amount of training could help him think of any other way to help.  She took his hand in hers again and shook her head gently.

“Bless you.  You are such a lovely young man.  He wouldn’t be happy if I wasn’t there and I couldn’t bear that.  Our time together is precious; I love to watch him sleeping peacefully but when he wakes and shouts, that’s when I see my Tommy again.  I know that I have a heart full of memories and that I’ll never lose them, but Tommy is still here and being the man that he is, he can’t go down without a fight.”  She rummaged in her handbag and brought out a small green leather-covered book, the gilt lettering on the cover worn off through much use.

“Do you know the work of Dylan Thomas at all?  I love his poems.  My granddaughter bought me this little book because I remembered a poem we were taught at school. “Do not go gentle into that good night, rage, rage against the dying of the light’.  Such beautiful words, and so true to the way I feel about my Tommy.  Anger isn’t always a bad thing Ben.  If you’re going to make a career out of this advocacy thing, you need to look at things from all sides before you make your mind up.  You’d written my Tommy off as a bully and marked me down as a victim but I’ve had a happy life and I’ve no doubt that my children and their children will do their best to make sure my life is as good as possible once Tommy has gone.  I must get back to him now.  I’ll see you tomorrow I hope.”

He watched her go; squaring her shoulders in readiness for the next onslaught and felt humbled.

Ben arrived early the next morning; fired up with a new determination to listen more and keep his mind open.  The door to Tommy’s room was ajar but Lily wasn’t there.  Ben knocked on Marian’s door.

“Where’s Lily?  I really enjoyed meeting her yesterday. I have a few more questions for her though.”

Marian motioned him to sit down.  “She died just after midnight.  A massive coronary and totally unexpected.  It was Tommy’s shouting that alerted us.  We had to sedate him; not a choice we wanted to take in view of his strong feelings about pain relief but there’s no one to sit with him, his family are on the way but won’t be here for some hours.”

“I’ll sit with him.  I’d like to – for Lily’s sake.”

Ben sat next to the bed and steeled himself for the time when Tommy came round from the sedative.   This was what it was really about; making sure that Tommy had his wishes respected even though Lily couldn’t be there to see him rage against the dying of the light.

Frail, confused, in pain and sometimes wanting to give up the fight –  we can’t choose the ending but we can show tolerance and compassion to those who are vulnerable, whether their history is known to us or not.  Spare a thought for those who care because it doesn’t always come easy.

 

Jan 17 2012

Obsessive compulsive but personable – part 7

The fine drizzle that had started just before the end of the fireworks was turning into a steady downpour and temporarily put a dampener on any passion.  Rich grabbed Julia’s hand and they ran in through the nearest patio door; managing to avoid most of the would-be gamblers and finding themselves in a deserted lounge.  Julia sat down on a high-backed chair, determined not to get into another clinch, Rich grinned and lounged on a small sofa opposite.

“So, what are we talking about then?” he asked.

Julia shrugged, “We don’t have to talk.  We can go and spend money that we haven’t got or dance to music that we don’t really like, or …”

“,,,or?  What do you want to do Julia?”

At that moment, she really wasn’t sure.  There was a part of her that wanted to throw caution to the winds and drag Rich up to her room, but at that point the fantasy changed into a reality and she started to think of the practicalities: which bed would they use?  Would Rich rather they went to his room and would he send her back to her own room afterwards because he wanted his own space?  If he decided to stay the night with her, would he stay in her single bed or move into Angela’s?  Would he need to have a shower immediately afterwards?  Would he think her disgusting if she didn’t have a shower immediately afterwards?  Whilst she felt she had a grasp of most of Rich’s compulsions, the complexity of his disorder could spring any number of surprises and she began to wonder if she wasn’t too old and set in her ways to cope with anything as new and unsettling as embarking on an affair with a man half her age and with enough compulsions to satisfy the research needs of all the crusty academics at the conference and still have some left over.

Undoubtedly Rich had already thought of all these things, but would he have come up with solutions or was he waiting for her to come up with them? Julia suddenly felt tired, very tired and very middle-aged. Had she completely lost the knack of all this flirting business, was she just woefully out of practice or was it just that her current lifestyle was far more appealing?

Rich had been waiting patiently for some kind of a response to his question but his paranoia began to creep in.   He leaned forward and tapped her gently on the knee.  It made her jump and brought her back to reality.

“Sorry Rich.  I was turning things over in my head.  What is it that you want to do?  I don’t want to impose myself on you.”

