I am hearing a child cry
Who can it be, I wonder.
I really want to know why
I am hearing a child cry.
I must search and look nearby.
Oh dear, I can hear thunder
I am hearing a child cry.
Who can it be I wonder
Monday, 31 January 2011
'Missing You' by Maureen Bradley
I miss you and I always will
Your smile, your touch, your kiss.
The memories my life will fill,
I miss you and I always will.
Life can be a bitter pill.
I've known no greater loss than this
I miss you and I always will.
Your smile, your touch, your kiss.
Your smile, your touch, your kiss.
The memories my life will fill,
I miss you and I always will.
Life can be a bitter pill.
I've known no greater loss than this
I miss you and I always will.
Your smile, your touch, your kiss.
Friday, 28 January 2011
'My Time in the WRAC ' by Rosie Pugh
I sat on the bed with an empty suitcase by my side and tears streamed down my face. Once more I was on the move. How many times in my short life had I moved and it was not from choice. I was nearly eighteen. I sobbed, ‘What will become of me?’
The coach would be arriving and I needed to get on the move or my parents would be calling me. I was on my way to train for the WRAC. ‘You’ll make friends, see the world and learn a trade,’ my father kept telling me and it’ll do you good. My father had been in the RAF. ‘It did me no harm,’ he said. Those were the days when you were under the control of your parents until you were twenty-one and you had to have permission for everything you did. Now I was on my way to the women’s barracks in Guildford. A new barracks I had been told. Fear gripped my chest. ‘What lies before me?’
I arrived at my destination where we were greeted by a woman sergeant. ‘Stand to attention,’ she bellowed. They marched us into an office, information was exchanged, then we went to another room to be fitted for a uniform and then we were shown our bedrooms all before we could eat. I was to share with three other girls. So many rules to know and obey, how would I remember all this. My roommates were nice but different to the girls I had known.
We had to be out on the parade ground by six in the mornings, marching around and learning all the different ways of right and left turns before breakfast. My head was buzzing. Later it was education, different flags of the world had to be learnt as well as other issues. Then lunch was served, but everything one had you had to salute for even down to collecting your wages. I did not like this and felt very uncomfortable with.
After dinner you had to clean your room and those in charge would arrive unexpected then everything would be inspected even down to your shoes, which were cleaned with spit and polish and that was hard work.
Days rolled into weeks and I was struggling to cope. Nothing was sinking in. Rules I could cope with but it was the attitudes that were the hardest. One of my roommates was from London and quite a tough cookie; but there was a search party out looking for her as she had gone A WOL.
I learnt swear words I had never heard before and about certain issues like lesbians. ’What were they?’ I thought; but I had no one to ask as I had been warned not to discuss certain things as it could cause trouble.
‘I can’t take any more, it’s all too much,’ I cried. But what could I do? I had nowhere to go, as there was no room at home. My parents had let my room go, as it was an extra room to their apartment they were renting.
As if in answer to my cry I received a letter from my friend Violet saying her son Michael was going to Earl’s Court to see the motor show and if I could get away he would meet me as they were concerned about how I was coping. It was a letter inviting me to leave the army, come and live with them and they would travel there to bring me home. ‘Let me know,’ Violet said.
My sergeant helped me to get there and told me when I arrived I was to go to get someone in authority and get them to make an announcement as Michael did not know when and where I was arriving. But once again it was not easy as they had changed the rules and would not make the announcement. I crumbled and felt gentle hands lift me and a hot cup of tea was given. I heard a familiar voice, turning I saw Michael standing in the doorway. He asked me questions and could see from my answers that all was not well.
Next morning I made an appointment to arrange for permission to leave the WRAC and it had to be then before my six weeks were up, as after that it would be more difficult to leave. The sergeant asked so many questions and informed me that they would have to write to my parents for them to agree with the situation and also they needed to contact the family I was moving to. My heart sank, what if they refused? The days moved slowly.
Eventually, I received the call to go to the office. What was my fate? I was greeted with a salute and ordered to sit. ‘Your parents have agreed for you to leave the army and to live with Violet’s family. Please make your arrangements to leave within the week and pay the £4-10 shilling that was given at the beginning of your arrival.’
Saluting, I left the office and got permission to use the phone to make the arrangements. Violet and her son Michael would arrive the next day.
‘What is to become of me?’ I thought as I packed my suitcase once more.
The coach would be arriving and I needed to get on the move or my parents would be calling me. I was on my way to train for the WRAC. ‘You’ll make friends, see the world and learn a trade,’ my father kept telling me and it’ll do you good. My father had been in the RAF. ‘It did me no harm,’ he said. Those were the days when you were under the control of your parents until you were twenty-one and you had to have permission for everything you did. Now I was on my way to the women’s barracks in Guildford. A new barracks I had been told. Fear gripped my chest. ‘What lies before me?’
I arrived at my destination where we were greeted by a woman sergeant. ‘Stand to attention,’ she bellowed. They marched us into an office, information was exchanged, then we went to another room to be fitted for a uniform and then we were shown our bedrooms all before we could eat. I was to share with three other girls. So many rules to know and obey, how would I remember all this. My roommates were nice but different to the girls I had known.
We had to be out on the parade ground by six in the mornings, marching around and learning all the different ways of right and left turns before breakfast. My head was buzzing. Later it was education, different flags of the world had to be learnt as well as other issues. Then lunch was served, but everything one had you had to salute for even down to collecting your wages. I did not like this and felt very uncomfortable with.
After dinner you had to clean your room and those in charge would arrive unexpected then everything would be inspected even down to your shoes, which were cleaned with spit and polish and that was hard work.
Days rolled into weeks and I was struggling to cope. Nothing was sinking in. Rules I could cope with but it was the attitudes that were the hardest. One of my roommates was from London and quite a tough cookie; but there was a search party out looking for her as she had gone A WOL.
I learnt swear words I had never heard before and about certain issues like lesbians. ’What were they?’ I thought; but I had no one to ask as I had been warned not to discuss certain things as it could cause trouble.
