Short story number 5

   Hello friends,

here is story number 5................                    

                        HONEYSUCKLE

‘Do you like travelling?’, she asked him one day, as the young porter gently eased the woman from the wheelchair into the bed.

‘Yes, very much’, though he knew that, apart from one or two brief trips abroad, his scope of travelling was, in most people’s sense of the word, severely limited.

‘My husband and I travelled a lot – not abroad so much – but we covered every inch of Britain’.

Peter wasn’t good at spontaneous conversation. He would have much preferred that the patients remained silent. He certainly did nothing to encourage communication. He’d taken on the job because he needed to earn some money and this opportunity had appeared thanks to a friend of his father’s. He looked at the woman he had just returned to her bed. She had a kindly face and was smiling at him strangely. Instead of leaving, he lingered for a moment. What blue eyes she had.

‘Have you been to any of the islands off Britain?’

No. Pete thought he hadn’t and he vaguely began to wonder which islands.

‘There are some islands which you must visit’.

He remembered the Scilly Isles; a day’s outing with the family when it had rained all day.

‘Alderney is just magnificent, and how we loved Sark. Then, of course, there’s Guernsey and Jersey; so many beautiful places; I do miss them’.

Her blue eyes seemed to have got wider and softer. She wasn’t even looking at him anymore.

‘Don’t let me keep you from your work’

He would have liked to have stayed longer. He felt she wanted to talk and he found himself wanting to listen; something moved him in this woman.

‘Yes, plenty to do. See you tomorrow Mrs. Lewis, and he stepped away from the bed and out of the ward.

Guernsey, Jersey, Alderny, Sark. The words were rolling out like a chant. He found himself repeating them with every step.

Guernsey, Jersey, Alderney, Sark; a mantra of islands.

Later that evening he opened the atlas. There they were. He’d never really thought about them before but this woman, whom he hardly knew, had spoken their names with such affection; they weren’t just names of places, they were experience; a whole series of experiences with a man she must have loved; a vibrant life. He began to smell the salty air and feel the wind blowing across imaginary cliffs and rolling green hills; the lull of waves breaking on sandy shores and the cries of gulls overhead. There would have been walks and boat trips out – maybe fishing. What did they do? Where did they go? Did they drive or take buses? Was there transport on all the islands?

The next day Pete sensed he was looking forward to seeing Mrs. Lewis. He felt shy to start a conversation; she might think it intrusive. As he finished pulling up the coverlet he was suddenly anxious. Perhaps she saw it in his eyes; such kind eyes.

‘How long have you been working here, Pete, it is Pete, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, about two months’.

‘Oh, so you’re getting used to it then. Is this a temporary job?’

Pete found himself talking about his plans, such as they were, of his university course for next year and his intention to visit Italy. She was giving him all her attention and her enthusiasm in his plans were as though she were organizing her own trip. How was he going to travel to Italy and what places would he visit? Her gaiety and excitement encouraged him and together they explored the unknown territory of a new experience just around the corner.

‘You know what I would like to do?’ she said suddenly. ‘I’d love to go outside’.

It hadn’t occurred to Pete; outside, out of the ward, the hospital. Of course, she was there all the time; ward, treatment room and back again in dreary, monotonous routine. This woman who had felt the wind swept spray of far off seas on her face; who had walked up and down rocky coasts and down stony paths into steep cliffed bays; who had breathed in the fresh green of open countryside and delighted in the fragrance of wayside flowers; this same woman now confined to the claustrophobia of imposed internment.

‘Tomorrow’, he said. ‘I’ll think of something’.

The route from ward to treatment area was a reasonably quick one but offered no possibilities of seeing outside. However, there was an alternative.

The next day Pete arrived just a little earlier than usual.

‘An extra blanket today, Mrs. Lewis’.

He tucked her in carefully and they wheeled out of the ward. Instead of turning left, he carried straight on towards the double doors that lead towards the rear of the kitchen and beyond.

‘Where are we going?’, she asked.

‘Wait and see’.

They passed through the double doors and out into the sunlight.

‘Oh’, she said involuntarily as the sudden brightness filled her face.

‘We’re going on a little diversion’.

The hospital was located right at the end of town and backed onto rolling downs. The road to the treatment centre was still edged on one side by an old farmer’s hedge. Pete pushed the chair very very slowly and the wheels brushed the rich foliage cascading in glorious profusion. Mrs. Lewis stretched out her hand and trailed it through the leaves.

‘Oh, just stop a moment, Peter’.

‘We can stop as long as you like, Mrs. Lewis’.

A dancing frond of honeysuckle wafted near her face and she gently pulled it towards her and almost reverently drew in the scent.

‘Lovely, lovely’, she said.

They inched their way forward and she beamed at the bright yellow dandylions bobbing at her feet. Sparrows were twittering near by and again they stopped.

‘Listen, just listen’.

They were no longer in the hospital. They were somewhere far away.

Pete waited in the still rich silence. Perhaps Mrs. Lewis was on one of her islands. She was so quiet, he almost dared not breathe. A pale yellow butterfly emerged from the hedge and flew in its dancing fashion ahead of them. They both watched it until it melted into the haze of the summer morning.

‘I think we can go now’, she said.

They moved off in silence. A ramp lead up from the road to the entrance. As they pushed through the swing doors a nurse looked strangely for a moment but said nothing. Mrs. Lewis turned to him with a sweet fondness in her blue eyes.

‘Thank you, thank you so much’.

The next couple of hours were busier than usual and another porter took the patient back to the ward.

