'The Tree at Christmas' by Peter Hodges

He was the only one who heard the tree. He, the youngest of the household, the last child, the forgotten child some used to say. His were the only ears to hear the tree. The stories were for him and him alone, and this the boy knew. Each year at Christmas the tree told a new story, each more magical and more mysterious than the one before. Each year the tree was taken from its place in the forest, put into the tub, and brought to its place next to the hearth. In those days it was an open fire, a blaze of logs that sent sparks shooting like stars up into the great wide chimney. The boy would sit and watch them as the tree told its story, until the fire died and it was time for bed. In the morning the hearth would be spread with ash as white as the snow outside, and the tree would be silent. No more than a tree from the forest, or so it was said.
But the tree spoke to the boy. When the others were out and he was alone, he would sit quietly and listen. At first it would whisper and he would strain to hear. Then it became louder as if enthused by the tale it had to tell, then louder still, often to shake with laughter, branches trembling, needles falling to the floor. Sometimes its voice would boom right from its very centre, from roots set in the tub of dark forest earth, as if the whole wild forest was inside bursting to be heard.
The boy was too small to go out into the forest. All day he would sit by the fire, comfortable in the little chair that had been made for him. So close to the tree that its branches brushed his cheeks. Pale cheeks, but warm. The tree had a name for the boy, once whispered like a secret, which it was, and the boy's pale cheeks warmed the more. The tree did that, made the boy glow with its story. The boy would listen all day long, until darkness came. Then the others would return, his mother and father, brothers and sisters, bringing with them all their rush of noise and coldness, thrusting their tingling fingers toward the fire. Then the magic of the tree was gone.
Once when the boy told the others what he had heard they merely smiled and said it was his imagination. They would humour him, content that he was content, it eased their minds to know that he was, in his own way, not alone while they were out. But the boy did not listen to them. He listened only to the tree. Each year as Christmas drew close, he would hear stories that brought happiness and joy, that were magical and full of wonder. Yet they were told piece by piece, a jumble of happenings. As if the tree enjoyed making a riddle out of the tale, it was for the boy to unravel what the story was about, its beginning and end and all that between. One year the story was about a king in a far off land who planted new forests, next was of a wise man who lived among the trees, another was of a forester who grew many kinds of trees. But best of all were those stories of adventure and mystery and always ending with the forest full of joy and happiness. And every year the last part of the story, that part that made all the rest fit together, was told on the last day of Christmas, and last of all was whispered his secret name as if he was one who did these wondrous things. Then, after all the festivities were over, and the cottage fell quiet, then so did the tree, as if making ready to leave its place by the hearth and return to its place in the forest.
When the spring came the tree would grow a little more. Now it would listen to the trees around for these were bigger trees and knew so much more. The wind would fill their branches, their breath would fill the forest, and their whispers would follow on the wind. The tree would grow and listen, grow taller and stronger, and listen more. The warm summer sun coloured and ripened its needles, and all the goodness of the earth filled to their very tips. When autumn came, and the shortening days brought first frosts, the tree thought of the hearth in the cottage, and the warmth there, and the boy in his chair, ready to hear again the tales it had to tell from the forest.
But then came the Christmas when boy was grown into a man. Now the tree did not return to the hearth. The empty tub was cast aside. Now the man was busy for he had family of his own. Then his youngest, a boy as he once was, asked of the forest, and the man related the stories told to him by the tree. But passing years had mellowed the memory. Now they were the man's stories and not those of the tree. Yet he was reminded of his time sitting and listening, the tree laughing, needles tumbling, the tub shaking. That Christmas the man went out to look for the tree. He went alone, anxious that he may not find it. The snow was thick in the air and on the ground, and the wind was strong. The man filled his chest and pushed on into the forest. The trees waved and swung, their whispering branches now a noise so loud that no other sound could be heard. They seemed to beckon the man. "You must come," they called to him. "You must come, you must hurry, hurry, hurry…" And with his powerful stride he thrust through the snow, thrust through bramble and thicket until he came to the tree. And there the wind paused, the noise became a whisper, the forest fell silent. The tree lay on the ground before him broken and covered with snow. The man spoke to it. He re-told the stories he knew, but they were his now and not those of the tree, and there came no answer. He hurried back, found his son, but had nothing to tell except that the tree was fallen, and the stories gone, and the secret name he had been given gone also.
"No, Father," cried the boy. "I know the name. It is hidden in the stories you told me many, many times. Take me to the tree. Let me speak to it."
Sweeping his son up onto his shoulder the man set out into the forest once more. Driven along now by boy's laughter, the small hands tugging at his hair, through snow and bramble, to that place. Here, the man set down the boy on the fallen trunk, and gently at first, as if unsure, the first stories began. And hidden in them, among the riddles and twists, was the name the tree had given. Beneath his feet, the boy felt the trunk tremble. A little snow fell away. Then more as the boy, encouraged now by his father, raised his voice, unravelled the riddles. A shiver came, the old tree shook. The trees around waved and whispered, and the boy paused to hear, to see around, to look where he was told to look, and there tucked beside the old trunk, nurtured and protected, was the youngest, smallest little tree the boy had ever seen.
"Take it," the forest around seemed to say. "Take it and listen to the stories it has to tell."
Carefully, the man eased the sapling from the ground. Undoing his shirt he laid it against his warm skin. They hurried back to the cottage, the tub was quickly found and filled with soil, and the tree was set down by the hearth and there to feel the warmth of the fire.
Now, each year at Christmas, it is again the youngest who listens to the tree. The others never ask. Only he will the know the secrets told of the forest by the tree at Christmas.

'A Living Doll' by Jan Lloyd

It was difficult to sleep, especially next to my Gran who would rise several times in the night to use the chamber pot under the bed. My brother was in the "Z" bed alongside us and I could hear him starting to giggle when our Gran rose for the umpteenth time. I had drawn the meterphorical short straw so it was me who had to share the hugh feather bed with Gran and endure her bedtime habits. The false teeth in the cup on the bedside cabinet, watching her as she removed layers of clothing and strange corsetry and under garments and of course the "chamberpot"!
It was Christmas Eve 1960 and my brother and I were awaiting the arrival of Father Christmas hoping he'd received the letter explaining that we would be staying in South Wales at Gran's house.
The main present I wished for was a doll which I'd seen in a magazine. The advert read, "A real life, walking, talking, living doll". As I sank into the warm feather mattress my imagination of what to expect took over and then started to dream of this new modern doll I was to have which, according to the advert, came from America, even more exotic I thought. My brother had asked for a Hornby train set and I could've sworn I'd seen the box amongst our belongings as we boarded the train with our parents to travel to South Wales. Maybe not but I was beginning to have doubts about Father Christmas's existence having overheard my friend Brenda telling my brother that it was really our Mums and Dads that bought the presents. At aged seven I was prepared to prolong the fantasy a little longer so eventually closed my eyes as, one thing I was sure about, he wouldn't arrive until we were asleep.
After what seemed like an eternity I awoke hearing my Gran getting dressed and replacing the layers of clothing she had not long ago removed. She was a very sombre woman and didn't display very much emotion but despite that I could see packages and a stocking hanging at the foot of the bed and couldn't stifle my squeals of delight any longer. My Gran went to make porridge whilst my brother and I started to rip into our presents too impatient to wait for our parents to wake up. I tore open the wrapping of a bix box and saw the picture I recognised from the advert. It was the doll I'd longed for. As I took her out of the box I began to see that it wasn't quite how I'd imagined. She was made from brittle plastic and her hair was stiff nylon stuck into little holes in the scalp. The only way she could walk was to hold her by the shoulders and manipulate a shuffling motion and the action of walking or simply moving forward. The talking came from a record inside the doll which was operated by turning a handle in her back and the noise emanated from holes like a small speaker situated around the handle. I turned the handle and tried to decipher what she was saying. Instead of the claim that she spoke like a real life baby all I could hear was a whiney, scratchy noise as I tried in vain to listen for "Mama", "Pick me up", "Love you". Well I didn't love her but did my best to look pleased as my Mum and Dad appeared. Despite my disappointment I did my best to show my gratitude and pretended to love it and said I would call her Mary but really deep down I hated it's ugly and artificial appearance and certainly wasn't the real life living doll I'd dreamed of.
I soon forgot my disappointment over the so called "Living Doll" and my favourite present that year was a hair slide which I found buried in my stocking along with a tangerine and a chocolate soldier in a sentry box. The slide was tortoiseshell and encrusted with diamonds or so I thought, it was probably no more than a shilling from Woolies but I proudly wore it as I played with my brother and his Hornby train set for the rest of the day.

'Christmas Gloom Or Boom!' by Jan Lloyd

Lets face it we've all experienced that sense of disappointment when we've excitedly ripped open a beautifully wrapped present only to find a bright red acrylic jumper with white polka dots. Usually it’s two sizes too small or with arms down to your knees. Then there’s the third glove and scarf set in colours that don't match anything on this earth from Aunty Mo and Uncle Fred. We smile through gritted teeth and, for fear of offending, refuse to take the receipt from them should we wish to change it.
Year after year we all put ourselves through the same torture, none of us able to be honest regarding the over priced and tasteless presents bestowed on each other. Despite my hints and even blatant pleadings with my mother she still insists on buying each member of the family a box of biscuits and a selection box so I end up with four of each in our house. Once in the house my resolve not to over indulge starts to crack and I start stuffing myself silly until the last crumb is devoured - yes even the pink wafer biscuit and the Curly Wurly!
Well that was all in the past! As my mother has refused to listen to me for the last twenty years and I'm determined not to put any more weight on the biscuits and chocolates are distributed amongst the people who are far more needy than myself.
Charity shops are my first port of call as they will readily accept unwanted gifts and it does make you feel the presents are being put to good use and at the same time gives you a warm glow that your donation has provided an all round, helpful solution.
Hospitals and old people's homes are always grateful for donations. The sell by dates usually give at least six months grace so can be stored away until a party or a social event would benefit from the sweetmeats.
Unwanted clothing can be successfully recycled. I have a very thrifty friend who transforms jumpers, scarves, gloves etc. by redesigning them to her own unique style including forming them into framed pictures. She then sells them at craft fairs or redistributes them as presents. You could dispense with the redesigning bit and just save them for future presents remembering, of course, to note who gave them you so you don't put yourself in an embarrassing situation by returning them to the aunt or uncle who gave them you in the first place.
Failing all that we could all be that little more plucky and bravely accept the receipt when it's offered. That's of course if you can be bothered to join the endless queues of other people in January, all in the same predicament, returning their unwanted gifts! Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!!

