 |
| credit: Kath Norgrove |
When a strange oriental girl answered the door Win was taken aback.
“Who are you?’ she demanded, a little cross her sister had not told her she had company, which was very unusual for Marion.
“I’m Hua, Marion’s friend,” she replied.
Suspicious, Win asked where Marion was.
‘She having tea in living room come, see,” was Hua’s response, smiling sweetly, which seemed very false to Win.
‘Are you Marion’s new carer?’ I asked her.
“No, just friend, you want tea?’ was her abrupt reply.
Marion was indeed having tea sitting in front of the television with a large cream bun, a cake and some scones, none of which were good for her diet. Crossing the room to kiss her, Win noticed Marion looked exceptionally happy. With Hua out of the room Win asked Marion who the girl was and how they met.
‘My friend Hua, she’s Chinese, she’s really nice to me, I met her in the café on Hersham Green,” she said excitedly.
“Does she come round often?’ Win asked still suspicious of this sudden new found friend and was shocked when Marion answered,
“She lives here, in the spare room, she’s been here three months now.”
Trying not to over react but feeling even more wary of the stranger, Win said she imagined she must be good company for Marion and the rent must come in handy.
“ She doesn’t pay me rent,” Marion replied, “and she’s bringing her family over especially to meet me for my birthday and we’re going to have a big party.’
Marion was really excited now and alarm bells rang in Win’s head. She had heard of these ‘cuckoo in the nest’ stories and this was a classic case, Foreigner meets and befriends a lonely old woman of means, and in this case one with a simple mind, dear Marion, lonely, never had any real friends since childhood. Lived alone since both our parents died and left her the house, not wealthy but comfortably off and here now a stranger ready to take it all off her.
Furious Win marched into the spare room and started searching Hua’s things for a passport and sure enough there it was, a temporary visa too and photographs of the extended family all eleven of them. It all added up to Win – a cuckoo- alright. Well Win was not ‘cuckoo’ and she would put a stop to it. She turned to face a bitter faced Hua, staring menacingly at her.
‘Get out. Now. Get out before I call the police oh yes and the immigration board,” Win shouted at her.
In a cloud of expletives, some of them Chinese, Hua thrust her things into a holdall and stormed out.
Marion was crying. “But she is my friend, what about my party?’
“Don’t
worry Marion, I will give you a party, the best party you’ve ever had and I
promise to visit you more often so this never happens again, but please promise
me you will never invite strangers in again.”
We heard little of child abduction in1957, but
I recall June and Brenda Gill disappeared while skipping in a London street, because
my parents’ horror – and disbelief - struck
me hard. I was seven years old, and rural Yorkshire seemed a universe away from
London. Even when I turned thirteen in Spring ’63, the moors murders were yet to
shock and shake us. In my world, significant crime was rare. Everyone knew the village
bobby drank with his pals at The Railway Inn well after closing time: the
landlord simply locked the door. In my world, young men appeared before magistrates
for something as trivial as spouting rude words at policemen. Molly, who, along
with her husband Thomas, owned the Welsh pony stud I visited at weekends, was a
magistrate herself, and told me how she struggled to keep a suitably grave face
when offending words were passed round the bench on pieces of paper.
I had
a dedicated bodyguard, should danger dare lurk in our dale. Jess, a red terrier
who kept rats from our pigeon lofts, could read ill-intent at forty paces and
kept herself well primed for throat-ripping. Once turned eleven, I had
permission to roam freely in her company, even attend trotting and whippet races,
though Mum drew the line at Appleby Fair. It was simple: any pervert who
somehow got near enough to lay a finger on me, would most definitely suffer more
violence than I. Jess’ companion Josie, a cross-spaniel more inclined to mother
rats than kill them, had helped mum and dad raise three orphan kittens. She
often washed the sides of Jess’ face as though Jess were her own pup, and preferred
a quiet life by the fire.
My
contemporaries were falling in love with Beatles and embracing flower power,
but I had a different dream. I loved working on the stud with Thomas and Molly,
but longed for a pony of my own.
“Maybe YOUR children will have ponies,” Mum
once said, who knew keeping ponies in shoes and paid livery was out the
question.
“Maybe YOU don’t
know how much I want one!” I retorted. I knew that would sting, because Mum
lived with humiliation: her grandfather’s
loss of a barn complex, and six acres of land the family had owned for
generations.
Thomas
and Molly, however, had ponies and land galore, and understood my desire
perfectly. Both in their seventies, they seemed younger than any of my
middle-aged great aunts and uncles. They laughed a lot. Thomas was a born story
teller, and imbued random events with such hilarity, we often laughed ourselves
to tears. My favourite was the convoluted tale of how he chanced upon a local
farmer, who’d immediately exclaimed,
“Good God, man,
it’s you! I thought you were dead!”
I loved Thomas and Molly. They assumed no
airs and graces, despite being landed gentry; they would ask my opinions as though
I were grown up, and genuinely enjoyed the company of young people. They had no
children of their own. Once they assumed family would come, but it never did.
“They’d have
been funny little devils!” Thomas would quip, if the subject of children ever
arose.