‘I can’t take any more, it’s all too much,’ I cried. But what could I do? I had nowhere to go, as there was no room at home. My parents had let my room go, as it was an extra room to their apartment they were renting.
As if in answer to my cry I received a letter from my friend Violet saying her son Michael was going to Earl’s Court to see the motor show and if I could get away he would meet me as they were concerned about how I was coping. It was a letter inviting me to leave the army, come and live with them and they would travel there to bring me home. ‘Let me know,’ Violet said.
My sergeant helped me to get there and told me when I arrived I was to go to get someone in authority and get them to make an announcement as Michael did not know when and where I was arriving. But once again it was not easy as they had changed the rules and would not make the announcement. I crumbled and felt gentle hands lift me and a hot cup of tea was given. I heard a familiar voice, turning I saw Michael standing in the doorway. He asked me questions and could see from my answers that all was not well.
Next morning I made an appointment to arrange for permission to leave the WRAC and it had to be then before my six weeks were up, as after that it would be more difficult to leave. The sergeant asked so many questions and informed me that they would have to write to my parents for them to agree with the situation and also they needed to contact the family I was moving to. My heart sank, what if they refused? The days moved slowly.
Eventually, I received the call to go to the office. What was my fate? I was greeted with a salute and ordered to sit. ‘Your parents have agreed for you to leave the army and to live with Violet’s family. Please make your arrangements to leave within the week and pay the £4-10 shilling that was given at the beginning of your arrival.’
Saluting, I left the office and got permission to use the phone to make the arrangements. Violet and her son Michael would arrive the next day.
‘What is to become of me?’ I thought as I packed my suitcase once more.
Monday, 17 January 2011
'The Adventure of a Lifetime' by Rosie Pugh
My journey to Snowdonia for a workshop was an event that would prepare me for the adventure of a lifetime. I was taken to the bottom of a slate quarry and then I had to walk to the top. It was very, very steep and I had to walk over broken slates. It was made more difficult as I was, at the time, recovering from ME; but I managed with the support of the group I was with. When I reached the top we had to enter a large, dark cave in single file. I had to learn to trust the person in front and have confidence in myself. It was hard. The journey was fearful and had to be completed in complete darkness except for the beam from a tiny light. Finally we reached the centre of the cave that was lit with tiny, tea-light candles. It was amazing. We had reached our destination.
I was unaware, at the time, that I was training for an adventure that would take place years later in Egypt in September 2003.
I travelled to Egypt with a party of thirty-nine and there was only one person I knew, the lady who organised the trip. I did not know the history of Egypt but was open-minded to the experience. We flew from Heathrow to Cairo, stayed one night at the Sheraton Heliopolis Hotel, then in the morning we left by coach to Tel-el-Armana for the beginning of our desert adventure. First we had to pick up an army escort to take our coach through the desert. It was in case of bandits. I was thinking, ‘What on earth am I doing here?’ Believe me if I had known beforehand what I was going to be doing I don’t think I would have gone.
Eventually we left the coach and wandered the desert sands and felt the atmosphere of times long ago. The experience was breath taking. We travelled to many places: Minya, Luxor and sailed down the Nile. We went to the Great Temple of Abydos, the Temple of Knowledge built by SetiI and the Temple of Dendera dedicated to Hathor, Goddess of Love and Music.
Later, we travelled by train to Aswan. This allowed me to see how poor most of the people were, but how they worked together. They used water from the Nile; there were no fancy machines but there was something that looked like a hose pumping the water. The straw that was left from the harvest was used on roofs, walls and gates.
We travelled on to many places, but the big adventure was when we went into the Great Pyramid. We were there for two hours and had paid to have the pyramid to ourselves. We entered exactly as we did in the cave in Wales, one by one with only a torch each for light - so we had to trust the person in front. It was a steep climb and it was scary. It took a very long time, especially in the dark with only the light of little torches.
When we reached the top we entered through a small door that led into a small room with a tomb that was now empty. We celebrated, as it was a great achievement. Yet again I had conquered my fear. The history of ancient times could be felt all around us..
We arrived back at our hotel and my friend and I celebrated with a bottle of bubbly, coffee and a platter of fruit. We raised our glasses to the pyramids and the sphinx, as they were across the road from our suite. We saluted the ancient times of long ago.
What a feeling and an adventure I had!
I was unaware, at the time, that I was training for an adventure that would take place years later in Egypt in September 2003.
I travelled to Egypt with a party of thirty-nine and there was only one person I knew, the lady who organised the trip. I did not know the history of Egypt but was open-minded to the experience. We flew from Heathrow to Cairo, stayed one night at the Sheraton Heliopolis Hotel, then in the morning we left by coach to Tel-el-Armana for the beginning of our desert adventure. First we had to pick up an army escort to take our coach through the desert. It was in case of bandits. I was thinking, ‘What on earth am I doing here?’ Believe me if I had known beforehand what I was going to be doing I don’t think I would have gone.
Eventually we left the coach and wandered the desert sands and felt the atmosphere of times long ago. The experience was breath taking. We travelled to many places: Minya, Luxor and sailed down the Nile. We went to the Great Temple of Abydos, the Temple of Knowledge built by SetiI and the Temple of Dendera dedicated to Hathor, Goddess of Love and Music.
Later, we travelled by train to Aswan. This allowed me to see how poor most of the people were, but how they worked together. They used water from the Nile; there were no fancy machines but there was something that looked like a hose pumping the water. The straw that was left from the harvest was used on roofs, walls and gates.
We travelled on to many places, but the big adventure was when we went into the Great Pyramid. We were there for two hours and had paid to have the pyramid to ourselves. We entered exactly as we did in the cave in Wales, one by one with only a torch each for light - so we had to trust the person in front. It was a steep climb and it was scary. It took a very long time, especially in the dark with only the light of little torches.
When we reached the top we entered through a small door that led into a small room with a tomb that was now empty. We celebrated, as it was a great achievement. Yet again I had conquered my fear. The history of ancient times could be felt all around us..