'Dirty Laundry' by Barbara Chapman

What a beautiful morning! Beryl Brightwell allowed her lips to curve in the merest hint of a smile as she nudged the backdoor shut with her hip. Gripping the laundry basket more securely, she set off down the garden ignoring the meandering curves of the path, and striding purposeful and straight towards the rotary line discretely concealed by a bower of trellised clematis towards the bottom of the garden. Annoyance at the impracticality of the path imparted sharpness to each footfall which, had it not been cushioned by lawn, would have reverberated with displeasure. How typical of Brian! A simple task – a path to get from A to B – and he turns it into a landscaping project. He must have used three times the amount of materials. And for what? Well, she didn’t need to be led around in circles to appreciate the placing of the flower beds. It made mowing the lawn a nightmare.
Thoughts of her husband snagged tighter on irritation as she remembered he had her car. His was in for repair. Trust him to pick that particular spot in the supermarket car park! She’d told him not to park next to the trolley return point. People are so clumsy. But no, he hadn’t listened; too lazy to drive a bit further and find a better space. So what happened? When they got back there was a huge ding in the bumper and no one to claim against. So that was £250.00 down the drain.
Beryl placed the laundry basket on the ground next to the line and gripped the hem of its cover, sliding the sun-warmed plastic up and off in one smooth movement. A pigeon exploded out of the clematis, wings flailing the air as it fought to gain height. Flying rat! Her cold stare followed the bird as it disappeared over the fence.
She snapped the arms of the rotary line open, hooked the peg bag into place and bent to remove a bed sheet. The damp cotton was dazzlingly white, an effect she found particularly pleasing against the unordered colours of the garden. She might be marooned at home but the day would not be wasted. Beds stripped, laundry done, she would drop into her neighbour’s coffee morning. What was it in aid of? Brow creased in concentration, she couldn’t recall the cause. No matter, she would take a packet of biscuits out of the cupboard. Gwen would be grateful for her support. In fact she ought to get a move on; Gwen wasn’t the greatest organizer in the world, so the sooner she got there the less likelihood that the event would degenerate into a shambolic gossip session.
The last pillow case pegged into place, Beryl was turning away from the line when the voices reached her. Drat! People were arriving already. It sounded as if they were setting up outside. She’d have to get a move on. That was Sally Jones she could hear, and the burst of high-pitched laughter was from Nancy Ryan. At the thought of the gleamingly manicured Nancy, Beryl’s mouth tightened and it took a few seconds before she caught the thread of their conversation:
'...really? As blatant as that?'
'Yes, he made no attempt to hide it. Said “Hello” and actually introduced her.'
'And how did he introduce her? As a work colleague?'
'No, he didn’t and their body language said it all. They could hardly stop themselves holding hands.'
'What’s she like? Younger, I bet!'
'I’d say about the same age, though it’s hard to tell.'
The clatter of a tray descending onto a table was accompanied by Gwen’s voice: 'What’s all this about? Who are you two tearing to shreds now?'
'Us!' The tone was aggrieved. 'Gwen, whatever do you mean?'
'Umm.' The monosyllable was heavy with mock sarcasm. 'So go on, who are you dishing the dirt on now?'
In the pause that followed Beryl became aware that she was clutching the empty laundry basket like a life preserver.
Sally’s response when it came was almost a whisper, 'Brian.'
'Brian? You mean....?'
'Yes. Your neighbour Brian.'
'Whew... there’s a turn up for the book.'
'By the way, is Beryl coming this morning?' This from Nancy.
Gwen’s voice was distracted as she observed, 'No, she’s out. Car’s gone. So when was this?'
'Tuesday evening at the Royal Oak.'
'The Royal Oak! That’s virtually on the door step.'
'Yep, as bold as brass.'
'And what was she like?'
'Early 50’s, trendy dresser, big boobs – that’s the first thing my Ted noticed of course,' Sally chuckled.
'Well, good luck to them I say.' Nancy’s voice was harsh.
'Hang on, that’s a bit rough. I know Beryl’s not exactly a close friend...'
'Too right! She couldn’t get any stiffer if you rammed a poker up her arse. From what Brian’s let slip to my Ted, she shut up shop way before the menopause – separate bedrooms, the lot. So can you blame the poor chap? I mean there’s no pleasing that woman. If she was here this morning the cups and saucers’d be in ranks and files and we’d be lining up for biscuits!'
'Sally!' Gwen’s admonition was lost in a burst of laughter.
'No, I’m with Sally there,' Nancy chimed in. 'From the way things seem to be going I think he’ll make the break. If he doesn’t tell Beryl soon, someone else will and that’ll be that, as they say.'
'Cooeee. Where are you?'
'Oh, it’s Hillary and Pat. Down here - down here at the end of the garden.'
Gwen’s call jolted Beryl into life. Her gaze took in her hands clenched on the laundry basket, the knuckles as white as the plastic.
A sudden scrabbling drew her eyes to the fence. The pigeon teetered there, gained its balance. Bloody flying rat! The laundry basket left her hand, flung clumsily towards the wooden boards. Fixing her with a beady glare, the bird launched itself as the basket struck home. It rose into the sun, seemed to hang suspended above the washing for an eternity then released a stream of berry-mottled excrement that arced down with unerring precision onto the white sheets waiting like virgin canvas below.

'Edifice' by Peter Hodges

I asked my father what was an edifice. A big question for a small boy.
My father smiled, gave his answer, and left me a riddle. I went into town with my mother. Maybe there would be something that would make me look up and say, yes, there is an edifice. My curiosity fired, I looked all the time. My mother said to mind where I was stepping. We came to the bus stop. The bus arrived. I shot upstairs to grab a seat at the front. But from here I looked down, not up.
On the street, I strode ahead, saw the church. Here was where my father once took me sightseeing. From the tower he showed me the landmarks. The distant hill, the woods, a large house. I asked was the hill higher than the church, and my father replied, yes it was. But I remember it never seemed that way. From there nothing seemed higher. Not when one was looking down.
My father is dead. I have my answer. It has taken long years. Like an old photograph without a name, it is only a passing that reminds. Perversity of death brings sudden clarity and understanding. Frailty of years, but always there was the smile: remember this, remember that. Only now do I see my edifice. All the time it was he.

'Ode to the Wrekin' by Angeline Wheeler

Upon your banks I first knew love
Soft moss beneath me, sky above.
As shadows lengthened and eve drew nigh
Your beacon, bright like a winking eye
In youth I roamed your paths for hours
I felt no threat beneath your bowers.
When night departed and dawn was due
The sun arose to give a glorious view
Upon your summit I felt like a queen
Years have passed and much I’ve seen.
Your beacon like my sight now is dimmed
Many trees have been chopped, Forest thinned.
Unchangeable though wherever I may roam
When I see you stalwart Wrekin, I know I’m home.

'Why Do You Mock?' by Rosie Pugh

I walk among you children of God.
Why do you not smile when all Gods beauty is around you?
Why do you complain when surrounded by Gods gifts?
Why do you mock and make fun of those who are different?
Can you not feel their pain just like yours?
Is it because they laugh and sing when they are sad and blue?
We all have our different ways to get through the day.
High in the sky the sun shines bright.
It sparkles on the sea below.
Here there are mountains that touch the sky.
Close by are the tall trees for birds to sit and sing.
Why do you not laugh and sing when all these are free?
Let the rain fall and touch your skin.
Feel the breeze in your hair.
Take a deep breath.
Run like a child, feel free for tomorrow is another day.
Let today be yours and sing.

‘The Saddest Thing’ by Elisa Hill

‘I was suffocating; an unbearable weight holding me - complete darkness except for one finger I could move. I moved it and gently touched another person. I knew it was a dream and was trying to get my husband to wake me up.’
For a few days back then my mum turned off the news and radio whenever I was around. I didn't remember this until years later when I met someone from this tiny Welsh village. Their whole family had moved away for work ,one of the few families to leave, and one of the only ones who did not lose anyone.
It was the anniversary, 30 years, and as we watched it on TV, they seemed to know everyone who spoke. My mother-in-law said wryly, "Everyone there is a poet."
"Evans the Shop” that was the name she had in the village. On that dreadful day, she had looked out of the window and watched as the village went by. The usual daily routine. The children had passed a while earlier on their way to school, pleased it was just to be a half day Half an hour or so later, the stragglers came: one little girl, who had felt ill - her mum convincing her that she could manage just for the morning. There goes the milkman, her son-in-law. The post man, delivery drivers, everyone waved at her in greeting. She was a fixture, accepted by all -comfortable and predictable. She had started the shop when the last of the cave-ins had happened, terrified her husband, a miner, would be lost.
There was that terrible rumbling again. It had gone on all night, thunder, miserable weather, misty and drizzling. Then there was a very large rumble - louder than before. It seemed wrong somehow, different to the rest. She went outside. It seemed the whole village were at their front doors, wondering. Then a child came running down the street covered in ash from head to foot. She was screaming, " The schools exploded, the schools exploded."
She looked at her grandson’s new wife, who was looking horrified, but trying not to show it. It was a Sunday afternoon, when the whole family got together. It was still on the TV. People speaking - those she had known since they were in prams
They never built the school again. Her grandchildren were taken by bus to a nearby town.
Her son-in-law, was talking; telling them about how he was one of the first to get there and how he started to pull out the ones near the edge. They had been taken to her cousins’ daughter’s house, just where the ash had stopped. Some were still alive, some died there. The saddest thing was the local doctor who had joined the line of men passing out the children. As he passed his own two sons out he had just paused, looked down at them lovingly and went on to pass the next child.
The mines had closed. Everyone from surrounding villages had come to help. It seemed as if time itself stood still. The miners had downed tools and come straight over to help.
Her daughter’s friend had brought home her new baby a few days before. Her daughter had passed and waved at her saying she would visit her the next day. Her house had been buried.
She looked over at her husband, who was sitting at the end of the large front room, hearing aid off, not wanting to see the T.V. She looked at his hands with the coal dust still in his skin - a deeply ingrained dust.