Best
of all, Thomas and Molly encouraged all things horse. They encouraged the very dream that unsettled my
parents: that the barn and land, lost in a card game by my great grandfather,
should be bought back, that I should have a pony of my own. It seems the winner's
family had resettled in Yorkshire only one
generation earlier. Stanley Carr kept
his gambling among friends, and made good use of the land. Stanley’s son William
inherited, but addiction to gambling and alcohol meant the stock was neglected
and the land badly managed. Eventually William, resented by locals as a
good-for-nothing “off-comer” who’d usurped and abused good land, abandoned
Yorkshire for a factory job in the Midlands. It had been my grandfather’s wish
to buy back the land, especially as it languished overgrown. Mum inherited his land
fund, and felt duty-bound to add to it whenever she could, though she found land ownership a rather daunting idea. Meanwhile
Thomas, who knew the story as well as anyone, took it upon himself to use his
connections to trace the current owner, Roger, who’d been Mum’s classmate
before the Carrs moved away. Thomas suggested Roger sell back the land and barn,
and told me he would help us restore it, that the price of L’eau-L’eau, my favourite
Welsh riding pony, would never come between us. I fretted and dreamed, became
obsessed by the idea we should buy; the thought of owning L’eau-L’eau burned me
up. I ate and slept that dream until schoolwork slid downhill. I began to add birthday and Christmas money to
the fund, as well as any portion of my allowance I could spare. Mum suggested I
buy premium bonds to keep track of my contributions, but perhaps her real
reason was conviction the purchase wouldn’t happen any time soon. Roger
stubbornly and consistently refused to sell.
Roger had no love for our community. He remembered
being shunned and bullied mercilessly, while grownups were no better: they
turned a blind eye, despised his family and drove them away. Thomas tried to
get Roger to see reason: the land, after all, was no benefit to him, but money
surely would be. My hopes still soared, though eventually, Thomas’ calls and
letters remained unanswered. My parents insisted it wasn’t the right time, but
my obsession continued to grow. I would walk the grass track behind our house,
just to lean on the gate and look at it all. I didn’t see ragwort and brambles;
I saw a free-running stream, a barn repaired and aired, filled with fragrant
hay; I saw a swept yard below, with new gates and straw bedded stalls. I saw
ponies grazing all the way to the village lane beyond; I saw L’eau-leau sheltering
in the shade, saw myself riding her among wildflowers. The dream became so real, I convinced myself
it would happen; that it had to.
 |
| credit Irena Szirtes |
One Friday
evening I returned from school to find my parents excited, though pensive and
restless. Thomas had news: Roger had died suddenly some eleven months before.
He’d always been a loner, and died intestate, but solicitors traced his
long-estranged sister Sandra, who inherited the buildings and land. Unlike Roger,
Sandra had rejected gambling and alcoholism. She’d moved away to university, married
a stockbroker, and enjoyed a sober life in suburban Surrey. Sandra saw no reason
to keep the land and agreed to sell.
I was ecstatic. At the stud on Saturday, Molly
poured my very first glass of champagne, and we decorated L’eau-l’eau and her
stable with ribbons. Thomas recommended his own solicitor, and offered to loan
my parents any shortfall interest free, though they wouldn’t hear of it: there
was enough in the fund to make a top-up loan attainable through normal channels.
I waited restlessly for legalities to end, so we could set about restoration
and regeneration. I was sure I’d languished long enough, that precious teen
years were passing me by, while the barn stood padlocked and the pasture lay
wasted. Then I fretted about how long it would be before weeds were destroyed, and
the land restored for equine grazing and hay. There was a stream to clear, drystone
walls to mend, a roof to repair, as well as clearing the barn and stalls of any
rubbish. Thomas negotiated help from a local farmer, Billy Braithwaite, whose
tractor could access the land from the grass track, as well as from the village
lane beyond.
Being
the first family members to enter the barn after so many years felt significant.
Thomas and Molly were there too; we stepped inside without a word. Shafts of sunlight
arrowed through ventilation slots and clouds of dancing dust. Magical?
Suffocating stench overwhelmed us: rats! Josie stood by wagging her tail, while
Jess dispatched so many, so quickly, they soon lay twisted at our feet, eyes
and yellow teeth stark in the gloom. Clearing what rats left behind took
longer; we masked up, and Thomas used his land-rover to cart away the bagged
detritus. There was plenty more rubbish to dispose of: rotting ladders, rusted
wire, loose hay, threadbare hessian sacks. We discovered a locked chest; Dad broke it
open to find documents bundled in faded ribbon, and a family Bible wrapped in
newspaper. If my premium bonds had won the jackpot, I doubt Mum would have been
more delighted. She hugged each bundle to her chest, and carefully bagged them
to take home. Her family reputation had been redeemed. We’d reclaimed the inheritance
lost in disgrace, in that foolish game of chance.
Against the north wall of the barn, under extensive
roof leaks, were bales of mouldering hay floor to ceiling. Removing it would
take time, so we’d leave it until last, right before disinfection. Meanwhile, dreams
were morphing into reality before my eyes. Unmoved by sixties pop culture, I planned flower power of my own, pastures
full of it, and my very own hayfield. I was euphoric. It was ridiculous to
dream of marrying Beatles, but my dream was truly coming alive. I felt
powerful: perhaps my imagination was so potent, my desire so strong, I had actually
dragged my dream into reality. I smoked no pot, but felt high, invincible. I
didn’t heed Mum, who felt I’d become a little smug, nor did I recognise ‘smug’
was her kindest word for youthful arrogance.
It eventually fell to Thomas, Billy and I to
shift the old bales. The blackened hay seemed to represent the past with all
its lack and longing, and once it was out the door, I knew my dream would begin
to fully form. Jess grew more excited with every disappearing bale, willing more
rats to dash out from behind them.