We arrived back at our hotel and my friend and I celebrated with a bottle of bubbly, coffee and a platter of fruit. We raised our glasses to the pyramids and the sphinx, as they were across the road from our suite. We saluted the ancient times of long ago.
What a feeling and an adventure I had!
'The Pub With Bright Lights' by Peter Hodges
The sound of the door closing was the finality that made the breath sink out of him. Emptying. He faced the night; snow falling, caught in the light from the window until it dimmed with his walking away. Along the drive the flower borders he had tended, now snow laden, now lost to him. She would have them still. But all that was behind him. The fading light of the home he once knew. Now it was the cold welcome of night just beginning. It was Christmas Eve.
He reached the car. Brushed the windscreen clear, the windows, mirrors. How precise. Mechanical. As was the starting of the engine, wipers, heater. For why? To leave this place? This home he once had? Once shared.
At the road he turned to face the blizzard. His need was such that he would attack. Drive at the fury, smash through, send it skittering, swirling, thrown aside by the wipers, ignored by the headlights, wheels slithering, bighting, bighting and slithering. Down the hill, the other side gained as much by willpower. Speed gathering, he reached the top. And now house and village where once he lived, had fallen away into that that which no longer existed. Like the trees, the hedges and fields. The lonely post box on its lonely post at the gate to the farm about which he knew nothing.
Could it be that? That he had never become assimilated? Enfolded or accepted? By whom? His wife? No, now it was the more immediate business of putting distance between that before and what lay ahead. Yet as to what did lie ahead reached no further than the car's lights. The road had widened from unclassified into an A but no less white from verge to verge. The rear lights of other traffic appeared and seemed now to obstruct, crowd, and that brought the realisation that he might actually be travelling too fast. He should know better. How long had he been driving? Thirty years? He was Frank Marshal, a director of business, looked up to, responsible. He slowed. The car veered momentarily until the auto braking took over and it steadied. And for the first time he breathed, consciously that is, a deep breath, and he glanced at the dashboard clock. He did not remember the time of leaving and could only guess at how long it had been, probably more than an hour, probably a lot more. By the time the motorway sign loomed his thoughts had rambled until his head was full of tangle and he took the direction he least used, had no use for, from where the snow came. As if to obliterate in entirety a whole life. Destroy himself. That brought him up short. That he could possibly have such intention. Just drive until he dropped, fell asleep. Hit a bridge pier. Such was not unknown. Men had done that.
The snow had stopped. Vehicles had stopped. In front was a line of red tail lights, not straight, it was how they had all come to rest. There seemed no reason, no one as far as he could see was out of their vehicle waving arms or whatever people did in such circumstances. An accident? It was so quiet. The silence of snow. Someone did get out, a distance away, just to see, to stretch and look about. He did likewise. Steadying himself against the open car door, he looked one way then the other. Another driver got out. A van had slithered to a halt across the carriageway and two drivers were talking, one kicking the snow at his feet, it was not deep but deep enough, the suddenness of its coming had been sufficient.
He got back into the car. He had no wish to talk. There was nothing to be said. Then he was aware of someone in the car with him. A figure in a cape with a hood, the face obscured.
"Oh…" he said, "Who are you? I didn't see you. I didn't see you get in the car."
The figure made no reply and nor did it move.
"Are you from one of the others?" He nodded to the line of stationary vehicles outside. "Got stuck, did you?"
The face remained hidden. He would have put on the interior light but didn't. Something stayed his hand, fixing it where it rested on the gear select. And now his throat clamped on his voice. A brilliant blue light flashed in the mirror. They're getting us out, he wanted to say but was unable to articulate the words.
"Be ready to move." The order blasted the silence as a police four-by-four thrust through. "Get into your vehicles and be…" the sound died with the pulsing light, it could have been lights on a Christmas tree in the window of a house. But there were no houses. He engaged drive, pressed the accelerator, instantly the wheels spun but the car moved.
Everyone was moving, sideways, forwards, the common aim of getting out, thoughts of home. Except for him. He had no thoughts of home.
As for the figure next to him… a woman obviously, and in a dress that was completely inappropriate. The hooded cape but… he blinked. He had momentarily cast an eye over this person who had assumed a place in his car, and realised she was wearing what appeared to be evening wear. At least it seemed so: long dark dress, frills at the hem, lace over bare arms where they appeared from under the cape, long lace gloves to the elbow, and slippers that hardly covered her feet. He set the car heater higher and tentatively asked, "Where've you been? A party? I suppose your car got stuck."
There was no answer. The traffic was going faster, he was aware of the lights behind closing. He speeded up.
"Why do you travel so fast?" The question took him by surprise.
"This isn't fast…" he said as the car weaved suddenly in drifted snow and he was obliged to lift off the accelerator.
"I once lived here," the voice went on. "In that valley. The church is not changed."
"Which church?"
"My village."
"I didn't know there was village here."
"What matter is that?"
Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that the figure was turned away, staring out of the window. The sky was black and there were stars now.
"Sorry," he said, "I didn't quite catch what you said."
"No matter. None at all. It was where I lived. You live far away."
"Well, not that far…"
"A long way." There was an insistence in the voice, well spoken, rounded. "Many miles."
"Eh, yes… about…" he checked the odometer. "Over sixty miles."
"A long way."
"On a night like tonight, yes."
"Day or night."
"Not really…"
"Yes. A very long way. Are you married?"
"What was that you said?"
"Your name… it is Frank, isn't it?"
For a moment he didn't reply. "How do you know that?"
"I see it in you. I hear it in you."
And now for the first time he saw the face for the woman had turned to him. She was pale, he guessed at one time pretty but drawn now as if something unexpected had taken place. Searching eyes that were deep set, dark, penetrating. He forced his attention back to the road, his brain trying to work out what was happening, how he was known, as if he carried some brand of infamy. As if his world had been found out.
"I died here," she said.