“You aren’t.  Let’s go upstairs to my room and talk.  All the time we’re down here there’s a possibility that scary Amanda will come and talk to me about a friend who washes her hands at least a hundred times a day and is therefore just like me.”

He had a point.  Julia laughed and stood up.  She felt that Rich had sobered up enough to be rational about whatever he decided to do.  The hotel lobby was empty save for the night porter behind the reservations desk.  He was engrossed in a book and barely acknowledged them as they walked past.  Rich counted the stairs on the way back up and seemed gratified to find that no one had added another step during the evening.

It took three swipes before the key card unlocked the door to Rich’s room, he stepped aside and ushered Julia through.  Once inside she put her bag down precisely on the coffee table, waiting to see if he would put it somewhere else that felt was more appropriate to him.  The bag stayed where it was.    She watched him going through the ritual of checking that the door was shut properly and that the card was placed, together with his car keys, in the ornamental ashtray on the dressing table.  That done he turned back to her and took her in his arms once more; not kissing her yet but holding her very closely.

“I still want to know why you can know what I want to do before I do it.  I know you said that you’d read my book and seen me on the television but so have a lot of other people and they don’t seem anywhere as empathic or understanding as you.”

She could feel his lips against her neck; soft butterfly kisses that were making her stomach flip.  She shivered and tried to keep some hold on what she thought was reality.

“My parents were devoted to each other and that made it much easier for my father to function fairly normally.  My mother had a stroke though and died shortly afterwards.  Losing her made his world fall apart.  My kids were still young then but they were out at school all day, Andy works in promotions and was away most of the time.  I became my father’s carer and had to learn how to deal with his compulsions.  I have a few of my own – as do we all and probably as a consequence of all the time O spent with Dad, and I must admit some of my compulsions are bothering me right now.”

“Should we compare compulsions?  Mine are rearing their ugly heads too.”

Julia smiled and broke away from him, seating herself on the winged armchair by the window.  Rich perched on the bed, watching her intently and absent-mindedly pleating the green floral cover between his fingers.

“Who’s going first?  This could be excruciatingly painful.”

Julia shook her head.  “It doesn’t need to be.  If we can be honest with each other there won’t be a problem – or not as much of a problem anyway.  This is what I meant by damage limitation.  Tell me what you want to do Rich?”

He took a deep breath and got to his feet; walking slowly towards the window before stopping and turning to Julia.

“If you’ve read my book you’ll know how crap I am at relationships.  You’ll also know that I haven’t been in a relationship with anyone for some time and that I have an uncanny knack of screwing things up before they even begin.  That said, the people I meet usually see me as an oddity, they’re often initially attracted to me by the celebrity thing, but ultimately annoyed or repulsed by the level of my compulsions.  You’ve almost made me feel normal today – or at least acceptable anyway.  Not only that but I’m very attracted to you and if I wasn’t such a neurotic mess I would have dragged you into bed by now and we’d be making mad, passionate love – probably.”  Rich gave a nervous laugh and Julia could see that he was afraid he’d said too much and offended her. She looked down at her hands; trying to focus on something in the room that wasn’t part f the fantasy.

“Does it help if I say that the feeling is mutual?” said Julia.   “I’m very attracted to you and it has nothing to do with the celebrity status.  I can’t deny that your compulsions fascinate me but they certainly don’t repulse me.  I wish I could allow myself to be dragged into bed without any thought for the consequences of my actions but that’s an area where my own issues lie.  My mind is currently so occupied with practicalities that I’m almost as stressed as you are.”

“Tell me about the practicalities then?”

“Okay.  I’m too old to go ripping off my clothes in hotel rooms.  If I’m going to do anything in a bed I like to have brushed my teeth, had a quick wash and be wearing the appropriate apparel.  Anything other than sleep also demands a dab of Chanel No 5 behind each ear and at least a trace of lipstick.  You have a king size bed, I have two singles.  Your room is more suited to mad passionate love-making but I can’t even think about anything like that when all my belongings are next door?”

“We could bring them in here?”

“We could but we’re still both a bit drunk and things look different in the cold light of day.  Do either of us want to experience that awful feeling of regret tomorrow?  Do I want to find myself curled up in a strange bed with a man who feels embarrassed by his indiscretion of the night before and is inwardly cringing?”

“You’re doing both of us an injustice now.  Do you think I’m that shallow – or that I would find you unattractive when I’m sober?  I was sober this morning when you rescued me from the receptionist, and when we had lunch together.  The alcohol this evening has made me more brave but not foolhardy.”