It was
when I caught hold of one from the last batch - carefully, in case the twine
was rotten - something slipped from behind the bale to my left. Time froze.
Thomas blanched grim and grey; Billy’s mouth dropped open. Ice-cold filaments streaked
through our every capillary. I didn’t
fully comprehend what I saw, though Jess did: her hair bristled, her body leaned
back while her head stretched forward, before she turned to walk right out. But
Josie licked the little skeleton hand, softly nudging its fingers, in the hope her
nurturing instinct might return flesh and life to the tiny bones.
“Come away,” Thomas said. I dropped the bale,
and we exited without a word.
The police were called and the barn cordoned
off. My dream lay comatose. Shock bleached us cold. We gave statements. Police
from afar were drafted in, and soon began investigating the life and movements of
the late Roger Carr.
Brenda
and June were identified through dental records, and Brenda’s small gold ring. Shock
gave way to unreasoning guilt, tears and night terrors. I am ashamed to say I
also harboured resentment. I resented my beautiful dream being infiltrated by evil,
festering inside it like mould spores in the hay, and resented yet more delay. Many
times I stood by the cordoned barn and roared anger, horror and frustration to
the heavens.
This teenage
selfishness began to fade, if reluctantly, once the barn was released to be thoroughly
cleaned and sanitised. At last I was free to go ahead and use the whole complex,
but, to my surprise, I could not - it seemed irreverent, inappropriate. We decided
to keep the barn and stalls barred, at least for the foreseeable future, only to
be opened for routine maintenance. Exception was made when June and Brenda’s
family travelled to Yorkshire. Agony of not knowing was now the agony of
knowing, yet they were grateful to see the girls’ first resting place, relieved
proper funerals would be arranged at last.
Because I couldn’t initially face using the barn,
Billy and his son helped us build a row of wooden looseboxes. There were six: one
for L’eau-l’eau, one for Zac, her mountain pony companion, and four more for
storage. I had just left school and was earning money of my own, and it felt so
good to help fill the store rooms. At long last, the ponies moved in, but I
found enjoying them was always mixed with thinking of June and Brenda. That
little bone hand had embedded itself right inside my dream.
Thinking
of the girls became talking about them with Zac and L’eau-l’eau, about everything
I’d felt. During those talks I discovered something beautiful for the very first time: the
presence of horses brings healing. An idea birthed: I decided to create a day-ride
to begin and end at the barn, called ‘June and Brenda’s Way.’ The ride took in
three bridleways, the lanes and village pub, where horses could be tethered, as
well as the riverbank and fell side. Molly suggested the route be officially named,
recognised and opened, and used her know-how and influence to get that done. We
fenced off the pastures to create access from the grass track to the barn. There
we provided tethering rings, a water trough, and picnic tables. The ride was officially opened in 1970, marked
with a memorial plaque and map on the barn wall. It felt comforting to let the
girls – and their family - know they
weren’t forgotten.
My
flawed dream helped me understand how complex life can be, how all we do and
say reverberates through the world and out of our control. I see now, there was
beauty enough to sustain me despite everything
- owning L’eau-L’eau was different than I’d imagined, yet surpassed my
expectations, and set the course of my life. I knew June and Brenda should have enjoyed all
they longed for, too. I would have lost my
dream, had I been playing on their London Street in 1957. That’s why I promised
the girls, and myself, I’d never give up chasing dreams. There might well be setbacks, but
I’m resolved to keep chasing, however old I grow. Better reach for the stars
and grasp the moon, than never reach out at all.
 |
credit Irena Szirtes |
The woman moaned
and rolled on to her good arm. The not-so good one hung limply in the ripped Versace
jacket. She pushed herself to sitting and fumbled for her mobile phone – still
no signal. Last night she had tried climbing higher in search of a signal – and
rescue - but had been attacked.
She felt yesterday’s
escape from shrieking banshees with terrifying flat white faces was yet another
sign that she was one of humanity’s chosen ones, a super special being meant
for higher things. A lesser mortal would have died.
Someone
would find her soon. The Tesla would be sending out emergency signals and there
must be search parties out looking for her. Meanwhile she could work on the
reasons she’d fired half of the long-standing staff members she found lazing in
the latest school she’d had to save. With her one good arm she stretched for
the laptop, gathered the papers she could reach and started reading.
Watching
from their nesting chest above her, a mother barn owl and four large owlets eyed
the terrifying being who’d attacked their home the previous evening with a
silent tractor and who’d then scrambled high holding a glittering stone aloft –
aiming for their nesting chest. They’d escaped with a great deal of fluttering
and shrieking and the beast had fallen – but not for long. In the morning light
the monster was stirring and the owls were on high alert.
It was from their old East Yorkshire farmhouse that Lois disappeared. The house needed some repairs but was envied by all the mums and dads who brought their children to Rachel’s kindergarten. Across the farmyard were outbuildings including a fine old barn, fully weather-proof with a solid oak frame, mainly used for storing Tom’s bikes. It also housed a few bits of furniture cleared from the house when Rachel set up the nursery; a handy chest of drawers where Tom kept all things bicycle-related; a pretty wooden cot, painted in pale yellow and decorated with tiny flower fairy motifs, and a couple of kitchen chairs. It was Rachel’s daughter’s cot when she and Tom moved to the farm twenty years ago. Lois was not Tom’s daughter and five years ago she simply left in the night.