His grip on the steering wheel tightened, his back pressed into the seat. The words repeated in his head: I died here. The manner of its expression, the dry disinterest of its delivery. He could not have heard correctly. Her gaze settled on him again. "I have frightened you," she said, a note of melancholy now. "That was wrong of me."
"Who are you? I mean, do I know you? Did you know I was here? Travelling this road?"
"I am no one. You do not know me."
"You must have a name. You seem to know mine."
There was a pause. "Alice," she said.
"But I have a daughter called Alice." And his relief was such he tossed out the name again: "Alice! It's a lovely name. My God it is!" The vehicles in front were drawing to a halt again and he did likewise. "That is such a coincidence," he said. "The same name, my God…" he put out his hand. An involuntary move – as he would have to his daughter – but did not touch. Or felt nothing. Except cold, and that made him pull away.
"You are married," she said.
"Yes… well, I'm not sure now. I think it has come to an end. Tonight. Only tonight." He folded his arms behind his head.
"Your wife is dead?"
"No. We have separated. Tonight."
"Separated," she repeated looking again at the snowy scene, black sky full of stars and a bright moon. "What does that mean to you? To me, it is what I am but I doubt we think alike. We are not the same." She paused, as if wrestling with herself. "You see, I am dead. But please don't be afraid." Her hand raised, she slipped of a glove, fingers trembling, nails white like the snow flakes that had fallen about them. She went on, her voice trembling now. "Each year I come back here. On this day – oh so many, many years ago but still I am not permitted to forget – I died. But I did not pass over. That was denied me. It was the way of my death, but I doubt you understand. No one ever has."
He was staring at her. The cloak – he could see now that it was more cloak than cape – had slipped, her hair was free, and fell in dark tresses over her bare shoulders. Her skin shone against the dark of the dress, shimmering in the reflected moonlight. He was unable to stop staring, and now she smiling. "I have shocked you," she said. "I am so sorry."
"Sorry… why sorry?" he blurted. "Why don't you tell me. Just tell me who…"
"Separated," she said again. "Yes, that is it. I too am separated. Your need is to be free whilst my need is to be rejoined. My soul searches for the man I once loved. He departed this earth and I wished to be with him. Yet I remain. You walked away. You, Frank, bear his name. Your daughter bears mine. That is how I found you. I have waited for this day. Predestined or fate, who can say? But you must not be afraid. Come, let me touch you."
Her face came closer, pale lips parting, yet her eyes never left his. He was transfixed. He had no idea why he was not screaming. His very fortitude as he allowed her to take his hand. Hers, slender and so cold, and her lips… no breath issued forth. "Thank you," she whispered and so close but no breath touched his face and with that he heaved himself away, grabbed the door handle and was outside into a commotion of blue lights and voices shouting at him.
"What are you doing? Get back into the car. A snow plough is pushing through." Behind a powerful torch he made out yellow hi-vis and the rounded hat with black and white chequers of a female police officer. The torch dazzled and she shouted again, "I said get in the car, didn't I."
"I need air," he gasped. "There's someone here who…" His feet slid on the snow and he clutched at the door. The officer came over, shone the torch in his face, leaned toward him, sniffing. "I'm not drunk," he said, "Although I could down a good stiff brandy…" he straightened. "No, it's not me. It's her in car."
The officer flashed the torch around the car interior. "Where? I don't see anyone." The officer looked at him. "No one there. So what's going on? Want to tell me?"
"I need fresh air," he said. "This snow plough… you say it's on it's way?"
The officer pressed her hand to the earpiece in her ear, listening. "A few minutes yet," she said closing the car door. "Now, want to tell me?"
He looked up into the sky. Overhead power lines glistened in the moonlight. One of the lines had a figure sitting on it all-aglow, even the dark dress was aglow against the blackness of the sky, feet in slippers swinging, one gloved hand wrapped around a glass insulator. She was singing, humming as if it was not a cold and snowy night but more a bright summer's day.
"Do you see that?" he said pointing up.
"No," replied the officer.
"Of course you don't. She's not really there."
"Want to tell me?" And with that the officer swept off her cap letting a tumble of dark tresses sweep over the brightness of her jacket. "Come on, Frank, want to tell me?"
"Someone else who knows me," he murmured.
"Some people need to be known."
He swayed and steadied himself against the car.
"The snow plough's getting closer, Frank. We'll soon be down there. See the village in the valley?"
"I don't know anything about a village," he replied. "I mean, it's dark…" his voice fell away.
"It's were we're going," said the officer. "See the bright lights? That's the pub. Soon be there. I've got my party frock, let my hair down. See!" and she swirled it. "Can't wait to put on my slippers and poke my toes at the big log fire. See it, Frank? The pub with bright lights?"
Someone walked by, nodded to him. "We need to get outa here," said the stranger. "They think we don't exist. A whole bloody motorway, for Christ sake. Where the hell is anybody?" Frank half-glanced at the police officer, she was smiling, and only for him. "The police…" he began, then raising his voice. "They're here," he called. "Aren't they?"
"Where?" returned the man. "Police? Where, for Christ sake?"
The officer still smiled, her face close now. She clapped her hands on his shoulders and her eyes glittered like the black of night all around as she pulled the collar of his coat close around his ears. "It's turned midnight, Frank. Christmas Day! Come on, I'll take you there. The pub with bright lights."
* * *
He threw aside the bedclothes. His wife cried out his name. "Frank! Frank! What on earth is the matter?"
He was out of bed, sweating, freezing, shaking. "Oh thank God… a dream, nothing but a dream." At last his breathing steadied.
"Get back into bed, for goodness sake. You're as cold as…"
"What a dream. I was on… I'd walked out. Driven off. Snow. On the motorway going God knows where and then everything stopped. So quiet. Still. Everywhere snow. Then there was this woman in the car. And a woman police officer. I was invited to a pub, for God's sake."
Frank got back into bed. His wife put her arms around him and held him close. "Get yourself warm, love," she said. "Here, put my dressing gown around you. What's this about a woman in the car?" Smiling now with relief, she pulled the collar of the dressing gown close around his ears. "And this pub? Was it an invitation, Frank?"