‘Aunty Nell’ by Joyce Hayward

My mother and her family had always cared for ‘Aunty Nell’- a tiny, quiet spinster who had joined my grandmother to help her bring up a family of twelve on a farm worker’s wage in the early 1900’s.
By wartime,1939-45, the children had got older and the youngest one was serving in the armed forces. So my ‘aunt’ left my grandparents and went into service for a rich farming family.
However, she still kept in touch and visited, in turn, members of my family to stay with them for her holidays or through periods of illness. She was always ‘aunty’ to us all.
My mother was the last one of her generation to die – but Aunt Nell outlived them all.
I used to take her shopping, have her round for Christmas dinner and generally try to help her. She was always very active for her age and quite capable of doing her own housekeeping right up to the age of 97 years old. But after that I started to worry.
My biggest fear was linked to the way she lit her fire. She would light it and then ‘to help to get it to go’ she would put a piece of newspaper over the front to draw it. Often the paper would catch light in the process and she would frantically stamp it out in the hearth. It seemed only a matter of time before her clothes might catch fire.
In the end I was unable to relax at night for thinking about this. I reluctantly called Social Services who arranged for her to be placed in a care home. She lived there happily until she died at the age of 106 years old.
It upset me at the end that, as I was not a blood relative, I was unable to register the death or keep her card from the Queen as a memento.

'The Cafe Owner' by Jan Lloyd

JULY 10th:
Will he come in again tomorrow I wonder. He first came in two weeks ago and he's been in four times since then. He's ordered an espresso and a Danish every time.
I've met so many people over the years while running my little corner cafe We opened twenty years ago; a new venture we thought at the time, me and Guiseppe. We were working at the cafe and Aldo wanted to retire so we decided to take it over. We had just got married and it all seemed so right and exciting. We kept the name DeConi's, Aldo's surname, as he was like a father to us and didn't see the need to change it. Aldo had trained Guiseppe in patisserie and the special gift of making the perfect cup of coffee. Guiseppe then passed this gift on to me. Unfortunately he also taught Vanessa, our young waitress, but gave her extra lessons at night too!! So he ran off with her and broke my heart. That was fifteen years ago. Now our son, Romolo, works with me and has his father's gift for coffee making and cooks the most divine cakes.
I never met anyone to replace Guiseppe, never wanted to either. I just didn't seem to have time to meet the right person. But there was something about the man who came in for espresso and a Danish. It was the way he lingered over paying for his order and his eyes, green and iridescent.
The second time he came in he chatted, nothing special, just about the weather. It was raining so he stayed longer and had two coffees, waiting for the downpour to end. He had a deep mellow voice with an accent and a radiant smile which made me feel slightly shivery.
The third time he walked in I felt a sense of excitement at seeing him. When he placed the order he told me his name, Paul. He complimented me on the coffee and cake and said he had never tasted coffee so good apart from a restaurant he knew in Italy. I smiled and thanked him as I introduced myself. I was intrigued by him and what he did but felt too shy to ask.
The fourth time was two days ago and I found myself feeling hot and flushed when he walked through the door. Romolo joked with me saying my fancy man had walked in. I turned to serve another customer pretending I didn't know what he was talking about. I was annoyed I'd missed serving him and stared at him as he sat reading a newspaper. I pleaded in my head for him to come over for another coffee. I went to clean a nearby table and as I placed the empty cups on a tray he spoke, "Hi Lucille, how are you". I trembled and feigned surprise. "I didn't see you come in", I lied. He smiled warmly and got up to go, "Lovely coffee", he said once again and then was walking out through the door. I felt disappointed and wanted him to come back so I could talk to him.
So, could I have fallen in love? Will I be brave enough to take time to sit and speak to him tomorrow. I picked out a dress to wear which was far too fancy for the cafe but I felt good and young and enjoyed the emotional thrill at the thought of seeing him again. I hope he comes in.....

JULY 12th:

I am still on cloud nine. Paul walked into the cafe yesterday and I felt wonderful when he asked me to join him. We were busy but Romolo coped. I sat with him and we had coffee and cakes. He told me that he was from Southern Italy and had come to London to trace his family. It turns out that Aldo was his uncle and was his father's brother. My head was spinning after all the things he told me. His father had run a cafe which was also called DeConi's and he too made the most delicious coffee. He had lost the family connection when both his parents had died and Aldo was also sadly dead. He had heard his father, Dominic, talk about Aldo but had always been too busy to visit. After searching through his parent's belongings he had found photographs of the cafe with Aldo sitting outside. Paul never went into the restaurant business but instead worked as a banker, his sister, however, continued to run the family cafe. My heart sank when he told me his holiday was due to end tomorrow and he would be returning to Catanzaro, his home town. He said he would keep in touch and, now he had found the cafe he had longed to visit, would return again soon. As he was leaving he took my hand and kissed me gently on the cheek which sent shivers down my back. I tried to appear cool and not too desperate when I said I hoped he would come back and visit, smiling, when it was all I could do to stop myself from crying.
I went into the kitchen when he left and busied myself with washing the large pile of dirty dishes, choking back the tears. Romolo came in and sensed how I felt and just placed a hand on my shoulder, the warmth of his skin comforted me and I composed myself and told him Paul's story. I felt elated but sad at the same time and tried to imagine Dominic's cafe. As I walked home I felt much better at having spoken to Paul and felt a deep connection to the family. I will continue hoping that he will return.....

'Time Moves On' by Rosie Pugh

Whether to sell my cottage or not was a big decision and very painful for me to make as it was my piece of heaven and most importantly it was mine. My beautiful cottage was in Nantwich, Cheshire. I was in turmoil. I spent many days and nights pondering over the situation but I never got a clear answer.
I had met and fallen in love: something I had stated I would never do after my first marriage had failed - but alas it happened. I had a lot of fear of doing the wrong thing. What if things did not work? What about my children even though they were grown up they were still a big part of my life and I was going to be moving to Devon, a place where I knew no one.
On the day of the move my eldest son Andy was helping me to move and when it was time to go he found me in the corner of my bedroom. I was very emotional. He pleaded with me not to distress myself and we left.
I was only in Devon one year when my husband decided to sell the farm. He had asked his son a question. ‘What would you do if anything happened to me?’
His son replied, ‘I’ll move on.’
Then his late wife’s mother attacked me physically in the village and threatened to kill me as I was living in her late daughters house. It was no idle threat; it took three people to take her off me. What chaos and hell. So we sold and moved to Shropshire.
Looking back I realized my intuition was guiding me, I should have kept my cottage and rented it out but I listened to my heart.
When in Cheshire I pass the cottage and long to be back there: but time moves on and I have to move with it.

'The Beautiful Place' by Elisa Hill

The ambulance is racing. I see Copthorne traffic island and know that it is still a half mile to go. ‘Will I make it ?’ The siren allows us to rush past the queuing traffic. ‘Will I make it to the hospital?’ I think to myself. My baby son is at home with my husband. ‘Will I ever see him again?’ So many times doing this same route, sirens blaring, desperate to make it that last half mile. Copthorne Island the last landmark, I fight for every breath, my chest and whole body heaving with the effort; even with oxygen. I pass out.
My mind comes back to the present and I look down at my two year old grandson who is now fighting for every breath. He has an oxygen tube in his nose. I look into his eyes. I see a desperation I know so well. It’s thirty years since I have been so ill; but I am the only person who knows exactly what he is going through,
I am nineteen and wake up to see my father standing next to me. I am in a hospital ward and I think to myself, that it must have been a very bad one for my Dad to be called. I say to my mum, "I’ve been to a really beautiful place, they said it wasn't time yet and sent me back." She cries with relief and later tells me there were a few minutes when they didn't know if I would survive.
I am 23 and pregnant, in intensive care. I was brought here -the worst asthma attack I’ve ever had. I keep passing out and having terrible dreams: each one is a race which after tremendous effort I just win. Five races, each one seemingly a race of life and death.
My grandson Max, starts to breath easier now. I stroke his head. He drifts into sleep I remember when I fell asleep in intensive care. When I woke up feeling better I was embarrassed and said ‘Thank-you’ repeatedly to the nurse for making me better. She said it was not just the staff’s efforts that did it. –they didn’t know how. I do -it just wasn't my time; someone was looking after me and has been all along. I’m not a religious person - but hypocritical enough to beg for help from a higher power for Max!