It had been a magical house but lost its charm after Lois left. Tom, a mechanic by trade and very practical, had imagined spending his leisure hours repairing and renovating after he was made redundant, but Lois leaving was like a bereavement for Rachel and he somehow lost heart. Rachel in the early years had been a nursery nurse and would take her baby daughter to work, but in recent times she had set up her own pre-school on the ground floor of the farm. She was devoted to the children in her care and it was cathartic for her to immerse herself in the well-being of these young ones.
Tom didn’t hear Rachel get up; she slept lightly and would often wake soon after dawn and creep silently to the garden. If there was a frost, she would slip a fleece over her dressing gown and sit on the garden bench and watch and enjoy the birds. Often it was the pigeons, not peaceful creatures but she adored their iridescent plumage; shades of lilac and amethyst. She had read that the male bird finds the site, in this case the tall pear tree, and the couple build the nest together. He first brings the material one piece at a time and she arranges each piece to her liking. She felt sorry for this nesting pair because this year, the female remained on the nest for three weeks and produced no young. She wondered if the eggs were flipped out by a cuckoo or, did she even lay any? Tom had climbed up to look but there was nothing; no fragments of shell or signs of birth. Rachel identified with the poor mother pigeon and her loss. Other visitors were a robin and a lesser spotted woodpecker. The robin couldn’t manage the feeder so gorged on the nuts the woodpecker let fall until his red breast was twice the size; or so Tom thought.
Tom lay half-awake and when he stretched out his arm to Rachel’s side of the bed; it was empty; she was rarely there when he woke. He used to get up very early too and go for a spin, but no longer; he would go later. He had never expected this disarray; he knew how deeply Rachel was affected but she worked hard to bury the pain. He knew in his heart he was to blame. Lois would be here still if Tom had controlled his ego. Why did he want to be top dog? Rachel had brought her young daughter to the relationship and he hadn’t anticipated being prejudiced against the child, jealous of her, but as Lois grew up, she irritated him more. Was he a selfish man? He guessed he was, analysing the years that followed. He used to think Lois goaded him and he would call her attention-seeking. Rachel said Lois sought attention because he didn’t give her any; at least not of the right sort. He and Lois argued a lot and he punished her by sending her to her room, or, when she was a teenager, confiscating her phone. He had found it hard to care about her at all and their conflicts upset Rachel. ‘You don’t try to understand her because you have never had a child of your own’, said Rachel.
Early mornings were the times when he replayed his own early life, the time long before Rachel and Lois. Growing up, he had compared his dad with the dads of his old school mates. Jake and Rob’s dads had been the kind Tom wished he’d had. This was all a long time ago but it still haunted him. When very young, he had believed his dad to be like all dads, but in his teens he had recognised his dad as a predator. His attention had made Tom feel unmanly; effeminate. A few years ago, he had confided in his younger sister Helen, of his problem with their dad and was shocked when she told him she had suffered in the same way. She also told of dreading dad’s brother Len coming to stay; Tom had left home by then. After a night drinking with their dad, Uncle Len would creep into her room in the early hours and stroke her feet through the covers, then try to get hold of her. Always she remained rigid until he went away. Their dad was never a proper dad. Was this the reason he had found it hard to be a dad to Lois?
He poured a glass of diluted cider vinegar; it was refreshing and made him feel cleansed. He switched on the coffee machine and called Rachel from the garden. Through the small panes he watched her standing staring; he was used to that; she often looked pensive and meditative, but it was her way of preparing for the day. This morning she was watching Monty making his usual stealthy track to the bird feeder. Their pet settled down, ready to pounce on any unsuspecting visitor, legs neatly folded under and occasionally flicking his superb black tail.
Rachel came in and they made and ate breakfast. Tom always thought her very beautiful, her clear smooth skin, the richness of her deep red hair; Lois’s hair was that colour too, Red? Ginger? Auburn? What name should he use? Later he played a few scales on the piano then moved on to play ‘These Foolish Things’, a soulful piece but one that matched his mood. He closed his music, played a jazz piece he knew by heart and looked at his watch; eight thirty, a good time to cycle. He was already wearing his lycra; not matching; gaudy red and blue; he was no fashion icon. Rachel’s mums and a few dads would soon be arriving to leave their offspring. He heard her run downstairs to the nursery at the back; outside she had created a play space with a paved area for one or two little trikes and pedal cars She always had a busy schedule and when he suggested she drop something, she took no notice, glad her time was filled; it didn’t leave moments to consider her sorrows.
Tom crossed the farmyard, pitted with potholes he had temporarily filled, planning to do a permanent job at some point. He never locked the barn; his bikes were only of sentimental value, there were better ones being given away by the second-hand cycle shed in town. Streaks of sunlight from two high windows shone into the space, illuminating shifting swirls of dust as he made his way across the rough floor. He unlocked his mountain bike and pushed it towards the doorway. He heard a faint snuffling; more murmurings then tiny whimpers. The strange sounds came from the corner where they stored the extra furniture.
‘It’s in the cot,’ he muttered. ’I bet it’s a rat, they’re all over the place.’ He picked his way over, stumbling in the gloom; more rustling and faint noises. They were coming from the cot; he leaned over and nearly fainted, ‘The Tiger Bread Babies!’
