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?
Wednesday, 28 July 2010
‘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.
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.
Saturday, 24 July 2010
'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.
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.
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.
Monday, 19 July 2010
'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.’
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.’
Wednesday, 14 July 2010
'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!
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.
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.
'A Moment in The Country' by Rosie Pugh
My journey from Killarney to the Dingle Bay was magnificent. Every turn held a more splendid view. Mountains on either side of the road were covered in different colours, like a patchwork quilt. Then as if by magic a mountain had been split in two to reveal the beauty beyond, a valley deep in it’s midst. A rambling river flowing softly over stones and the debris that lay in its way.
Further along old and new houses mingled together, a part of the past and the future. A blue sky hung above with tiny whiffs of white clouds floating by. Then we emerged from inland to the Atlantic Ocean coast road where the sea was still and a vastness that stretched for miles. The sun shone to create a crust of diamonds laid upon the sea. It danced and sparkled, a mirage of its own making.
We pulled into the car park just outside the town of Dingle, which was a fishing port. There the tops of the fishing boats, which popped up and down, could be seen. In silence we watched the coming and goings of others when my friend Christine said would I like to go and find a place to eat.
‘Lets move on,’ I said, ‘maybe further along the road we may find a house or something that will serve teas and snacks’ I did not want to leave the vehicle because I felt the magic would disappear.
We made our way to a place called Sle Head Ventry where a field was between the Atlantic Ocean and me. As we motored along I noticed some signs. One in particular read ‘The Famine House Museum’. As we got nearer we saw the house. It was made of tiny stones - even the roof. It was one of the old famine houses converted into a tearoom and they were serving hot home made soups, drinks and snacks. I had French onion soup with onions that tasted wonderful and it was served with thick home made soda bread with home made butter followed with hot camomile tea. Heaven.
I decided when I finished my tea that I would take a look outside.. My friend stayed indoors. I entered the field where there was a small wooden hut. I purchased a guide book and paid three euros to go and have a look around the old stone cottage.
The Kavanagh Famine Cottage, built during the famine, is one of the few remaining cottages that have survived the famine era. It was quite a steep walk up the hill. I arrived at the small stone out house, which in those days was as a pig shed. I peeped inside; it was a small darkroom that belonged to the Kavanghs. He had allowed a peasant farmer by the name of Peat to live there with his two sons and daughter as he had been evicted from his house in a nearby village.
I made my way further up the hill to the big main house. The feeling of dread over powered me as I wandered from room to room. The guide book stated that ‘West Kerry suffered equal, if not worse famine, due to the remoteness of the Dingle.’ it told how the people had to endure horrific neglect and suffering of that time. Wages were poor and labourers were allowed to grow potatoes on a small piece of land.
One piece of information that caught my eye was; ‘Irish peasants starved in the midst of plenty. Wheat, oats, barely, butter eggs, beef and pork were exported from Ireland in large quantities during the so-called famine.’
I heard myself crying. Children of eight and nine where taken for decrepit old women and men. Their faces were wrinkled, bodies bent and distorted with pain. Even religion was being used against people: be protestant and we’ll give you some food they were told. Workhouses were set up which split families. People that had some strength were leaving for far away places but most died on the crossing. The question was also raised. Why did the people of Dingle not fish the mighty sea just across the road. I myself stood and looked across at the Atlantic Ocean that must have been full of fish. But it stated that many did try but lost their lives as the sea created large swells throwing the frail people into the sea and their death.
My heart and soul was heavy as I looked in the distance at the beauty that was before me and yet in a moment, just one split moment, it told of a horrific fight for life, a battle that many lost in 1845 - 1847. Of how the common potato was so valuable and yet cost so many deaths through disease. How two sides of the coin from a distance can look the same. It is only when we turn it over that we have a different story.
Further along old and new houses mingled together, a part of the past and the future. A blue sky hung above with tiny whiffs of white clouds floating by. Then we emerged from inland to the Atlantic Ocean coast road where the sea was still and a vastness that stretched for miles. The sun shone to create a crust of diamonds laid upon the sea. It danced and sparkled, a mirage of its own making.
We pulled into the car park just outside the town of Dingle, which was a fishing port. There the tops of the fishing boats, which popped up and down, could be seen. In silence we watched the coming and goings of others when my friend Christine said would I like to go and find a place to eat.