'Nightmare' by Barbara Chapman

Dark fingers of dread pull at me. Where am I? I become aware of my mouth – dry and sour. My head is a space above my shoulders – aching, filled with grey fog. There is softness beneath my stiff cheek – a pillow; I kick and my foot tangles in softness – a quilt. So it was a dream?
I roll over. The room swims into focus. Feet somehow transposed to the floor, I sit blinking, trying to shake off the images that blur and flow together like an Edvard Munch canvas.
So real; it feels so real.
Terror is etched on my skin in a sheen of sweat. If I relax I will fall back and it will reclaim me. The curtain stirs, a fragment of breeze whispers across my face. Cold...dank....enclosed. TRAPPED!
Running directionless, blind. Black shifting to grey rock to earth. Where am I? My overriding urge – escape. Something... someone is there in the dark.
In my semi-waking state I become a conduit for the dream – I look down and see myself, a figure running, groping, stumbling. I am sinking back onto the bed. Once more I am the prey of sleep. The nightmare grips me ...
A smell of diesel. The coach has pulled onto a wide space below the hill; taken a spot beside other vehicles. Passengers are spilling out, stretching, pulling on coats and jackets. It is not really cold, but once inside it will be chill.
I join the flow of bodies; the narrow entrance funnels us; now I am a single droplet forced forward.
The smoothness beneath my feet changes - the path has become rock. A line has been crossed – now this is another place; in my nostrils the tang of earth, iron and old air. A thin light draws the eye to the side. We are meant to see. I cannot – a jumble of dark shapes blocks me. I hang back in the chill air breathing its blackness, waiting. I am here for this; I too must see. The crowd shifts then begins to dissipate. I feel myself pulled forward into the vacuum of their departure. What am I seeing? There are words, a sign. But what meets my gaze is wrong – the shapes are not those of old mining tools. I stare, angling for meaning through the weak pool of light and the shapes, like fish glimpsed in the depths form, becoming bones – twisted ribs, a crushed skull.
Sound whispers around me. A voice long dead, trapped in this cavern:
I am the rock the rock is me. Caught. Cold. Dead.
Blood cooling, freezing in veins like threaded minerals waiting to be freed by a miner’s pick; flesh marbling with patterns of decay, falling away to reveal stone-white bone.
Horror claws at my chest, bursting my lungs. The rasping I hear is my breath.
I must get away from here. Move! Run! My legs will not obey.
The light goes out fog-thick darkness envelops me. Air congeals, clogging my lungs; I am stuck.
My thoughts – must free my thoughts. My mind is my own it can move still. See light, see a path. Light cuts a path. Lift a foot, grope forward. A sound or is it an echo in my mind? “There is no light.” I no longer know where my skin ends and the blackness begins. “There is no you.” Terror would be welcome a leaping emotion in pumping blood, but instead all is heavy, cold, weighted with nothingness.
A shape pressed in a mould of darkness - no flicker of warmth or life. Images are squeezed into nothingness; the concept is forced out of existence with the word. Thoughts have nothing to give them form.
The end is solid nothingness trapped in rock and clay; bone without blood, brain without thought.
Something. What? A sound. It vibrates through the chamber, defines edges, walls. Form returns. Water, falling water. Turn and lunge, scrambling, clawing upwards. Lungs burn, ears drum. I snatch at the thread of sound and haul myself towards life.
A cold breath shivers around me; my skin rises in goose bumps. I struggle to make sense of my surroundings. The yielding bulk upon which I am lying is the mattress. My hands are clenched into the softness of the quilt. Still I am held by the sound of falling water. The curtain billows away from the casement; rain beats down. My blood beats to its drumming. I let the cool air draw me out of the nightmare into the rain-silvered light of a new day.

'Sunshine All the Way' by Louise McClean

 When I was a child, during the war, every August my gran, my mother and I spent a week at Portrush, a seaside town on the north coast of Ireland. This week was the happiest time of my life and the highlight of my year. It was always eagerly anticipated and never disappointed.
We went to Portrush by steam train which, as we neared our destination, ran right along the beach on one side and was bound by steep cliffs on the other - wonderful. By then I was beside myself with excitement.
Each year we stayed at the same boarding house in 20 Mark Street owned by a friend of my gran’s called Mrs. Black. It was in the centre of a row of identical houses with two bay windows at the front and on a height overlooking the harbour and a short walk from the station.
On the ground floor was the kitchen (strictly out of bounds to the guests) the dining room and a sitting room. This was furnished with two leatherette settees and several easy chairs all facing the bay window with the lovely view of the beach. The lino on the floor had a few little rugs scattered over it
It was a tall narrow house on three floors. There were six bedrooms; four double and two single. We were always on the second floor with my mother and I sharing a room and, further along the narrow corridor, my gran had her single room. There was one bathroom which was shared by everyone. I presume the top floor was much the same but I was never allowed to go up there to find out!
As it was during the war and rationing was still in force, we took our ration books with us and handed them over to Mrs. Black for the week. We had full board and I seem to remember the food was plain but wholesome with stew, shepherd’s pie, sausages and salads with Spam on the menu. Porridge was the norm for breakfast, with toast.
We spent out time on holiday walking along the prom, watching the boats in the harbour or sitting in a shelter on Ramore Head with the huge waves breaking on the cliffs below. Every year I had a ride on the donkeys and a highlight was a visit to Barry’s amusement park with it’s waltzer cars and the very scary ghost train!
There were two beaches, called strands in Ireland, one on either side of the headland and the white sand stretched for miles on each one. As this was on the Atlantic, the huge waves crashes continuously onto the sand but the water was always freezing so I usually just paddled with my skirt tucked into my knickers.
In the summer, during the war, there was double summer time which meant the clocks were put forward two hours instead of one and so it was daylight till about 11 o’clock at night which was great. Every evening, along the prom, there were evangelists who attempted to save our souls. They shouted a lot and prayed fervently for the sinners and were great fun to watch! I loved the hymn singing which was accompanied by an accordian player and we all wrapped up well and sang our hearts out as we sat on the hard benches. We never did get saved however!
Further along the road from Portrush is the very famous Giant’s Causeway with it’s fantastic hexagonal stones and pillars. A tram used to run to the Causeway from Portrush and we visited every year. It was very popular with visitors, especially the children who loved to jump from stone to stone trying to avoid slipping into the sea in between. Sadly the tram is no more.
Portrush had all the usual shops selling buckets and spaded, beach balls and rubber rings for those brave enough to enter the freezing water. There was one lovely department store called The White House which my mum and gran loved so we spent quite a lot of time in there -- not buying, you understand, just admiring!
We were on holiday in Portrush on VJ Day and there was great excitement with dancing and singing on the streets and rejoicing all around. Personally I was thrilled as this meant my dad would be coming home at last. I remember being persuaded to sing Lily Marlene for the other guests!
As an adult I have travelled extensively and enjoyed wonderful holidays all over the world, but somehow nothing has ever matched the joy and excitement and pure happiness of those weeks spent in Portrush with my gran and mum. I suppose it must have rained some of the time , but if it did, then I don’t remember it - it was sunshine all the way, every day for me.

'Wasps in the Greengages' by Joyce Hayward

I enjoy gardening but do wonder why I bother sometimes!
This past few days of good weather have, at last, put me in a good mood - that was until I went to harvest the fruit and nut trees.
To begin with I planned to pick the greengage plums, a bumper crop, but they had ripened behind my back and fallen off the tree. The rest were either full of wasps or the birds had pecked them.
My husband’s hazel nut tree had a super crop last week, but they were not quite ready then. This week there was not a single nut – that so-and-so squirrel had got there before me.
To crown it all the caterpillars have completely stripped the sprout plants and the dog has dug himself a crater in my stone flower trough!

'A Day In The Life Of A Suburban 60's Teenager' by Jan Lloyd

Although I used to long for the summer holidays to arrive, when they finally did I would invariably end up being bored most of the time. Apart from the odd visit to relatives with my parents I was usually left to my own devices.
My Mum and Dad both worked full time so were rarely around to lift me out of the endless lack of entertainment. So I would wonder around aimlessly with which ever friend was available and not away on some luxurious holiday. If friends were away the only highlight or contact with a human being would be the bread delivery man, who I became convinced I was in love with. This built up to near hysteria as I watched out of the window for the arrival of the "Wrights Bakery" van. He would jump out of the van whistling and I would gaze in awe as he marched up the path. I would rush to the back door and pay him the money my Mum had left as he smiled and uttered something about the weather. I would interpret that as a sign that, as he'd taken the time to speak to me, then he must love me too; but the reality was he was at least twenty and oblivious to the teenage crush I had on him. The other regular visit was from the Pearl Insurance man but without the frisson of excitement as he was very strange and creepy. An argument would ensue between my brother and myself as to who would go to the door to pay the money as neither of us could stop giggling when he arrived. The poor man must have dreaded coming to our house!
When Jean, who lived next door but one, was around we would play ball against the wall or handstands to see who could stay up the longest or visit the rec to stare at David and Stuart who were mods and had scooters. Going to the rec took some preparation as we had to look our best to get the attention of these two Adonises. Once we picked out our most impressive outfits and applied the latest trend in makeup we would saunter over to the rec and sit on the swings to await their arrival. David and Stuart would eventually arrive looking trendy and sophisticated wearing parkas, driving their scooters around the perimeter of the grassed area. Their friends would hang around looking enviously at the gleaming scooters whilst we tried to look cool and disinterested, wishing deep down that they would ride over and ask us out. This never happened and eventually we would drift off and walk back home discussing who looked at who and whether they really fancied us but were just too shy to talk. We would return to our respective homes to meet up again after tea to watch telly together to ogle more heart throbs - "The Monkees", or "Ready Steady Go". If my parents were working late I would prepare my own tea purchased off Tanner's travelling shop - a pleasurable treat which would arrive in the late afternoon. Mr Tanner would beep the horn to attract out customers, usually all housewives, struggling to think what to make for dinner. I would race out mainly for sweets but would sometimes choose something for a special meal. Vesta Curry was my favourite as it was easy to make and I felt really exotic and interesting having a curry for tea.
So the long summers as a teenager would pass by spent indulging in simple pleasures and what appears to be a far cry from the teenagers of today. I'm sure all teenagers throughout the world encounter the same angst and difficulties in forming relationships, struggling to be independent and finding something "out there" to spark an interest. There still seems to be the same problems thrown at them as I had in the 60's but, in general, appear more able and confident in dealing with them despite whatever outside influences dictate how their future develops. There are more support networks available and females get more choices and opportunities.
I think most generations believe they are living through the best times and will always look back with a nostalgic fondness. Overall what I considered to be a boring and mundane existence, on reflection, was comparatively innocent and blissful.