Tom shouted out, almost manically, causing the two babies’ murmurings to turn to blubbers and tears. ‘Oh dear; sorry! Shush babies, I’m a fool; hush now; there, there.’ He touched both babies cheeks slightly warily and soon, little gurgles began again. Not only was it astonishing finding the two babies; they were the famous babies from the TV advert in their black and orange striped rompers! Fleecy legs had kicked off the orange quilt and waving arms were trying to grasp long tiger tails and one baby had put hers (or was it his?) in its mouth. The shock of red hair tumbling over each baby’s forehead completed the picture. He knew some babies were born ‘ready dressed’ as his mother used to say and that was the case with these.
Tom was excited and agitated at the same time. ‘Rachel’s got to see them; she’ll know what to do. ’Yes, that’s what he would do, get Rachel!’. He rearranged the quilt over the cooing babies, propped up his bike and dashed out to the house.
It was break -time at the nursery and one of Rachel’s nursery nurses had gathered the toddlers round for juice and snacks. ‘Rachel! Come! Now!’ he pleaded. Hearing his urgency, she spoke to both young helpers and followed Tom into the yard. ‘Whatever is it Tom? You look as if you’ve had a fright; are you alright? ’Tom mumbled something, grabbed her hand and pulled her into the barn. ‘Don’t make a noise! Be careful what you step on.’ He led her across the barn to the cot. Rachel heard small cries and little squeals. She leaned over the rail and saw the babies squirming, one flailing its arms and the other sucking its tiger tail.‘Oh my goodness! What on earth…..?’ Rachel gave a gasp and a shrill cry; she wasn’t gasping at the costumes; it was the striking appearance of the babies ‘Lois! They’re Lois’s! Look at them! Can’t you see?’ ‘I hadn’t thought of that; they’re just babies to me. I’m sorry.’ He touched her hand. ‘Tom! You watch the commercials, I don’t, but I know about the Tiger Bread Babies! The mums and dads tell me! They buy Tiger Bread Rusks for their children! I’ve never seen the babies till now! ‘I don’t look at babies very much, I’ve never got on with them.’ Tom said apologetically.
Rachel bent and carefully picked up one of the babies, kissed it and laid it in Tom’s arms. She gently put her arms around the other and held it close. ‘I know they are Lois’s, they’re the image of her. But where is she?’ She put her arms round Tom and enveloped both him and the babies and began to cry. It was too much for Tom; he kissed Rachel on her russet hair and still holding the baby, pulled her and her baby close. Then she saw the note pinned to the quilt. She opened it and read:
Dear Mum and Tom
It was never my dream
To put my babies on the
screen
I needed the money
I didn’t have any
The babies were hungry
I knew they would
dazzle
With their auburn-red
hair
But my life’s been a
frazzle
My Tiger Bread Babies
Are known everywhere
When we walk through
the streets
Mums wave and they
stare
I don’t want the fame
For them or for me
For Poppy and Daisy
It’s no place to be
Dear Mum and Tom
I love you it’s true
Please can we come home?
I will work hard with
you
Please open the window Tom
and play ‘These Foolish Things’
Then I will know we are
welcome
We are Foolish
Things
From Lois who loves you
both
And from Poppy and Daisy who I know will love you both
Tom felt a pain in his heart. He and Rachel had not seen Lois since she ran away, a sixteen-year-old girl, barely more than a child. They had not seen her since. Rachel had been distraught, blamed herself, and, sometimes blamed Tom for not loving her daughter.
Rachel had never seen Lois’s birth father again; it had been a one-night stand and she had not even known the young man’s name. Tom knew all this. He didn’t care; he had loved Rachel from the start and they truly loved each other.
‘Tom, the piano! Go to the piano and play! ‘And open the window!’
They carried the babies to the garden and Rachel sat on the bench holding one baby in each arm; heavy babies, maybe five months now. She watched Tom open the window and heard him begin to play.
‘These Foolish Things’ drifted into the garden.
Lois
stepped from the trees.
Now!
Madame La Grange.
You are ageing, you are raging.
How the cold winds whistle through you
now,
that you are empty.
Now!
Madame La Grange.
You are creaking, you are leaking.
How the cobwebs collect upon you
now,
that you are useless.
Now!
Madame La Grange.
You are sicker, you are bitter.
How the sunlight avoids your eyes
now,
that you are haunted.
Now!
Madame La Grange.
You are aching, you are shaking.
How the weeds wrap up around you
now,
that you are forgotten. Now.
for more of Ruth's writing visit: Instagram @ruthie_be_
 |
| credit Sue Akande |
Every time she walked into the dining room it was there, in the corner, winking and twinkling at her, reminding her that time was running out! She had to take action; it had been there for far too long. Why hadn’t she started on it straight away, as soon as it had arrived? What was she afraid of? What was stopping her from making that first cut?
The highly
coloured, heavily sequinned lace had arrived in plenty of time for her to make
her wedding outfit - so what was it? Would her sewing machine be up to
stitching all those sequins? Was it that she had no pattern for her wedding
attire? She had sketched out her idea based on the traditional Yoruba buba (blouse)
and iro (wrapper skirt). Other wedding guests were having their clothes made up
in Lagos, had she taken on too much by saying she would make her own outfit? Maybe
she had watched too many episodes of ‘Sewing Bee’!
She had made outfits like it before, many years ago though and never from such elaborate cloth. The material had been chosen by the bride’s family and following the Yoruba custom of Aso-Ebi or ‘family clothes’ the family and friends of the bride would all be wearing ensembles made from the same material.