‘Lets move on,’ I said, ‘maybe further along the road we may find a house or something that will serve teas and snacks’ I did not want to leave the vehicle because I felt the magic would disappear.
We made our way to a place called Sle Head Ventry where a field was between the Atlantic Ocean and me. As we motored along I noticed some signs. One in particular read ‘The Famine House Museum’. As we got nearer we saw the house. It was made of tiny stones - even the roof. It was one of the old famine houses converted into a tearoom and they were serving hot home made soups, drinks and snacks. I had French onion soup with onions that tasted wonderful and it was served with thick home made soda bread with home made butter followed with hot camomile tea. Heaven.
I decided when I finished my tea that I would take a look outside.. My friend stayed indoors. I entered the field where there was a small wooden hut. I purchased a guide book and paid three euros to go and have a look around the old stone cottage.
The Kavanagh Famine Cottage, built during the famine, is one of the few remaining cottages that have survived the famine era. It was quite a steep walk up the hill. I arrived at the small stone out house, which in those days was as a pig shed. I peeped inside; it was a small darkroom that belonged to the Kavanghs. He had allowed a peasant farmer by the name of Peat to live there with his two sons and daughter as he had been evicted from his house in a nearby village.
I made my way further up the hill to the big main house. The feeling of dread over powered me as I wandered from room to room. The guide book stated that ‘West Kerry suffered equal, if not worse famine, due to the remoteness of the Dingle.’ it told how the people had to endure horrific neglect and suffering of that time. Wages were poor and labourers were allowed to grow potatoes on a small piece of land.
One piece of information that caught my eye was; ‘Irish peasants starved in the midst of plenty. Wheat, oats, barely, butter eggs, beef and pork were exported from Ireland in large quantities during the so-called famine.’
I heard myself crying. Children of eight and nine where taken for decrepit old women and men. Their faces were wrinkled, bodies bent and distorted with pain. Even religion was being used against people: be protestant and we’ll give you some food they were told. Workhouses were set up which split families. People that had some strength were leaving for far away places but most died on the crossing. The question was also raised. Why did the people of Dingle not fish the mighty sea just across the road. I myself stood and looked across at the Atlantic Ocean that must have been full of fish. But it stated that many did try but lost their lives as the sea created large swells throwing the frail people into the sea and their death.
My heart and soul was heavy as I looked in the distance at the beauty that was before me and yet in a moment, just one split moment, it told of a horrific fight for life, a battle that many lost in 1845 - 1847. Of how the common potato was so valuable and yet cost so many deaths through disease. How two sides of the coin from a distance can look the same. It is only when we turn it over that we have a different story.
Sunday, 4 July 2010
‘Evil Face’ by Elisa Hill
"Not good to dwell on it,” she thought.
Then she gathered up the children and made her way home, trying to keep her mind on them and the busy road. That afternoon her friend, Debbie, was visiting with her two boys and she had plenty to do to prepare for their arrival.
Later, she sat down with Debbie having a drink and prepared for a good night out. But her mind kept straying back to the photograph. Debbie sensed that Sally was troubled and asked her what the matter was.
"Tell you later," Sally said.
Her friend pressed her and, as they were alone in the house because all the children had been taken out to the playground by her husband, she decided to confide in her friend.
“Well Debbie, I’ve never told you about any of this before and I’m not sure if you’ll believe me but …..” She passed the photograph to her. "See anything strange?"
"What do you mean? It’s a photo of you and kids in the front room."
Sally sighed, nobody else could ever see it. She couldn't understand it - it seemed to jump out at her! Maybe to others it was just not as significant .To her it was the physical proof of instances that had been happening since almost the very day she had moved in. Was it this house? Was there something evil manipulating them, causing arguments, unpleasant feelings, scaring the children and feeding off the fear generated?
Her neighbour had said she had had a dream about the house. It was a dream about a druid sacrifice being performed on what was then a green hillside- right where her front room is now. She thought, “Do places hold memories,? Can the very earth have a memory? Or is it, as some people say, that we have an ancestral memory which lives through our very D.N.A. Was that triggered when she moved in here?”
She had been the first of the family to view the house and had felt a strong immediate connection, whereas her husband had not been so keen. She had really wanted to move here from the minute she entered and had pushed her husband into choosing it.