'My Trip To France' by Rosie Pugh

On my first morning in France I was greeted by a warm sun filtering through the trees which peeped into my bedroom window. After a traditional French breakfast of coffee and croissant we set off on a trip to the country market in the medieval town of St. Anton which is held on Sunday mornings.
We travelled through beautiful scenery and when we arrived we parked the cars and set out to explore through the cobbled streets. On both sides were stalls displaying goods of all kinds. I was enthralled.
Pieces of cheese had been put on crusty bread and were offered to those that wanted to taste. The man behind one stall, with his fine French accent, offered tempting continental meats for you to try. On another stall were olives, green and black, some filled with almonds and others with peppers or soaked in garlic. I must admit I was tempted so I bought the olives with the almonds.
For me the stall with the wonderful display of vegetables was like stepping back in time when a lettuce was big and had lustrous green leaves. The red and plump tomatoes nestled next to pink and white radishes which were very mouth watering. You could tell they had not long been out of the earth as there were grains of soil still on the roots with droplets of dew resting gently.
Further along I asked my companion, ‘Is that mashed potato he’s selling?’
She smiled and asked the stall holder. Although I can’t speak French I could make out some of the ingredients from his reply. So when she started to tell me I got in first: mashed potato, crème fraiche, butter and pepper. She said that people were buying small tubs of this product for their Sunday lunch. It was expensive - but I bet it tasted good!
There was something there for everyone with assorted breads of different shapes and shades of brown which were next to the biscuits and cakes.
Nearby was a café which was very different in style to our pubs. Locals and visitors mingled there and drank coffee, wine and beer. We decided that we too would stop and try the coffee and the French atmosphere that surrounded us as we watched the world go by.
St. Anton was steeped in so much history. For instance the building opposite the café was once a church and further down the road there was a house that was once a brothel.
I felt that all that I was missing was a guide to fill in the missing gaps. It was a town with so much intrigue; but alas it was time for us to leave a place which concealed many mysteries within its walls.

'He is Happy' by Elisa Hill

I stared at him. I could not process what the psychologist was saying.
"Your son is of very low IQ. The bottom ten percent of the population."
He might have been speaking Greek. Nothing was registering. His words seemed to be floating in a cloud above his head.
"He has a leaning difficulty. We don't know what. We can’t diagnose it. There is no recognisable disorder."
I was on my own, his father had not been able to make it. I felt intense hatred of this man. ‘How can he say these things?’ I don't know how but I walked out of that room and travelled to pick up the kids from my friends house.
"What did they say? "she asked.
" A learning difficulty, whatever that means,’ I mumbled.
She does not press me; the look of devastation shocks her, and she can't find any words to comfort me.
That first week...just many selfish thoughts. ‘How could I have a child less than ‘normal’?" A blur; talking at him. Trying to get him to respond. A barrage of words. No response. The poor child just wants to be left alone in his own little world. I want to make that man a liar.
A second wave of pain hits when I think of his future. That he will never have a "normal" life. Never marry, have children, a lost future.

Ten years later and the social worker is asking a series of questions, something he seems to do every few years, "How do you feel about being a carer?"
"Well you don't just sign on for 18 years when you have a child,” I answered.
"You could have your life back."
I think about the implications of his words. "No, never!" I reply with disproportional anger.
"What about when you can't look after him anymore?" I try not to cry, and he pretends not to notice.
Most parents my age are suffering ‘empty nest syndrome’; but I will never have an empty nest; never be alone. Now my life is ordered by his needs and I am so used to doing this, I do not resent it. It is my life. Sometimes he surprises me with his reactions to things. Often he understands more than I thought was possible.
My daughter once joked, “As soon as you die, he’s going straight in a home" She has no idea how painful her words were. They cut like a knife.
Now I hear him singing in the next room – He is happy!

'Skin' by Angeline Wheeler

My best friend then, so long ago
So smooth were we together.
Never a doubt, never a frown
Together whatever the weather.

But sadly so, you lost your grip
Our closeness loosened bit by bit.
Oh my friend, my lovely skin
Why is it you no longer fit?

At first I tried so many balms
To keep us close and tight
Sadly, to no avail did they work
Alas we’re just a sorry sight.

The cracks are there for all to see
Lines and furrows I cannot hide
You stretch away more each day
I can’t win, though goodness knows I tried.

'A Stolen Look' by Jan Lloyd

It was a hot and dry day and I had walked for many miles to the courtroom in Winchester. My feet were aching and blistered as I struggled along the dusty road to reach my destination. I had left my farm and young children in the village of Burghclere to catch a glimpse of my seventeen year old son who was appearing in court on this warm summer's day. The dusty road gradually turned into a busy town road and horses and carts were being steered toward the town to make their various deliveries. One cart slowed down as the driver tried to avoid me on the roadside. I shouted out for a ride and the kind gentleman told me to jump on the back which I gladly accepted and melted back against the warm hay on board. I gradually dozed off with the rocking motion of the cart and woke with a start when the man shouted out that we'd reached the bakers where he was delivering his wares. I thanked him for the ride and speedily made my way towards the courtroom.
I reached the large courtroom building and squeezed through the bustling doorway where men crowded round dressed in black gowns and wigs. I was shaking and felt a sense of foreboding as I took my seat at the back of the courtroom. I sat intently listening to the list of proceedings and a dark mood fell upon me as I heard the harsh sentences being issued by the imposing figure sitting in judgement over these helpless beings. Finally I recognised the name being shouted out by a man with bushy side whiskers and the customary wig which appeared to have slipped sideways.
"Edwin Cranfield step into the dock and repeat after me," the gruff man bellowed.
I saw my son step nervously onto the dark wooden stand and repeated the oath recited to him.
I strained to hear and to catch my son's eye. I wanted to encourage some hope and to show that I was there for him. Instead he looked forward with an icy stare appearing to have lost any will or optimism. His hair was matted and he looked thin and frail. He had been locked away for two months awaiting the trial so had not been looked after. The man with bushy whiskers read out the accusation against my son.
"You have been brought here to testify against the accusation of the theft of a gold pocket watch from William Danfield at the White Swan Inn on 1st May, 1849, located in Lower Burghclere, Winchester. Do you plead guilty or not guilty"?
I heard my son's reply and his husky and pitiful voice pierced into my brain like an arrow firing from his lips.
"Not guilty," Edwin said bluntly, standing to attention to appear confident as he uttered his plea.
The judge turned to the man in the black gown and spoke slowly, with an air of indifference and weariness.
"Have we William Danfield present in the court Mr Bartholomew?"
"Yes, he will now provide evidence against the accused."
William Danfield stepped forward and proceeded to describe the night he stayed at the White Swan Inn on his way to Southampton to visit a business associate.
He claimed that my son was drinking in the bar, and already drunk, and had spied the watch when he had asked him the time. He had replied that it was 10.35pm and after drinking a nightcap retired upstairs to his room. He had undressed and left his belongings on the dressing table before having to return downstairs to request a supply of candles as he needed to read some paperwork before the morning. It was at this point that Mr Danfield claims my son went into his room to steal the gold pocket watch. It was morning before he had noticed it was gone.
My mind drifted back to that day and I remember that later that day my son had gone into the town to visit the market to purchase some cattle for the farm and it was there that he was arrested. I hadn't seen him until now and I had continued to struggle on my own with running the farm. Albert, my husband, had died last autumn from an infection of the lungs and Edwin had taken over the daily tasks. My other children, Alice, Dora, Charlotte and Fredrick, helped but were aged six, eight, ten and twelve. They would feed the pigs, chickens and cattle, milk the cows, muck out the barns but they couldn't manage the heavier work. I had battled on since Edwin had been imprisoned and was now praying that he would be free to return to his family. I thought that if Edwin had been guilty of this theft he would have committed it purely to help me and the family as we were so very poor. He was never greedy or selfish and I was ready to forgive him his sin and continued to ask the Lord that he should be found not guilty.
I was feeling overcome with the heat in the stuffy courtroom and wished it could all be over soon when I heard the judge ask Mr Danfield to confirm the identity of Edwin as being the thief who stole his watch. Mr Danfield was adamant and boldly pointed towards my son as being the culprit. The jury swiftly returned with their verdict and read the fateful words to the judge.
"Guilty!”
The one word rang in my ears and once more my heart continued to break into shattered fragments.
The judge read out the sentence.
"You will be taken to Portsmouth docks and placed upon The Waverley and will be transported to New South Wales where you will serve a sentence of fifteen years."
"No, no, no," I shouted.
It was then that Edwin turned and saw me as he was escorted by two policemen out of the courtroom. As he turned toward me there were tears in his eyes, his face pale and frightened. I mouthed the words that I loved him and to be strong but as he turned away I knew that this would be the last time I would see him and yearned to hold him and rescue him from his plight. This was a cruel blow and I tried to banish any thoughts of the horrifying and desolate journey which lay ahead of him. Edwin never stood a chance and was not given any opportunity to defend himself, instead the jury took the word of Mr Danfield. Where was the evidence? The watch had never been found, was he guilty? I left the court hardly able to face my journey home. The sun was low in the sky now and I trudged back to care for my other children with Edwin's tragic face etched in my mind.