She looked
at the lace again – there was plenty of it so if she made a mistake, it surely
wouldn’t be so disastrous, would it? She would start with the skirt – probably
the most straight forward part of the outfit. Spreading the material out on the
floor of the dining room she began to cut.
 |
| Bassa Villa - once known as 'The Magpie' credit Adam Rutter |
‘Fill
this up will ya landlord,’ he asked.
‘I
can only give you half today Sid,’ said the landlord.
‘Oh!
No pint today?’
‘No
pint today Sid.’
‘Why
not?’
‘A
lot of ale got washed away in the flood,’ said the landlord, pointing at the
casks.
Sid
held out the tankard, his fingers gripping tightly on the handle. The landlord
poured a small ration. Sid turned his back to the landlord, cutting through the
water like a frigate, wet shoes squelching. He sat at the far end of the bar
area, arms folded, elbows resting on the table. He took a small sip, trying to
make his drink last.
Sid
looked out through the door when he heard a pair of oars splashing gently. He
lifted his elbows off the table, eyes fixed on the moored boats rising and
falling with the ripples generated by the repeated strokes. The ripples
lengthened and widened, knocking the boats against the wall. Sid knew who was
rowing. He knew nearly every sailor and boatman up and down the Severn. And he
knew when they dropped their anchor. Sid watched the rowing boat slide past the
door, pulling over outside The Magpie. Was it the boatman Sid knew? It was him
alright. The boatman was wearing a bicorn hat. Sid would know it anywhere. But
how?
The boatman, Jacob Stern, was the only one who wore such a hat on his head in these parts. Why was Jacob wearing a bicorn hat? Had he joined the Royal Navy? How? Jacob had stolen a boat and rowed to Bristol. There he mingled with fishermen and seamen alike. Through these intrepid seafarers, he discovered all the seaports scattered across the south coast of England.
During his adolescence, he would mingle with sailors when they docked in Bridgnorth. It was due to meeting these river tradesmen that he learnt about new places that he never knew before – Gloucester, Newport, Swansea, Falmouth. Through the sailors shipping commerce along the Severn, and their nautical experiences out at sea, he learned to became first class sea navigator during his career in the Navy. He had used the stolen boat to circumnavigate the Cornish coastline and the shores off south Devonshire where his intended destination was finally reached – Plymouth. This was where warships were docked. Plymouth was the very seaport where he enlisted voluntarily with the Royal Navy. His enlistment would ultimately take him into battle off the Cape of Trafalgar. The battle ended with a decisive victory for the British Royal Navy. After so many months out at sea, Jacob was back in Bridgnorth. But why would he go on such a long journey to a town along the Severn that was out of reach from a naval base? Why row several miles upstream from the Bristol Channel? What’s he doing here, wondered Sid.
Sat
on the boat was a young woman. Elsa was her name. She was Jacob’s lover. Her
hands were wrapped behind her arms, trying helplessly to keep them warm. Her
thin legs and bare feet were pale. Elsa's black hair was matted and dishevelled.
In spite of coming from a poor family, Elsa had many male admirers, even among
the aristocrats. Jacob brought her all the way from Plymouth. She had to remain
ashore, waiting for an agonizing five weeks for his safe return from battle.
When Jacob was given shore leave, they spent quality time together, and that
time was used sailing to Bristol; then rowing up the Severn. Elsa lifted her
head, looked through the window; her eyes met with Sid's. Her jaw dropped; eyes
widened.
‘What’s
the matter? Aren't you coming in,’ asked Jacob, placing the oars inside the
boat.
Elsa’s
eyes flashed back at Jacob, giving a little nod. His military uniform was
fastened with silver buttons, outshining her worn out coat, riddled in holes.
He stepped off the boat. Elsa stayed sat, staring up at Jacob like a cat,
frozen.
‘Come
on. We’re going in,’ said Jacob.
Elsa
stood up, slowly. She was shivering. Was it the cold? Or fear? Dread and fear was
written in her eyes, but Jacob did not read it. The cold numbed her feet.
Stepping into the freezing water, she could not feel the hard surface that she
was standing on. Jacob walked inside like a sea captain stepping on board a
ship. When he looked at Sid's corner, he stopped.
‘You’ve
got a nerve showing your face in here,’ said Jacob.
‘Why
have you come back?’ asked Sid.
‘That’s
my business.’
‘You
have no business here.’
‘Now
then gentlemen. I don’t want any trouble in my pub,’ said the landlord.
Ignoring
what the landlord said, Jacob stood straight with his hands behind his back,
looking down at Sid.
‘You
don’t know who you’re talking to my man.’
‘I
don’t care who I talk to,’ said Sid.
‘You’re
talking to Master Jacob Stern of His Majesty’s Wayfarer.’
‘I
don’t care if you’re the Master of a fishing boat.’
‘You
know your impertinence won’t get you nowhere.’
‘Oh?’
‘Do
you know what I do with an impertinent like you?’
‘What?’
‘I
would make you stand on the plank.’
‘Oh,
would you now?’
‘Yes.
Off the side of the ship,’ said Jacob, leaning towards Sid, hands pressed on
the table.
‘What
then?’
‘You
go in.’
‘Go
in where? The cellar?’
‘In
the water Sid.’
‘There’s
water in here.’
‘That’s
right. Which is where you’re going to end up in.’