“I’m too old for one-night stands and too wise to expect anything more.”

“I’m too insecure to risk getting into relationships that I know will be doomed by my own issues.  That’s why I’ve spent so much time avoiding them. You’re the first person for such a long time that I’ve actually relaxed with. Perhaps you can save me from myself? Or am I asking too much?”

“Oh Rich.  Life must be so easy for people who can be spontaneous. “

“Messy though.”

“Yes, messy.  I agree but at the moment we’re both tiptoeing around each other.  We’re both scared of committing to anything that might disrupt our nice ordered lives, to causing offence to each other by saying or doing the wrong thing and at the same time we’re both desperate to be held; to be wanted by someone else for however brief a moment that might be.”

Rich sat down on the bed again, his head in his hands and Julia had to fight very hard against the impulse to go to him and push all the fears and compulsions aside. Somebody had to make a decision and however hard it was, she knew it had to be her. She stood up, a little unsteadily.

“Thank you for inviting me into your space Rich, but if I share it with you tonight you’ll have nowhere left to go but home.  I’m going back to my own room now.  I’m going to get changed for bed, have a wash and clean my teeth. I may watch a little late night TV.  I’m going to leave Angela’s key card next to the phone here so you won’t get it mixed up with your own.  If you feel the need for company, for someone to hold you or you find a spider in your bath, feel free to use it.  There’s a spare bed in there and no one has slept in it so you can still have your own space.  I won’t be offended if you stay where you are and I’d love to have breakfast with you in the morning if you want me to.  I’m very much looking forward to hearing you speak again tomorrow and the time we’ve spent together has been a delight.“

Stopping briefly to drop a kiss on top of his head, she left the key card by the phone and returned to her room without waiting for the response that she knew he was trying desperately to make.

Julia got ready for bed; enjoying the softness of the old blue cotton nightshirt she always took with her when she went away.  She looked in the mirror after brushing her hair and removing almost all of her make up and didn’t feel too disappointed by what she saw.  A faint wisp of hope made her pick up the perfume bottle and dab it in the appropriate places.  Most of her lipstick had gone but there was still enough to prevent her from looking thin-lipped and washed out.

Her own damage imitation system had set in now; weighing up all the cons that might be involved in a relationship with Rich.  She’d spent years having her life dominated by her father’s neuroses and her husband’s infidelities. Her life now was what she had built for herself; rules set by her in accordance with her own wants and needs.  A home of her own with all her books and precious things, a front door that when locked kept the world outside away from her, a job that fulfilled her, good friends and a loving family who knew when to visit and when to leave.  Spike was the only unpredictable force in her life and provided he was fed, watered, walked and cuddled regularly, he didn’t really present a problem.  Did she really need any complications in her life right now?

Half an hour of waiting was enough; Julia turned out the bedside light and rolled over onto her favourite side clutching a pillow instead of the lonely, lovely man next door.

On the other side of the wall Rich sat in the bath.  There was no water.  Just Rich, wrapped in a dressing gown, in a foetal curl with a bath towel over his head to block out any outside intrusions.  He often sat like this for hours at home.  It felt safe from everything in the world that bothered him.  But Julia hadn’t bothered him.  She had understood him and made sure that so many of the things in life that irritated and disrupted him on a daily basis were taken care off.  Even his mother didn’t have as much insight into the devils that ruled his life.  He weighed up the pros and cons of his situation.  He liked Julia.  He enjoyed her company and she seemed to enjoy his.  She had her own life, she must be successful in whatever it was that she did – or she wouldn’t be able to afford to employ Angela as a PA.  She had salvaged his weekend and made him feel that perhaps there might be someone there who could do more than just tolerate him. But what did he have to give back?  A picture rose in his mind of a relationship with Julia that consisted of him visiting her but always going back to his own house, his own space.  Would that be enough?  It would suit him surely but would Julia want more than that?  Would she be able to tell him or would their relationship be doomed to more endless pussyfooting around for fear of offending each other.

At exactly three o’clock in the morning Julia heard a noise that made her stomach flip and dispelled every con she could think of.  She smiled sleepily as she pictured Rich slipping into Angela’s bed only a few feet away and she was happy that he felt safe enough to leave his own space in order to share the room with her.

There was a slight draft however as the duvet moved and she felt his body, slightly chilled and not very relaxed, climb in beside her.   The last of the cons flew out the window, to be replaced by the discovery that their mutual need seemed to have triumphed.  Things would never be the same again but nothing else mattered when she turned to him and he kissed her.