'Daddy, Daddy Dear' by Elisa Hill

Why was she waiting? Was she stupid? He had no interest in her; had not bothered with her since she was a child. Why the request for contact now.? She knew her mum would be furious with her for even agreeing to meet him. Was it because her mum was jealous and insecure? Frightened of losing her to him or was it really as she said. That he would let her down again, as always, without fail.
She had to know what he wanted; could not pass the chance by that he really was a changed man. That man who he had been, that terrible angry man, the one in her memories; could not be real, could he? She had asked for the chance to hear his side of it. No human being could be completely bad. He must have some redeeming features? Hard to find but they must be there.
She looked at the large station clock. Nearly time. Her heart was beating fast. She was feeling a bit breathless. Her head was pounding. Her asthma started, without fail every time he was around Her mind went back to another train journey. She was with her thirteen year old sister thirty years ago. They felt dread as the train pulled into the station. They saw him waiting there. That woman standing next to him. Why couldn’t he have given them some space and told them in the car. He introduced them with no warning.
She had known there was a another woman. Last time he had seen them he had taken them to his house and her sister had spotted some women’s shoes She had wanted to joke that he was a cross dresser; but hadn’t dared. She knew the way some women’s mind work. She was stating her claim to him. In effect saying," You may have a prior claim, but he is mine now." Later they went to a play, but instead of joining them, he had spent most of the time on the phone. She had heard him. stood around the corner where he could not see her, ashamed to hear his tone, playful and flirtatious. It was sickening, doubly so when she knew how her mum would feel. She had kept the secret from her mum and her sister. They both secretly hoped he would come back. She hoped he would not, as she had seen the cruelty he had inflicted and experienced some too.
When he appeared at the end of the platform he was stiff and formal, still with those cold grey eyes. She sighed, would she ever greet her own so coldly? She should have remembered, prepared herself.
They went for a coffee and he talked about how it had been for him. "So you want to hear my side of it. Well, I felt unloved. I was just the provider. You guys don’t care about me even now; like then, you just want something from me, I have nothing to give you. Your mother drained it all from me. I thought it best to have no contact with you as you needed your mother to support you when you had your own children."
She was astounded, confused, he had never been so open about personal things or emotions and then she realised he had been coached, rehearsed every word spoken as it was approved by someone who was not there.
" No,” she stuttered. “No” she wanted to scream out. “We all loved you, not just because you brought money home, we loved you because .....,"
As always his response was anger She was not obeying his rules, not responding as he had anticipated she would.
Again more from the prepared script. "When I had a stomach ulcer your mother showed no concern for me" He paused. He must have been amazed that he himself had spoken those lies. Confused now, the shutters started to go up. He stiffened up again. The coldness appeared once more in those grey eyes.
“What do you want to achieve from this?” she asked him.
" Achieve, ACHIEVE......" He almost spat at her, furiously angry now. Fear rose up in her and with it perfect clarity. She could see now exactly what he wanted. He was transparent now. So angry he could not hide anything. She sighed. She had wanted so much to see him again. Wanted him to be the playful man he was with her as a child. Getting down on the floor with her to play in his best suit. Her mum had always said there was a special connection between them. Forged in those times. Her mum had even said she would not attend her wedding so he could be there.
She looked at him, who was still struggling to suppress an emotion; which one? Anger? She could not tell. She knew she was not sticking to the script that he was coached for and that it was throwing him off. But she had to know, she felt desperate to get the words out, knowing it was probably the last chance, ever...
She peered closely at his face, trying to see his real self. The child part of her was scared at the rage. The adult part curious about such anger, directed at her, but really at her mother. "It’s me you’re talking to, not Mum. But is it really you I’m talking too or is it Chris?" He went red, so riled now at being found out. She instinctively leaned back to get as far away as her chair could reach.
"Thank you for coming," she said. The memories of childhood flooded back. Memories of the fear: fear he would kill her and Mum. He had no control of himself. To her as a child, always on the edge, of an explosion, their whole lives as a family had been governed by those moods. A good mood was a happy day,. A bad mood and you kept as low a profile as possible – stay quiet, never spoke unless spoken too. Fear had been her most constant companion as a child.
She had struggled and struggled to understand him over the years, hoping as she had become a parent herself to understand him better and as an adult she had only ever seen him with a child’s perspective. But as an adult it had just become more puzzling. Was she just supposed to put him out of her mind? She had tried and couldn’t. How could she resolve this. How could she make a relationship with this stranger, this angry scary man who had missed most of her life.
" What’s the point?" she said as she stood up. There was no strength left in her , but she wanted to be the one to walk away this time. She wanted to make it her choice this time. He stood up, not to be outdone, always the one for the dramatic flourish,. He turned his back without a word. Emotions flooded in as she watched him walk away. Her need of him dissipated with every step. As he turned the corner without a backward glance she breathed out. The pain was gone. She was free!

'A Slice of My Life' by Rosie Pugh

As I sit here in my warm centrally-heated home, watching television and drinking champagne, I think about how I lived a different type of life as a child.
Once we shared a house with another family, the McNulty’s. Things were very basic. The tin bath used to be filled with hot and cold water in front of the fire and we made sure we got the right temperature before we entered in case we were scalded. The outside toilet had hard paper from orange wrappings and newspapers and not the fancy types of toilet paper we see on sale today. Now it is velvet to the touch with Aloe Vera to protect those sensitive parts of our body.
We all used to get together in the evening around the fire to converse with one another about the daily happenings that would have happened in the street. There was lots of laughter as we sat and listened to the entertainment on the radio and I have to admit that I really enjoyed listening.
When I was nearly six we moved to a home of our own with our own inside toilet and with a bath. But it was a great sadness to leave the Mc Nulty’s. There was no floor covering till a few years later when Mum could afford some and when we bought bright orange and red linoleum, that was new on the market. There was no need to polish Mum had been told. She was proud of her new floor covering but a few extra shillings every week had to be paid. There was no central heating in the house, just a big black range that was a cooker as well and was kept clean and shiny with black lead. The pipes were polished with Brasso. The front step was washed and polished with cardinal red. It made your hands feel funny when you used it.
In some of the little cottages off the beaten track they had no electricity and lamps were lit with meths, then pumped up to create a blue flame. To me it was pure magic and I never realized the hardship that those people were in. In the winter when it got very cold, we would pile our coats on top of the bed to keep us warm. There was no fancy fluffy duvet, soft, next to your skin, but instead coarse dark grey blankets which would peep over the white sheet when pulled closer. We had to use the chamber pot under the bed, to save going downstairs in the night.
I had a good pair of legs, which was just as well, as we did not possess a car or a bicycle. I learnt to ride a bike on my brother Philip’s godfather’s bike.. To get my leg over the handle bar was quite comical. I would have to stand on the pavement or a brick and lower the bike trying to keep it still and not fall off. What fun and what a sight.
The highlight of the week was when the groceries were delivered on Fridays. This was the day Mum got her money telegram. The grocer would put a poke of sweets in the box and they would be shared between us.
Every morning we would have a dose of malt, cod liver oil and emulsion, which was a white liquid taken from the whale which would was meant to do me the world of good. The best thing about Halloween, believe it or not, would be to put an apple in a basin of water and try to bite it with our hands behind our backs. We had monkey nuts and the bakery would make special fruit bread. Inside would be a toy wedding ring, so who ever got the slice with it in would be sure to married.
I had simple things in my life when young. No elaborate toys, just make believe and imagination. Life was hard as we did not have much, but I had a freedom of a different kind.

'New Home - New Baby' by Louise McClean

We arrived home, after three years in Aden, by sea on the 8th March, 1967 and, on entering Southampton harbour, passed the old Queen Mary sailing out on her last voyage. It was also our daughter’s tenth birthday.
First we had to return to Scotland to sell our home before moving south to Shrewsbury where my husband was to work and we were all going to live. We had never been to Shropshire so it was all going to be very new to us.
The three children and I stayed in Ayr to sell the house and pack up while Vic went to Shrewsbury to begin his new job and find somewhere suitable for us to live. The fact that I was seven months pregnant wasn’t exactly a help but the sale went through very easily and by the end of May we had bought a suitable house in Shrewsbury and moved in. It was exactly a month to the day before the birth of the new baby.
I liked the new house but it was much smaller than the Ayr house and all our furniture was far too large so we had to climb over furniture just to get around
As the baby was due in June one of the first things I had to do was to get registered with a doctor. This wasn’t simple as the first three I tried weren’t taking any new patients but I wasn’t too worried as this as my fourth child and I was very relaxed about the whole thing. We did eventually find a lovely doctor so all was well.
We settled into our new home, became familiar with the town and the neighbourhood and started the children into local schools. I remember it was a gloriously hot June and I waddled around like a beached whale longing for the birth which would also bring a few days rest in hospital!
On Sunday 25th June I went into the old maternity unit at Copthorne Hospital and the next day our daughter, Kerry Charlotte, was born without any fuss. We were all thrilled with her and felt she was a good omen for our life in Shropshire.
When Kerry and I , suitably refreshed, came home five days later it was to a house over stuffed with furniture and now also containing six huge crates of our belongings which had arrived from Aden. My immediate reaction was to put a match to the lot as we hadn’t a spare inch of space as it was. It was months before those crates were opened - they lived in the garage till then; out of sight, out of mind.
My husband, in his wisdom, had arranged for an electrician to come on the following Monday to re-wire the entire house. So, there I was with the floor boards lifted all over the house, no electricity, three over excited children and a new baby who appeared to want to sleep all day and cry all night. Great!
I remember it was all very stressful and it crossed my mind that, had I had time, I could have had a nervous breakdown but I was too busy for that, so I just got on with it and did my best.
Over the summer we gradually began to feel at home as we made new friends and explored the gorgeous Shropshire countryside. By Christmas we were well settled in Shropshire and over forty years later, we are still here, so it was a good move if rather traumatic!