Jacob
grabbed Sid by his ragged clothes, pulling him off his chair.
‘Enough!
Get out the pair of ya,’ said the landlord.
‘Don’t
worry landlord. I'm going. I will not stay here and be insulted by this
ruffian.’
‘How
dare you say that to a sailor.’
‘How
dare you insult me ... Sailor.’
Sid
walked out through the door, disgusted. When he stepped outside, he stopped,
looking down at Elsa. They did not speak a word. They spoke to each other
through their eyes. Their gaze – transfixed. Their gaze spoke a thousand words.
Elsa had not talked with Sid since their love affair two years prior to her
return to Plymouth. Since she was back in Bridgnorth, their inner passion was
reignited. Their internal passion was ablaze, as if it were about to explode
into a flaming inferno. Standing by Jacob’s boat was still too close for
comfort. It was the closest he could ever be with Elsa again. Jacob came up
behind Sid.
‘Stay
away from her,’ said Jacob.
‘That’s
enough,’ said the landlord.
‘No.
You’re the one who should stay away from her,’ said Sid, looking over his
shoulder.
‘I
don’t have to tell you again Sid.’
‘You
don’t deserve her. You treat her like scum.’
‘She’s
mine. I’ll treat her however I choose.’
‘She
maybe yours Jacob, but she's not your possession.’
‘Elsa
chose me.’
‘Elsa
chose you ‘cos she's afraid of ya.’
‘Huh!
Afraid?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why?’
‘’cos
she’s too scared to say no to you.’
‘Elsa
is more scared of you than me.’
‘So
why did she come to me?’
‘Because
you never stay away from her.’
‘Elsa
may belong to you, but she’ll always be under my solemn protection as long as
I’m around.’
‘As
long as I’m around, Elsa is under nobody else’s protection but mine. Is that
clear?’
‘No.’
‘Perhaps
I need to make it more clear for you Sid.’
Jacob
clenched a tight fist, threw a punch, and knocked Sid flying. Sid landed on a
sumpter horse. The chestnut horse whinnied frantically, kicking its front legs
up in the air. Sid got back on his feet. He punched Jacob under the chin,
dropping him in the water.
‘Stop!
Stop,’ cried Elsa.
Sid's
eyes glared at her. Jacob climbed back on his feet, moving his jaw.
‘I’ll
be back someday Sid,’ said Jacob, stepping back in the boat.
‘And
I’ll be waiting for ya Jacob,’ said Sid when he cast off, rowing across the
flooded wharf. Jacob watched Sid disappear behind a wall of fog while the
sounds of paddling faded.
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She was just a little girl. Acid yellow, wet leaves whipped against her stockinged legs and whirled in angry flurries amongst the branches of the trees lining the path home from church. She didn’t think of herself as a little girl. Little girls dressed as superheroes and princesses had been demanding her attention all afternoon. Years ago she’d been like them but now she was grown up. Thirteen. She’d been helping at the Pumpkin Heroes Festival in the church hall to where once, everyday; an age ago, she’d trailed in a neon-jacketed-crocodile from her old primary school down the road to the ‘After School Club’ half a mile away. She’d hated ‘After School Club’.
Today’s event had been organised by the new vicar keen to take a stand against the tidal wave of Halloween related incidents ripping through the neighbourhood. Feral children wearing witch masks, ghoul masks, demon masks, vampire masks, ghost masks and costumes festooned with bandages soaked in fake blood and cobwebs had been terrorising people for days. ‘Trick or Treat’. More like ‘Threat or Sweets’. Some hapless folk, out of tune with modern Halloween mania, had lit bangers pushed through their letter boxes and stones thrown at their windows after turning away the little and not so little devils on their doorsteps. This year Halloween had fallen on a Sunday, the Lord’s Day, and the vicar felt compelled to act and organised a party for the children of the After School Club plus The Sunday School plus any of their friends and relatives who wanted to come along. The event had been a success as parents of all religions and none, relieved of the obligation to organise Halloween activities, had packed their children off to the church hall and enjoyed a Sunday afternoon of peace and quiet.
She’d been surprised when the letter came from the vicar appealing for past ‘members’ of the After School Club to help with the party. But she’d said yes. She had nothing else to do. Snapchat and Tik Tok and Instagram had been full for days of teenagers in ever changing post-apocalyptic costumes and rivalry was stirring between the hosts of different Halloween parties. Not that it mattered to her. Not much. She wasn’t part of the cool crowd, her best friend was tied up with a big family reunion and her old friends from primary school seemed to be more interested in boys these days. Even though she wasn’t remotely interested in Halloween she felt left out. Alone.
Every shop front she had passed by was advertising ‘Spooky Offers’, ‘Scary Treats’ and ‘Halloween Horror Cakes’. Plastic carved pumpkins leered out from windows; plastic skeletons jiggled in draughts over doorways; LED hell-fire flickered along windowsills. She couldn’t see the attraction.
The children at the vicar’s party had enjoyed dressing up, getting wet bobbing for apples, setting LED lights shining from the carved pumpkins they’d brought along for the ‘Biggest Smiley Face’ competition and then there had been a bonfire and toasting marshmallows; some songs and some stories. They’d loved it all. Not exactly Halloween but more of a jolly cross between Harvest Festival and Diwali. A festival of light and happiness for the vicar had said that Jesus was the light of the world and Sunday 31st October was His day – but she wasn’t sure about all that.