"Yes," he stammered. "It was Christmas Day… she invited me to…"
"The pub with bright lights? Was that it?"
He reached the car. Brushed the windscreen clear, the windows, mirrors. How precise. Mechanical. As was the starting of the engine, wipers, heater. For why? To leave this place? This home he once had? Once shared.
At the road he turned to face the blizzard. His need was such that he would attack. Drive at the fury, smash through, send it skittering, swirling, thrown aside by the wipers, ignored by the headlights, wheels slithering, bighting, bighting and slithering. Down the hill, the other side gained as much by willpower. Speed gathering, he reached the top. And now house and village where once he lived, had fallen away into that that which no longer existed. Like the trees, the hedges and fields. The lonely post box on its lonely post at the gate to the farm about which he knew nothing.
Could it be that? That he had never become assimilated? Enfolded or accepted? By whom? His wife? No, now it was the more immediate business of putting distance between that before and what lay ahead. Yet as to what did lie ahead reached no further than the car's lights. The road had widened from unclassified into an A but no less white from verge to verge. The rear lights of other traffic appeared and seemed now to obstruct, crowd, and that brought the realisation that he might actually be travelling too fast. He should know better. How long had he been driving? Thirty years? He was Frank Marshal, a director of business, looked up to, responsible. He slowed. The car veered momentarily until the auto braking took over and it steadied. And for the first time he breathed, consciously that is, a deep breath, and he glanced at the dashboard clock. He did not remember the time of leaving and could only guess at how long it had been, probably more than an hour, probably a lot more. By the time the motorway sign loomed his thoughts had rambled until his head was full of tangle and he took the direction he least used, had no use for, from where the snow came. As if to obliterate in entirety a whole life. Destroy himself. That brought him up short. That he could possibly have such intention. Just drive until he dropped, fell asleep. Hit a bridge pier. Such was not unknown. Men had done that.
The snow had stopped. Vehicles had stopped. In front was a line of red tail lights, not straight, it was how they had all come to rest. There seemed no reason, no one as far as he could see was out of their vehicle waving arms or whatever people did in such circumstances. An accident? It was so quiet. The silence of snow. Someone did get out, a distance away, just to see, to stretch and look about. He did likewise. Steadying himself against the open car door, he looked one way then the other. Another driver got out. A van had slithered to a halt across the carriageway and two drivers were talking, one kicking the snow at his feet, it was not deep but deep enough, the suddenness of its coming had been sufficient.
He got back into the car. He had no wish to talk. There was nothing to be said. Then he was aware of someone in the car with him. A figure in a cape with a hood, the face obscured.
"Oh…" he said, "Who are you? I didn't see you. I didn't see you get in the car."
The figure made no reply and nor did it move.
"Are you from one of the others?" He nodded to the line of stationary vehicles outside. "Got stuck, did you?"
The face remained hidden. He would have put on the interior light but didn't. Something stayed his hand, fixing it where it rested on the gear select. And now his throat clamped on his voice. A brilliant blue light flashed in the mirror. They're getting us out, he wanted to say but was unable to articulate the words.
"Be ready to move." The order blasted the silence as a police four-by-four thrust through. "Get into your vehicles and be…" the sound died with the pulsing light, it could have been lights on a Christmas tree in the window of a house. But there were no houses. He engaged drive, pressed the accelerator, instantly the wheels spun but the car moved.
Everyone was moving, sideways, forwards, the common aim of getting out, thoughts of home. Except for him. He had no thoughts of home.
As for the figure next to him… a woman obviously, and in a dress that was completely inappropriate. The hooded cape but… he blinked. He had momentarily cast an eye over this person who had assumed a place in his car, and realised she was wearing what appeared to be evening wear. At least it seemed so: long dark dress, frills at the hem, lace over bare arms where they appeared from under the cape, long lace gloves to the elbow, and slippers that hardly covered her feet. He set the car heater higher and tentatively asked, "Where've you been? A party? I suppose your car got stuck."
There was no answer. The traffic was going faster, he was aware of the lights behind closing. He speeded up.
"Why do you travel so fast?" The question took him by surprise.
"This isn't fast…" he said as the car weaved suddenly in drifted snow and he was obliged to lift off the accelerator.
"I once lived here," the voice went on. "In that valley. The church is not changed."
"Which church?"
"My village."
"I didn't know there was village here."
"What matter is that?"
Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that the figure was turned away, staring out of the window. The sky was black and there were stars now.
"Sorry," he said, "I didn't quite catch what you said."
"No matter. None at all. It was where I lived. You live far away."
"Well, not that far…"
"A long way." There was an insistence in the voice, well spoken, rounded. "Many miles."
"Eh, yes… about…" he checked the odometer. "Over sixty miles."
"A long way."
"On a night like tonight, yes."
"Day or night."
"Not really…"
"Yes. A very long way. Are you married?"
"What was that you said?"
"Your name… it is Frank, isn't it?"
For a moment he didn't reply. "How do you know that?"
"I see it in you. I hear it in you."
And now for the first time he saw the face for the woman had turned to him. She was pale, he guessed at one time pretty but drawn now as if something unexpected had taken place. Searching eyes that were deep set, dark, penetrating. He forced his attention back to the road, his brain trying to work out what was happening, how he was known, as if he carried some brand of infamy. As if his world had been found out.
"I died here," she said.
His grip on the steering wheel tightened, his back pressed into the seat. The words repeated in his head: I died here. The manner of its expression, the dry disinterest of its delivery. He could not have heard correctly. Her gaze settled on him again. "I have frightened you," she said, a note of melancholy now. "That was wrong of me."
"Who are you? I mean, do I know you? Did you know I was here? Travelling this road?"
"I am no one. You do not know me."
"You must have a name. You seem to know mine."
There was a pause. "Alice," she said.