'Who's that coming over the hill. Is it a monster, is it a monster?' by Elisa Hill

She sighed. Had she brought this on herself? If only twenty-six years ago she had just told Mac, it wouldn't have reared its ugly head now; but, at the time, it had not seemed real. Why, why , why hadn't she just told him the next day?
Was it her fault? She had trusted his friend. Everyone did. Was she just naive? That's true - in those days she thought the best of everyone. That sort of thing happened to ‘sluts’ and women who ‘led men on’. It was an age when men were regarded as overgrown boys, with no responsibility for their own actions. “She asked for it" was commonly whispered behind closed doors.
Thank goodness attitudes have changed. A few minutes out of her life had altered it beyond reason. Looking back it would have been so easy just to tell Mac. He would have been upset obviously, but it would have saved her years of aggravation, loss of her friends and years of silent, menacing phone calls. At the time she had just wanted to forget it ever happened and at times she even doubted it had happened. Was it really what it seemed? She hadn't thought it was until now. Was it just as he had said. Just a bit " rough". He had been like that with many women and was rather proud of the fact!
Why hadn't she told Mac the next morning?
Mac’s best friend - the stalker. She finally admitted it to herself A man even despised by his own children. They just about tolerated his presence. Most of the time they pretended to be out when he called. She should be glad at that, but she felt so sorry for the children, who she had grown to love,. All the kids had grown up together and his and her girls were now best friends.
What a mess! She would have to ring Mac and tell him the what his ‘ex-best friend’ was now saying. She couldn't face it, yet she wanted to get over the shock of her daughter’s question. Why now after all these years? Her daughter had begged her not to ring the "monster" but she had and when she asked him, "Why after all these years?” He had no answer of course. Never did.
Now she could see plainly that some recent events had been staged to try and control and manipulate her. He would always protest innocence. He had found out the places she went and would ‘appear’ there supposedly quite innocently.
She had made new friends apart from the group of friends they had all been part of when in their twenties. Of course I suppose he asks around in the old group and someone must innocently tell him what I’m up too. He gave the impression outwardly of an easy-going, friendly man just asking about old friends. I suppose the only way to stop that would be to never talk to any of them again. But Mac still did. Just impossible to stop him finding out about her and her life.
Again it just goes back to the time, years ago, when she should have told the truth. None of this would have happened if she had. But afterwards he acted as if nothing had happened. He still came round acting like everyone's best friend. She would not answer the door if she knew it was him or ever be alone with him. So he would turn up with the kids when Mac was there. Her silence had meant she had had to sit across the room from this "monster", still be friends with his wife and babysit his kids.
Then she and Mac had split up, his suspicions of her behaviour around HIM, convincing Mac that there was an affair, which surprisingly he found difficult to forgive. She could have told the truth then, but by then everything seemed so pointless, there was no fight left in her. Maybe in a twisted way she blamed Mac for not protecting her? Crazy, she was a feminist! women didn’t need to be "protected " anymore.
Obsession is a scary thing for everyone, but for the person being obsessed about doubly so. She never felt safe in her house any more. Unexpected noises made her jump. Always she had her phone with her. Always she looked behind her when she was outside. She never felt at ease. She was always suspicious of others’ motives when they were just trying to be friends. She had isolated herself with her children and, even though they were grown up now and had left home, she still kept to herself. She had ventured out a few years ago and made some friends but he had inveigled his way in and had turned her friends against her. She would not trust anyone again. It was just too risky.
Now she isolated herself he tried a new way of getting back at her. He had told her new friends this latest lie. Something he had been telling their old friends for years. "Her daughter’s really mine." He knew it wasn't true: she had told him enough times. But truth was irrelevant to him, it had been a means to separate her from her friends for years and now it was being used to separate her from her family.
"Is Steve my dad? " her daughter had asked. She denied it of course, immediately, and tried to explain how this lie had been told for years. But it was out there, that question, never being forgotten, there to condemn her, like a worm in peoples minds, working away, eating away at all she loved and cared about.
That was it of course! Twenty-six years ago she had kept silent to protect herself and her husband. She still had trouble thinking of those few minutes. Something that had been so personal, so loving, when shared with the man she loved, had been used by him as nothing more than a bodily function. She had felt de-humanised, just a piece of flesh. It had seemed unreal, like a movie happening to her body, with out her brain being involved, as if she had watched it from above, like people say happens in a ‘near death’ experience. She was frozen, her body was not her own.
Now she was being forced into uttering the words she had never spoken to another human being. She had tried to put them out of her mind over the years but they just surfaced as distrust and fear of others. “Well, at least this is the last of it, nothing else can ever be taken from me by him.” No more, she had wasted enough of her life being scared. No more, not one single second of her life would be controlled by those few minutes twenty six years ago .She was not to be defined by what he had forced on her, her life was her own, to make her own choices. She slowly and reluctantly picked up the phone,
"Mac, its me, please keep calm, this is going to be really hard for me, I want to tell you about something that happened years ago ................"
Who's that coming over the hill. Is it a monster, is it a monster?

‘The Long-awaited Reunion’ by Maureen Bradley

The train was due to arrive on Platform 3 in five minutes. Would I recognise him after all these years? The last time I saw Harry was thirty years ago when he had been a young man about to embark on a new life in Australia.
I was madly in love with him, but my parents thought we were unsuited and would not let me travel with him.
I waited every week for his letters, but they never appeared and it was by coincidence that we met up on the internet and now he was only moments away.
The train approached the station and I watched intently as the passengers made their way to the exit. I was wearing a red carnation and I had asked him to do the same. As I scanned the crowd of people I saw two men wearing red carnations and as they walked towards me my heart raced and I could not tell which one was Harry.
The one with the beard stopped in front of me and said, ‘Can this be my little Mary?’
I looked into his eyes and knew this was the man for whom I been waiting for most of my life. ‘Oh Harry, is it really you? I’m not so little now.’
We gave each other a big hug and walked, arm in arm, out of the station.

'Twitter' by Peter Hodges

The room that is hers is on the first floor above the entrance and looks out onto the drive where it circles the fountain that is silently playing. The room has a balcony. As it is a warm summer's day she is on the balcony. The formality of the gardens matches that of the house: ordered, respected, timeless, one might say, endless. That is how the house is: endless with memories long gone.
Three people are walking toward the house. They reach the fountain, two pass one side, the third, a girl endlessly tapping on a phone, passes the other. She, on the balcony, is watching them, her eyes following, seeing and not seeing. The man has a stick, the woman takes his arm. An old couple. The girl ignores them and takes a seat, her back to the house. She may know them, these people.
Although they are her son and his wife and their daughter she does not know them. She does not know them, a fact now determined, it seems, not by her but by circumstances. A girl, phone in hand, dabbing incessantly, as if transfixed, is, it is said, twittering.
They would be at her door soon, the couple. Knocking gently on the door, as if afraid to disturb. Out there the girl, her back to the house, playing with a phone. Short dress, sandals, long red hair, long legs stretched out. It is summer. The phone seems to gather up the whole of the girl's attention, she leans over it, clutching it in both hands as if its twittering and tweeting is a sort of magic. Like people, it tweets and twitters all the time. Like magic it means nothing. It is summer, warm like summers used to be.
The knock comes to the door. "Hello, Mother…" no more than 'hello mother' because more is not worth the effort. They sit, the wife takes the chair carefully arranging her dress, while he awkwardly perches on the arm, rests his stick on the floor, eases his collar and adjusts his tie. The armchair is the only chair. She has not moved, she remains staring down on the drive where they had been only a minute ago that could have been years. Where the girl twitters and tweets. The granddaughter who never ventures here to see the grandmother with no mind. Ages so far apart as to make it not worth the effort.
‘Hello mother’ is all they say, can say, soon they will talk between themselves. Twitter and tweet. Soon to say 'goodbye mother' and the twittering will cease. Like a summer's day long before.
Marjorie, have you put my clothes out? His lordship will return soon. Where is my father? Oh yes, of course, the hunting party. The mauve, I think, for this evening. Thank you, Marjorie, you may go now.
"Marjorie, are you there?" The sudden speech stops them dead.
"What was that, Mother?"
The wheelchair clatters, grates against the balcony rails, a skeletal arm snakes from under the rug to find the call pull.
"Mother, what is it?" He lurches to his feet and stares at the back of the head.
How they twitter and now they tweet. Like that girl down there, all tweet and twitter.
The door opens. "Did you call, Marjorie?" The care assistant smiles. "Too warm, dear? The sun's moved round. Shall I take the rug?"
It will be the mauve this evening. His lordship will like that. Did you hear, Marjorie?
The assistant's name tag says 'Mary'. The son is confused. The assistant explains that names get mixed up now. "Hers with mine. But we don't worry about it, do we, Marjorie?" The woman laughs cheerily.
His lordship prefers the mauve. What are those old people doing here? All twitter and tweet. Don't they know that the hunting party will return soon? Tea will be served then. Are you there, Marjorie?
Cards of congratulation line the small table. The Queen's telegram is in front. He scans them again. He does so each time he visits now because it is a useful ploy to move along time so that he feels less guilty when eventually, thankfully, he can leave. His wife studies her fingernails. Outside, their daughter twitters and tweets.
All there is. Twitter and tweet.
The care assistant whispers as she leaves the room, "Nothing goes in now. Comfy though. Everything in the past now. You know what I mean. Now, how'd you fancy a nice cup of tea? She'll have hers later." He nods a 'thank you' as the door closes.
How much is there? Really there? None, except… What? He finds himself staring at the back of the head again. Once he thought her beautiful. Mauve suited her. Made her skin glow like alabaster. Rich red hair over alabaster shoulders. Mauve always suited her. Tall and elegant with movements like a… he stumbled with his own remembering, seeing again out of a child's eyes, a small child looking up and blinking at her beauty, hand taken and he was being led away. Your mother will call for you later, he was told. Later, later… later, he was always told. Now he stares at a white skull showing through a nothing of hair. A head with nothing. All around, inside and out, is a waste of twitter and tweet, and nothing.

'Perspective' by Barbara Chapman

Today, at this hour, the island is not an island; perhaps a better description would be “part-time” island. When the tide is out, as it is now, one can walk along a rocky footway to the shoulder of land hunched against the cloud-swirled backdrop of the Channel.
We tread carefully, ascending the path that encircles the dome of land like a monk’s fringe. Concrete gives way to a sandy track pocked with boulders and pebbles. A large sign warns in three languages of the danger of becoming stranded – if caught by the incoming tide you should return to the island and wait for low tide. Under no circumstances should you try to make your way back across the causeway due to dangerous currents.
I wonder how many have found themselves stranded and if they heeded the warning. If theirs was not one of the three languages – French – English – German – perhaps they did try to outrun the waves. Common sense would surely dictate caution and therefore staying put, but then common sense is a highly uncommon thing. A circle of burnt earth in a dip on the side of the hill suggests that someone has spent time here. Sheltered from the wind, this nook affords some protection. The wind is a permanent resident; the sea birds give it a voice, the drawn-out ululation of eternal hunger.
We round a bend; before us blue plummets to green-grey as sky melds with sea to create a canvas of spectacular proportions. In the foreground, perched on the very edge of the cliff and projecting out over the ocean is a structure that, for a few seconds, evades all reason as my mind scrambles to understand what it is. Ah, thank goodness for the sign! What we are seeing is the tomb of Chateaubriand. Hard to top this as the final resting place of a great writer of the Romantic period!
“Chateaubriand” - isn’t that a steak?
I let a sea-washed silence flow into the wake of this enquiry from my companion.
I’m sure I’ve seen it on a menu. That’s right. The place we ate at yesterday evening. Remember?
I nod.
Time, tide and appetite wait for no man.
We continue on our way.