She shivered. The days were getting colder and the nights were drawing in. The clocks had gone back an hour last night and although it was only five o’clock it was dark and drizzly. She was walking away from the shops and about to take her usual short cut through the park when she heard a long sigh and the wet leaves began gusting around her although there had been no wind when she left the church hall.
She began walking faster. Hood up. Headphones on. She wouldn’t take the short cut through the park which she had used nearly every day of her life. Her spine prickled. She would take the long way around. She wondered whether she should call her parents, but what for? She was so close to home, on streets she knew like the back of her hand. Streets she had grown up on. She passed by the park gates and headed down Mortimer Gardens going around the square. At the end she would branch left into Epping Gardens and then take a right turn into Wyre Gardens and pick up her normal route home. She stared at the pavement in front of her and shadows danced across her way. Strange she had never noticed them before, but she didn’t usually come this way along the park boundary under overhanging branches. She picked up her pace. It wasn’t late but strangely she didn’t pass anyone else. The streets seemed deserted.
Ed Sheeran’s ‘Shivers’ played along her way, ‘You make me dance till the daybreak cracks,’ and she was transported to imagining the parties she hadn’t been invited to, the flickering shadows on the pavement became the disco lights and the gusts of wind her dance partners. She suddenly skipped a few beats and shimmied when she found herself in a pool of light cast by a street lamp. And then she felt silly and stopped and kept her eyes fixed on the ground and hoped that no one had seen her dancing in the emptiness. And the music faded into the background.
The girl had unthinkingly danced her way into Wyre Gardens. She was on automatic pilot now. Almost home with the park behind her. She wondered why the Victorian planners who had laid out these city suburbs had chosen forests and gardens to name every road. Perhaps they had realised that people still needed to feel part of nature, still needed trees. The shadows were still flickering across her path but she didn’t think to wonder why. The park trees with their overhanging branches were behind her and the lime trees which originally lined every street had long since been cut down to allow for more street parking.
The forest thought stayed with the girl and she thought of ‘The Green Man’ festival her granny had once taken her to see one long ago Spring bank holiday. Ancient customs. Pagan gods. Did the vicar know his bonfire was just the way the ancients had kept darkness and the spirits of the night at bay as the year sank into winter and the world waited for the Green Man to return next Spring? Probably. She had learned all about those ideas at school when her English teacher played them Robert Burns’ poem last week and then told them to write about Halloween. Most people enjoyed playing with the idea of the worlds of the living and the dead overlapping at this time of the year. Spooky. Supernatural. However most people’s poems and stories owed more to whatever Netflix teenage witch series they had last binge watched than the imaginings of Robert Burns and ancient spirits.
Almost home. The girl suddenly stopped. She flicked off ‘Shivers’ and Ed Sheeran’s cheerful song cut into silence. She caught a strange whiff of rotten eggs and the street lights cast long jerky shadows across her way. She wavered before walking on. Number 21. Number 23. Number 25 and home! It was odd. There was a new iron front gate. Dad had said he wanted to improve the front entrance. But this was quick work, especially by Dad’s normal standards.
She ran up the steps to the front door. The house was very quiet but through the stained-glass panels of the old door – the original Dad had said - she could see light shining in the kitchen at the end of the passage. She went to punch in her entrance code, but the keypad to open the door wasn’t there anymore. Dad had been busy! He’d been saying for months about getting a more secure system fitted. Maybe that was going to happen tomorrow.
The girl reached for the old brass knocker. Someone had polished it to shine like new. She rapped loudly to be let in. A shadow appeared through the glass and the door opened. The young woman who opened it was dressed like a character out of the play the girl had been part of in primary school: Oliver Twist.
“Yes?” the young woman asked.
The young girl just stared.
“What? Can I help you?”
The young girl was speechless.
“Who is it?” An older woman’s voice sounded from the kitchen, “Just shut the door Mary if it’s another of those tinker urchins from the park.”
The young woman looked the young girl up and down from her seemingly bare legs to her hoody shaded face.
“Yes ma’am,” she replied and shut the door in the young girl’s face.
The young girl was stunned beyond responding. Then she stared through the green, glass ivy trails of the window into her home. No-one appeared. Then she turned around, her back to the closed door. The street she had explored every inch of in the thirteen years of her life; the street she had been born in, had changed.
There were no parked cars, no wheelie bins, the road was a muddy track and gas lamps quietly fizzed, spluttered and cast flickering shadows over the slabs of a newly laid pavement.
After a few minutes of looking at the unfamiliar, yet oh so familiar street view from her front door, the young girl did what she had always done when she was in trouble as a little girl. She descended the four steps from the closed front door and took the four steps down to the old cellar and there under the front-door steps and besides another less elegant, closed basement door she curled up and fell asleep.
She slept through the noise of car doors slamming, the cries from the search parties out on that cold Halloween night. She slept through the flashing blue lights that filled every cranny of the garden at Number 25. She slept through being sniffed from head to toe by Darcy, her beloved labradoodle who for reasons no one could work out refused to leave the empty cubby-hole under the steps. She slept through when her phone battery died and the music stopped never to be around when Ed Sheeran’s ‘day-break cracked’. She shivered and slept on, oblivious of the furore erupting all around her one hundred and fifty years away.
First published October 2021
Reprinted 'Write On' 2024 p132-4
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Copies of Write On are available from Bridgnorth Library - price £8
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