"But I have a daughter called Alice." And his relief was such he tossed out the name again: "Alice! It's a lovely name. My God it is!" The vehicles in front were drawing to a halt again and he did likewise. "That is such a coincidence," he said. "The same name, my God…" he put out his hand. An involuntary move – as he would have to his daughter – but did not touch. Or felt nothing. Except cold, and that made him pull away.
"You are married," she said.
"Yes… well, I'm not sure now. I think it has come to an end. Tonight. Only tonight." He folded his arms behind his head.
"Your wife is dead?"
"No. We have separated. Tonight."
"Separated," she repeated looking again at the snowy scene, black sky full of stars and a bright moon. "What does that mean to you? To me, it is what I am but I doubt we think alike. We are not the same." She paused, as if wrestling with herself. "You see, I am dead. But please don't be afraid." Her hand raised, she slipped of a glove, fingers trembling, nails white like the snow flakes that had fallen about them. She went on, her voice trembling now. "Each year I come back here. On this day – oh so many, many years ago but still I am not permitted to forget – I died. But I did not pass over. That was denied me. It was the way of my death, but I doubt you understand. No one ever has."
He was staring at her. The cloak – he could see now that it was more cloak than cape – had slipped, her hair was free, and fell in dark tresses over her bare shoulders. Her skin shone against the dark of the dress, shimmering in the reflected moonlight. He was unable to stop staring, and now she smiling. "I have shocked you," she said. "I am so sorry."
"Sorry… why sorry?" he blurted. "Why don't you tell me. Just tell me who…"
"Separated," she said again. "Yes, that is it. I too am separated. Your need is to be free whilst my need is to be rejoined. My soul searches for the man I once loved. He departed this earth and I wished to be with him. Yet I remain. You walked away. You, Frank, bear his name. Your daughter bears mine. That is how I found you. I have waited for this day. Predestined or fate, who can say? But you must not be afraid. Come, let me touch you."
Her face came closer, pale lips parting, yet her eyes never left his. He was transfixed. He had no idea why he was not screaming. His very fortitude as he allowed her to take his hand. Hers, slender and so cold, and her lips… no breath issued forth. "Thank you," she whispered and so close but no breath touched his face and with that he heaved himself away, grabbed the door handle and was outside into a commotion of blue lights and voices shouting at him.
"What are you doing? Get back into the car. A snow plough is pushing through." Behind a powerful torch he made out yellow hi-vis and the rounded hat with black and white chequers of a female police officer. The torch dazzled and she shouted again, "I said get in the car, didn't I."
"I need air," he gasped. "There's someone here who…" His feet slid on the snow and he clutched at the door. The officer came over, shone the torch in his face, leaned toward him, sniffing. "I'm not drunk," he said, "Although I could down a good stiff brandy…" he straightened. "No, it's not me. It's her in car."
The officer flashed the torch around the car interior. "Where? I don't see anyone." The officer looked at him. "No one there. So what's going on? Want to tell me?"
"I need fresh air," he said. "This snow plough… you say it's on it's way?"
The officer pressed her hand to the earpiece in her ear, listening. "A few minutes yet," she said closing the car door. "Now, want to tell me?"
He looked up into the sky. Overhead power lines glistened in the moonlight. One of the lines had a figure sitting on it all-aglow, even the dark dress was aglow against the blackness of the sky, feet in slippers swinging, one gloved hand wrapped around a glass insulator. She was singing, humming as if it was not a cold and snowy night but more a bright summer's day.
"Do you see that?" he said pointing up.
"No," replied the officer.
"Of course you don't. She's not really there."
"Want to tell me?" And with that the officer swept off her cap letting a tumble of dark tresses sweep over the brightness of her jacket. "Come on, Frank, want to tell me?"
"Someone else who knows me," he murmured.
"Some people need to be known."
He swayed and steadied himself against the car.
"The snow plough's getting closer, Frank. We'll soon be down there. See the village in the valley?"
"I don't know anything about a village," he replied. "I mean, it's dark…" his voice fell away.
"It's were we're going," said the officer. "See the bright lights? That's the pub. Soon be there. I've got my party frock, let my hair down. See!" and she swirled it. "Can't wait to put on my slippers and poke my toes at the big log fire. See it, Frank? The pub with bright lights?"
Someone walked by, nodded to him. "We need to get outa here," said the stranger. "They think we don't exist. A whole bloody motorway, for Christ sake. Where the hell is anybody?" Frank half-glanced at the police officer, she was smiling, and only for him. "The police…" he began, then raising his voice. "They're here," he called. "Aren't they?"
"Where?" returned the man. "Police? Where, for Christ sake?"
The officer still smiled, her face close now. She clapped her hands on his shoulders and her eyes glittered like the black of night all around as she pulled the collar of his coat close around his ears. "It's turned midnight, Frank. Christmas Day! Come on, I'll take you there. The pub with bright lights."
* * *
He threw aside the bedclothes. His wife cried out his name. "Frank! Frank! What on earth is the matter?"
He was out of bed, sweating, freezing, shaking. "Oh thank God… a dream, nothing but a dream." At last his breathing steadied.
"Get back into bed, for goodness sake. You're as cold as…"
"What a dream. I was on… I'd walked out. Driven off. Snow. On the motorway going God knows where and then everything stopped. So quiet. Still. Everywhere snow. Then there was this woman in the car. And a woman police officer. I was invited to a pub, for God's sake."
Frank got back into bed. His wife put her arms around him and held him close. "Get yourself warm, love," she said. "Here, put my dressing gown around you. What's this about a woman in the car?" Smiling now with relief, she pulled the collar of the dressing gown close around his ears. "And this pub? Was it an invitation, Frank?"
"Yes," he stammered. "It was Christmas Day… she invited me to…"
"The pub with bright lights? Was that it?"
Friday, 7 January 2011
'My Beautiful Heifer' by Rosie Pugh
A young heifer collapsed after the birth of her calf. It was her first and the youngster was very big. She was unable to bring herself back on her legs and this was not a good sign as it meant only one thing - death at the hands of the farmer.
I gazed at this beautiful creature as I knelt by her side. Her eyes, which were as big as the moon, gazed into mine. She had sadness. It was as if she knew her fate. Her eyes followed my every move as I stroked and spoke to her.