Why had she done that? It really was not like her. She was usually very easy going. Sally had surprised herself! She wondered had there been something here manipulating her even then, in that short half hour. Had the house itself chosen her and her family?”
"Now you are just getting ridiculous," she said out loud, forgetting herself. Debbie looked puzzled.
"Sorry, Deb, thinking out loud!"
"First sign of madness you know, talking to yourself,” Debbie replied.
"Look at the photograph again, Debbie. I always see an evil little face in the corner of the room. I moved the tv into that corner last week and since then the tv turns over channels on its own! And a few times this week ornaments have just flown across the room from the top of the tv! Another time, Emma was coming through the back gate when an apple was thrown at her from an empty garden. Worst of all though – a man just out of prison, let himself in and went straight upstairs to the bathroom where a voice told him to go away. We were astonished. He told us he would never come into the house again and ran out of the front door.”
The day afterwards when the house was quiet, the kids were at school and her husband was at work, Sally felt differently about things. She laughed to herself. "Maybe it’s not all bad, no one’s ever been hurt by anything.
And a few years later Sally quietly "lost" the ghost picture. People were becoming too interested in it and she was getting irritated at finding gangs of terrified, wide-eyed, white-faced schoolmates of her children around the house on ghost tours. Cheeky devils - they even charged a fee after having had the photograph scanned and enlarged at school.
Then she gathered up the children and made her way home, trying to keep her mind on them and the busy road. That afternoon her friend, Debbie, was visiting with her two boys and she had plenty to do to prepare for their arrival.
Later, she sat down with Debbie having a drink and prepared for a good night out. But her mind kept straying back to the photograph. Debbie sensed that Sally was troubled and asked her what the matter was.
"Tell you later," Sally said.
Her friend pressed her and, as they were alone in the house because all the children had been taken out to the playground by her husband, she decided to confide in her friend.
“Well Debbie, I’ve never told you about any of this before and I’m not sure if you’ll believe me but …..” She passed the photograph to her. "See anything strange?"
"What do you mean? It’s a photo of you and kids in the front room."
Sally sighed, nobody else could ever see it. She couldn't understand it - it seemed to jump out at her! Maybe to others it was just not as significant .To her it was the physical proof of instances that had been happening since almost the very day she had moved in. Was it this house? Was there something evil manipulating them, causing arguments, unpleasant feelings, scaring the children and feeding off the fear generated?
Her neighbour had said she had had a dream about the house. It was a dream about a druid sacrifice being performed on what was then a green hillside- right where her front room is now. She thought, “Do places hold memories,? Can the very earth have a memory? Or is it, as some people say, that we have an ancestral memory which lives through our very D.N.A. Was that triggered when she moved in here?”
She had been the first of the family to view the house and had felt a strong immediate connection, whereas her husband had not been so keen. She had really wanted to move here from the minute she entered and had pushed her husband into choosing it.
Why had she done that? It really was not like her. She was usually very easy going. Sally had surprised herself! She wondered had there been something here manipulating her even then, in that short half hour. Had the house itself chosen her and her family?”
"Now you are just getting ridiculous," she said out loud, forgetting herself. Debbie looked puzzled.
"Sorry, Deb, thinking out loud!"
"First sign of madness you know, talking to yourself,” Debbie replied.
"Look at the photograph again, Debbie. I always see an evil little face in the corner of the room. I moved the tv into that corner last week and since then the tv turns over channels on its own! And a few times this week ornaments have just flown across the room from the top of the tv! Another time, Emma was coming through the back gate when an apple was thrown at her from an empty garden. Worst of all though – a man just out of prison, let himself in and went straight upstairs to the bathroom where a voice told him to go away. We were astonished. He told us he would never come into the house again and ran out of the front door.”
The day afterwards when the house was quiet, the kids were at school and her husband was at work, Sally felt differently about things. She laughed to herself. "Maybe it’s not all bad, no one’s ever been hurt by anything.
And a few years later Sally quietly "lost" the ghost picture. People were becoming too interested in it and she was getting irritated at finding gangs of terrified, wide-eyed, white-faced schoolmates of her children around the house on ghost tours. Cheeky devils - they even charged a fee after having had the photograph scanned and enlarged at school.
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