'Trampled by Cows' by Joyce Hayward

When we were young my playmate and I used to run errands to the village shop.
One day we called on Mrs Hudson, an old, but spritely, widow who lived in the large house on our way there. She gave us a list and enough money to buy ourselves an ice lolly for doing the shopping.
On the way back, because the bag was heavy, we carried the bag between us and ate our lollies with the other hand. We saw some men fishing in the canal, so we decided to go down to the towpath to see if they had caught anything. We left the shopping bag under a bridge, where it was cool, until we came back.
Whilst we were busy nosing at the fishermen the lock keeper came to fetch his two cows up that grazed along the side of the canal. He was going to milk them; but as they passed under the bridge they trampled over our shopping bag and one relieved herself as well. It splashed all over the contents of the bag. We quickly ran to rescue it and tried desperately to clean it up before calling at Mrs Hudson’s. The contents were squashed and bag was in an awful state.
‘Whatever happened here?’ she asked us.
‘It wasn’t us Missus. We went to see what the fishermen were doing and put the bag down. Then Mr Rowlands came and fetched his cows. It wasn't us it was them who did all the damage.’

'Four Leafed Clover' by Jan Lloyd

Clover sits alone in the badly lit function room at The Rainbow pub waiting for the rest of the band to turn up.

I got the courage to tell Mum that I couldn't go to Glastonbury with her. I tried to make it sound positive, saying we'd got this gig at The Rainbow and before long we'd be famous. She laughed and took it well. I suggested Theo could go with her or even Carl. "Carl won't want to go", she said. "He'll be stuck down the garage under the bonnet of some wreck". I wonder sometimes why she ever married Carl, they never do anything together. He's got to be the most boring man in the universe. They don't even like the same music so he's hardly likely to want to take her to Glastonbury. Anyway it turned out Theo and some of his mates had planned on going so they hired a van and he was happy to take Mum with her trusty new wheelchair. I just hope they keep an eye on her. She's probably lying in a heap somewhere stoned out of her skull. She says she needs certain substances to help with the pain in her legs and it works much better than the tablets the doctors' keep trying to give her. I had to cook the Christmas dinner last year because she was on another planet lying on the settee. Whose the child and whose the parent I thought as I put the sprouts on.

Dad is no help, he's disappeared off to some mountain retreat in Spain and on his millionth relationship! I remember when he left us. It was my third birthday and I had a party with friends from the nursery. I can see him running down the garden path with Mum screeching at him. Apparently, Mum told me years later, she found him snogging Julia Fulton in the garage when he was meant to be getting my new bike out. He'd been seeing her secretly for months, they'd met at the nursery and would go back to her place after dropping me and her son Jack off. Mum always told me she'd been warned about the McGowan brothers, "They could charm the birds off the trees with their blarney and yer dad, Danny, only had to flash his blue eyes at any woman and he'd melt their hearts in seconds"! People who knew him always say I take after the McGowan family with my dark hair and blue eyes. Maybe in looks but I'd like to think I'm a bit more responsible!

Pause....

Then Mum got ill when I was seven. She woke up one morning and couldn't see straight. She thought she'd put her contact lenses in the wrong way. We were driving to school and she was all over the place and I screamed at her to wake up as she nearly killed us all. After loads of tests they told her it was Multiple Sclerosis and that it may gradually get worse or remain stable. That was fifteen years ago and she's done well coping with the intense pain she gets in her legs. She's fifty this year and that was one of the reasons she wanted to go to Glastonbury, she said it might be her last chance. I hope not.

As for Carl, my stepdad, not! He's pretty useless. Mum met him here in The Rainbow. He told her he could sort her car out as it needed loads of work doing. Anyway he did fix it and passed it for an MOT. Next thing, he's round the house having dinner with us. She saw him as her knight in shining armour just 'cos he'd put an MOT on her car. I was ten when they met and Theo was eight. I never really liked him, he never gets our jokes, he's never really fitted in. They got married when I was twelve and I had to be a bridesmaid. Mum made me wear this awful pink dress with flowers in my hair, it was all very hippy, dippy and I had to pretend to be happy when I really felt like crying. Mum thought it was romantic, I still wonder why because Carl is about as romantic as a wet weekend in Barmouth. Mum always sticks up for him and says he's steady and reliable and that's what she needed after Dad who messed about with other women and broke her heart. At least Dad made us laugh and would cheer us up with his funny stories. I remember Dad turning up one day when I was eight and he took us all out to the seaside in a posh old Merc. Me and Theo sat in the back and thought we were really posh sitting on the leather seats. Mum sat in the front wearing a spotty sun dress and her hair piled up with a sparkly slide. She looked happy and carefree as they chatted and laughed about the old days and how they met and were choosing baby names by the third date. They decided to call me Clover because they'd been out for a picnic and found a four leafed clover just after Dad had proposed. Dad bought us all candy floss later and we sat on the beach and got covered in sand and sticky sugar. He didn't mind us getting sand all over his posh car. Carl wouldn't let us get in his car if we had a speck of dust on us let alone sand. Mum says he's anally retentive. I don't know what he is but it's definitely got something to do with his anus! I cry at night sometimes thinking about my Dad. I wish he was here now and he wasn't living thousands of miles away with his new Spanish girlfriend, she's called Mercedes, which is funny as he always liked Mercs.

Pause...

I'm still waiting for the band to turn up. I suppose I'm a bit early but I'd hoped they'd get here a bit sooner so we can have a quick practice before the party. Donna's Mum and Dad have just been in to decorate the room, thank god, as it looked a bit dismal to say the least. Melvin was still being funny about playing as he thinks he's Damon Albarn and The Rainbow is hardly cutting edge but we're going to get two hundred and fifty quid for this so I told him not to be so snooty. He said he didn't want people to get the wrong idea as we weren't a "pub band" and needed to get gigs in alternative venues. I told him not to be so precious as I didn't care where we played as long as we got some money so I can start paying off some of my debts.

Monday night and Clover is in the function room at The Rainbow collecting the band's equipment.

Mum got back from Glastonbury earlier, all safe and sound but I had to run her a hot bath as she said she felt like an old stray dog! I said to her, "you look like one so get washed before I take you to the kennels". She'd had a brilliant time and had managed to get to the front of the stage to see Bruce Springsteen. Theo said, "She even managed to do without her wheelchair as it was more trouble than it was worth so we left it in the van. Mind you, with the amount of strange cosmic substances available on the menu she didn't need her wheelchair she just floated over the top of the crowds". Mum laughed and climbed into the deep bubbles to have a long soak. I wish she could've been at the gig to see my debut performance. It went really well and Donna danced all night with her mates. Melvin saw sense in the end especially when Keith, the landlord, handed over the cash. Carl turned up and watched from the wings holding his pint. I was surprised to see him especially when he came up after and hugged me and said how much he enjoyed it and how proud he was, I nearly choked on my beer.

Pause....

I feel much better about my future now. The band has got two more dates to play from people at Donna's eighteenth. I've only got six months left to complete my degree. Then we'll be discovered and earn loads of money so I can pay of my student loan. Carl said he'd fix up a van that'd been dumped at the garage and offered to be our "roadie"! He even suggested a name for the band, "The Converts". Now even Melvin liked that!

‘Not Convinced’ by Louise McClean

They don’t know what to do with me. It was leaving the gas on all night that did it. I was OK up to that. I keep telling them, that was only once and it won’t happen again, but they won’t listen. I don’t want to go into a home. I’ve had my own home for over fifty years. I can please myself what I do and there’s no-one to order me about. I like it here.
But Ann and Joan worry about me since the gas thing. They do love me I know and they don’t want to upset me but they don’t trust me on my own any more. They say it’s for my own good and that I’ll love it there with people of my own age to talk to and having my meals all cooked for me. But I won’t, I’ll hate it I just know.
All my happy memories are in this house. It’s no palace, I know, but Albert and me made it lovely. We used to save up for months or even years to buy the things we wanted - the new chairs and the rugs and the oak dining room table and chairs that I polished every week. I remember when we had the bathroom put in we were so proud
The girls were both born here, in this very house and we were so happy -our little family for all those years. There was never a lot of money but that never seemed to matter. Both girls got married from here too and we were so proud of them. We liked the lads they chose too. They were nice boys both of them with good steady jobs. Then when our grandchildren, Jason and Kelly, came along we loved helping with them in the school holidays. They were, still are really, such bright clever little things and the things they came out with you’d never believe! Oh they did make us laugh.
Things were never the same after Albert passed away, but I knew they couldn’t ever be. It was just as if a part of me died too. There was nobody who could make me laugh like he did, nobody to love me like he did and nobody to talk over the old times with any more. It’s very lonely though the girls come round regularly and I want for nothing, but it’s just not the same now.
I don’t tell them how difficult it’s been this past couple of years. I don’t want to upset them. There’s so much to remember all the time, like checking the doors and windows at night and putting out the lights and remembering when the bins go out. It’s not easy being old, you forget things and your mind slips so easy from one thing to another. It is hard and to be honest it would be nice not to have all that responsibility any more.
But would I be happy in that place? They’ve taken me to visit it and it’s warm and comfortable and I would have my own room with my pictures and my own bits and pieces round me and the staff are ever so friendly and helpful. The girls keep pointing out all these things to me and tell me how much I would love it.
I know they worry about me and they really have my interests at heart. But I’m still not convinced - so they don’t know what to do with me.