Deep in my heart I knew what the outcome would be; but I pleaded with her to please try and move, which she did so many times. The effort was there but she was unable to bring those long legs into action. She looked at me as if to say, I’m trying. I wept.
The farmer caught me many times in the barn as I used to bring her warm milk with a drop of brandy and helped her to drink. My love for the heifer grew and I became desperate as every day came and I waited for that miracle to happen that maybe today she would be standing. I knew she had been trying because the straw would always be disturbed. But alas it was not to be. She was unable to gain that strength she needed.
We gazed at one another and I felt she knew what I was trying to do. She was the most beautiful heifer I had ever met and she had a look that spoke.
On my last morning at the farm, I entered the barn with a heavy heart, she twisted her head, gazed at me, my heart turned, tears streamed down my face. I felt her fear but what could I do. I fell to my knees, gave her the warm milk, stroked her head as I gazed into those beautiful eyes but this time in desperation I shouted at her, “You stupid cow why don’t you get up? They will shoot you.” I pulled and pushed but to no avail. She was lost and so was I.
I put her head into my lap, stroked her once more and kissed her cheek. Tears ran down my face. Unknown to me the farmer had entered the barn and ordered me out. The time had come.
I left but turned once more and gazed into those big brown eyes. She may have been a heifer but she had something special that I will always carry within me. She was my beautiful heifer.
I gazed at this beautiful creature as I knelt by her side. Her eyes, which were as big as the moon, gazed into mine. She had sadness. It was as if she knew her fate. Her eyes followed my every move as I stroked and spoke to her.
Deep in my heart I knew what the outcome would be; but I pleaded with her to please try and move, which she did so many times. The effort was there but she was unable to bring those long legs into action. She looked at me as if to say, I’m trying. I wept.
The farmer caught me many times in the barn as I used to bring her warm milk with a drop of brandy and helped her to drink. My love for the heifer grew and I became desperate as every day came and I waited for that miracle to happen that maybe today she would be standing. I knew she had been trying because the straw would always be disturbed. But alas it was not to be. She was unable to gain that strength she needed.
We gazed at one another and I felt she knew what I was trying to do. She was the most beautiful heifer I had ever met and she had a look that spoke.
On my last morning at the farm, I entered the barn with a heavy heart, she twisted her head, gazed at me, my heart turned, tears streamed down my face. I felt her fear but what could I do. I fell to my knees, gave her the warm milk, stroked her head as I gazed into those beautiful eyes but this time in desperation I shouted at her, “You stupid cow why don’t you get up? They will shoot you.” I pulled and pushed but to no avail. She was lost and so was I.
I put her head into my lap, stroked her once more and kissed her cheek. Tears ran down my face. Unknown to me the farmer had entered the barn and ordered me out. The time had come.
I left but turned once more and gazed into those big brown eyes. She may have been a heifer but she had something special that I will always carry within me. She was my beautiful heifer.
Thursday, 6 January 2011
‘Oasis’ by Elisa Hill
The busy, bustling, old woman tried not to meet the eyes of people passing her. She was on a mission and determined not to be distracted. "Won’t be drawn," she muttered. It was a snowy day and she was hurrying through a busy shopping centre - a comical figure - small, like a busy gerbil or mouse.
A young mum sat down on a bench. Her children had been taken to the park by her parents, so she could buy a few more gifts, without them seeing what they were going to have for Christmas. Her feet were aching and she knew she had at least twenty minutes before her peace was interrupted again.
As she sank down, she saw the strange figure, a small woman who seemed to have the weight of the world on her hunched shoulders. She reminded her of Hilda Ogden and was surprised when the woman sank down next to her. She smiled at her. A smile which was received with a suspicious look from under a large woolly hat. "Oh well," she thought to herself, "I have sat here to get some peace not to get into a conversation."
"You got kids?"
The voice surprised her, as it did not seem to come from the woman directly. She turned to look. The woman was staring straight ahead. She looked round but no one else was near enough to have spoken. She looked straight ahead herself and said quietly, "Yes, three, all under five, never a dull moment!'
The busy world was passing them by. It was like they were on an island in a busy waterway. There was a perfect calm were they both sat. She knew she should be battling her way through the crowds to the toy shop, but just felt she could not drag herself away from this peaceful place,
Silence again. She wondered about this woman, "Who is she?"
Her appearance gave nothing away. She looked like thousands of other old ladies. She knew she must look exactly what she was - just a busy mum.
There was something comfortably predictable about that. Each knew their own roles. “Had this woman been like her twenty or thirty years ago?” Often she had noticed older ladies smiling at her when one of the children was throwing a tantrum. It had annoyed her until one of them had said, "You poor thing" and she had realised that the woman had once had to deal with the same thing.
"I’m busy too today" the disembodied voice again, "trying to find some freesias out "
In a rush, almost as if she didn't want to say it, she heard an exasperated sigh. "I always do it , I always do it," came the barely audible whisper.
"I love freesias," said the younger woman in a lazy drawl. She was comfortable now; even the biting cold was not affecting her. Even the agitation of the old lady was not getting through too her.
"Why do I talk to people? She would be so angry - me wasting time this way. I have to keep focused, remember what I’m doing."
The young woman's asked, without thinking, "Who would be angry with you?" and knew this was a mistake immediately as the old woman withdrew into herself. There was silence, a long, long silence until the young woman forgot about her neighbour and started texting on her mobile. Her friend had sent her a joke and she gently laughed to herself.
"You live near me."
The young mum just nodded,
"Mine is the big house at the end of your road."
She nodded again, as her youngest daughter arrived. The girl smiled shyly at the old lady whose whole face broke into a brilliant smile in return. Her mother was so surprised, then her attention was taken by the other two children and her parents arrival,
"Here she is," said Grandma," I thought we had lost her."
The old lady was forgotten. They all went home and left the rest of the shopping until another day.
...................................................................................
The young woman was tidying up after a very busy weekend, when there was a ring on the door. Her heart sank as her husband had been made redundant just after Christmas and she had to fend off debt collectors. They were having to give up the house as they could not afford the mortgage. There were boxes everywhere. She opened the door, and rather than the officious bailiff she had expected, there was a smiling man in a suit, with a briefcase.
"Hello, are you Mrs Jones, we’ve had a hard job finding you."
"Been here for years," she said, still confused, by his friendly manner.
"Could I come in?" he asked.
"Please do,” she said, even though they had been told never to let a baliff in the house,"
"As I said we have had a hard job finding you."
"The other bailiffs don’t seem to have a problem."
The man looked puzzled. "I’m not a debt collector or bailiff, Mrs Jones, I’m a solicitor from Broadbent and Saunders. I’m James Saunders. I’m dealing with the estate of Miss Violet Edgerton, who died several months ago." He stood up as her husband came in, and shook hands with him.
Her husband was just as stunned as she was. "What’s this about?” he asked.
“I’m so sorry, Mr and Mrs Jones, this must be very confusing for you. There are a few questions I need to ask just to confirm you are the person I am looking for. Do you have three children under five and one of them a daughter of about two?”
"Yes," she said, as her two year old wandered in and smiled shyly at the stranger and was quickly ushered out by her grandma.
"And you have lived here for several years?"
"Yes"
“Do you remember talking to an old lady in town several months ago, just before Christmas?"
"No… except for an old lady on a bench. I was just taking a break from the Christmas shopping … we hardly spoke, " she said, turning to her husband.
"Well you and your daughter made quite an impression on Miss Edgerton; and as she had no living relations, she has left her house to you!"
A young mum sat down on a bench. Her children had been taken to the park by her parents, so she could buy a few more gifts, without them seeing what they were going to have for Christmas. Her feet were aching and she knew she had at least twenty minutes before her peace was interrupted again.
As she sank down, she saw the strange figure, a small woman who seemed to have the weight of the world on her hunched shoulders. She reminded her of Hilda Ogden and was surprised when the woman sank down next to her. She smiled at her. A smile which was received with a suspicious look from under a large woolly hat. "Oh well," she thought to herself, "I have sat here to get some peace not to get into a conversation."
"You got kids?"
The voice surprised her, as it did not seem to come from the woman directly. She turned to look. The woman was staring straight ahead. She looked round but no one else was near enough to have spoken. She looked straight ahead herself and said quietly, "Yes, three, all under five, never a dull moment!'
The busy world was passing them by. It was like they were on an island in a busy waterway. There was a perfect calm were they both sat. She knew she should be battling her way through the crowds to the toy shop, but just felt she could not drag herself away from this peaceful place,
Silence again. She wondered about this woman, "Who is she?"
Her appearance gave nothing away. She looked like thousands of other old ladies. She knew she must look exactly what she was - just a busy mum.
There was something comfortably predictable about that. Each knew their own roles. “Had this woman been like her twenty or thirty years ago?” Often she had noticed older ladies smiling at her when one of the children was throwing a tantrum. It had annoyed her until one of them had said, "You poor thing" and she had realised that the woman had once had to deal with the same thing.
"I’m busy too today" the disembodied voice again, "trying to find some freesias out "
In a rush, almost as if she didn't want to say it, she heard an exasperated sigh. "I always do it , I always do it," came the barely audible whisper.
"I love freesias," said the younger woman in a lazy drawl. She was comfortable now; even the biting cold was not affecting her. Even the agitation of the old lady was not getting through too her.
"Why do I talk to people? She would be so angry - me wasting time this way. I have to keep focused, remember what I’m doing."
The young woman's asked, without thinking, "Who would be angry with you?" and knew this was a mistake immediately as the old woman withdrew into herself. There was silence, a long, long silence until the young woman forgot about her neighbour and started texting on her mobile. Her friend had sent her a joke and she gently laughed to herself.
"You live near me."
The young mum just nodded,
"Mine is the big house at the end of your road."
She nodded again, as her youngest daughter arrived. The girl smiled shyly at the old lady whose whole face broke into a brilliant smile in return. Her mother was so surprised, then her attention was taken by the other two children and her parents arrival,
"Here she is," said Grandma," I thought we had lost her."
The old lady was forgotten. They all went home and left the rest of the shopping until another day.
...................................................................................
The young woman was tidying up after a very busy weekend, when there was a ring on the door. Her heart sank as her husband had been made redundant just after Christmas and she had to fend off debt collectors. They were having to give up the house as they could not afford the mortgage. There were boxes everywhere. She opened the door, and rather than the officious bailiff she had expected, there was a smiling man in a suit, with a briefcase.
"Hello, are you Mrs Jones, we’ve had a hard job finding you."
"Been here for years," she said, still confused, by his friendly manner.
"Could I come in?" he asked.
"Please do,” she said, even though they had been told never to let a baliff in the house,"
"As I said we have had a hard job finding you."
"The other bailiffs don’t seem to have a problem."
The man looked puzzled. "I’m not a debt collector or bailiff, Mrs Jones, I’m a solicitor from Broadbent and Saunders. I’m James Saunders. I’m dealing with the estate of Miss Violet Edgerton, who died several months ago." He stood up as her husband came in, and shook hands with him.
Her husband was just as stunned as she was. "What’s this about?” he asked.
“I’m so sorry, Mr and Mrs Jones, this must be very confusing for you. There are a few questions I need to ask just to confirm you are the person I am looking for. Do you have three children under five and one of them a daughter of about two?”
"Yes," she said, as her two year old wandered in and smiled shyly at the stranger and was quickly ushered out by her grandma.
"And you have lived here for several years?"
"Yes"
“Do you remember talking to an old lady in town several months ago, just before Christmas?"
"No… except for an old lady on a bench. I was just taking a break from the Christmas shopping … we hardly spoke, " she said, turning to her husband.
"Well you and your daughter made quite an impression on Miss Edgerton; and as she had no living relations, she has left her house to you!"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)