Pete was already thinking about the book he’d be bringing in tomorrow, a big colourful book of the British Isles. He’d never bothered to look at it before but he knew who would enjoy exploring its pages.

The following morning he walked up to the ward early. He wanted to give her plenty of time to see it before he took her for treatment. He entered the room and for a moment thought he’d misplaced her bed, but there it was, neatly made up with fresh, crisp, white sheets and two large, smooth pillows. Her name was no longer pinned above it. He stood for a moment unable to move.

‘I’m sorry, Peter’, said a young nurse. ‘Were you looking for Mrs. Lewis? I’m afraid we lost her during the night. You were quite friendly with her, weren’t you?’

Peter nodded and tried to smile.

‘It’s not easy’, she said, touching his arm, ‘but you’ll get used to it’.

He felt the book hard and awkward under his arm. ‘Why did it have to be like that?’ He turned and left the ward and there ahead of him were the double doors leading out into the sunlight. And he suddenly smiled, a rich, warm, summer smile and pushed his way into the still sweet air of an August morning.

Short story number 4

Hello Friends,

This story and the next that will follow were inspired from my brief but important and influential time working at the, sadly now demolished, St. Luke's hospital in Guildford, Surrey when I was 18/19 years old.

I hope you enjoy them.

Very best wishes,

Philip

  

Betty

Just another three days to go. It surely wouldn’t be so difficult – and how she longed for a cigarette, just one. She had enacted the scenario over and over again; one flick of the lid, a deft tap on the bottom of the pack and two or three slender sticks sprouting up, the tallest sliding out and slipping into her fingers; light and draw – draw in that sweet heady comforter, the friend through thick and thin; placid, not demanding, just present, so much present, constant, constantly present, “God, damn it, why can’t I have just one? what the hell difference does it make anyway?” She scrunched up the coarse blue coverlet with her left hand and breathed hard. The pain was there, inert but immovable.

Opposite her bed the curtains were still drawn. There was always plenty of movement in the morning; bed baths, bed pans, porters with their long wooden poles to slide into the sleeves of the canvas stretchers and take away another patient for treatment; still drawn around the bed opposite; too long for a bed bath. She could see vague human forms pushing out momentarily as the nurses busied around the bed. They did their best, the nurses, but it didn’t fool anyone. At that moment you didn’t ask, you didn’t comment. She concentrated on the tea trolley steadily making its way down the ward. The tea lady was nice, friendly even, but she spoke with such an accent. Betty had given up trying to understand, but she appreciated the generous smile – the light in her eyes. She had even entertained the thought of acquiring an alibi and persuading her to smuggle her out for a cigarette; certainly the woman smoked, she could smell it on her breath, a faint delicious waft of nicotine – but she had long ago given up on the idea and it remained merely a vague fantasy.

Would the nurses really do what she had asked? They were so busy; friendly, yes; it seemed they only ever smiled – and why shouldn’t they? They were all mostly young and healthy, probably with boyfriends or husbands while she – but no, not that avenue, put those thoughts away Betty and concentrate on the plan – such a simple one, she knew she could do it.

“Everything all right, Betty?”

“Just fine, thank you!”

There we are. She’d said it again. What else were you supposed to say?

“Well, for someone with a life perspective of precisely nil …”

Focus, focus; she wanted it green; a lovely lurid green, just like she’d had for her wonderful 18^th birthday – and what a party it had been! There were so many people and so many presents. Of course, there had been plenty of birthdays since, but that one simply shone out from the rest.

The world stops when you’re lying in a bed. It pulls in on all sides and presses in on you. This is all that’s left. This is it. There were no visitors, but she hadn’t really expected anyone. There was so much time to think – but what was the point? If she had been selfish most of her life – and she was pretty sure she had been – it wasn’t going to make much difference now.

The tea lady had passed. She was almost out of the ward. There was the blue cup and saucer and a digestive perched jauntily on the side. Had she slept? – she must have done, but then she was doing that most of the time. Often she had no concept of how long she was asleep or awake. The tea lay untouched. Betty was sleeping again.

“Everything’s set for this afternoon, Miss Cooper – and here are some lovely flowers – there’re from all of us on the ward”.

There was a pretty nurse beaming by the side of the bed and bright yellow chrysanthemums were bobbing about in front of her face.

“Already, already” she thought excitedly. “Oh my God, I’ve done it! Thank you so much, thank you, thank you!”

Tears were welling up in her eyes and she felt a huge one trickle down her right cheek.

“Oh, there now luv, don’t cry, this is supposed to be your birthday”

“And, and, what about the cake, is it really coming?”

“Yes, dear, in about an hour”

“And is it, is it green, like I asked?”

“As green as the leaves of these chrysanthemums”.

Betty sank back on the pillows.

There will be enough for everyone. Everyone will have a slice of my lovely cake – just like they did all those years ago. Oh God, I’ve done it – I’ve really done it.

A sudden flurry of movement near the entrance to the ward woke Betty up. A group of excited nurses were pushing something towards her on a trolley that squeaked and rocked slightly. It stopped in front of her. They were all smiling. What was she supposed to do? – And suddenly, there it was; huge, square and green, as green as the leaves of the chrysanthemums.

“We’ll cut it for you, Betty”

“Yes, yes, you do that” – Had she said that or did she just think it?

The cake moved away slightly and the nurses cut into the soft green icing. Little plates were being handed out all around the ward. Everyone was eating; everyone was eating Betty’s green cake, just like they did all those years ago.

A wonderful gentle calm seemed to settle over her – she felt it trickling into her pores and relaxing the muscles on her face. The palms of her hands lay face down by the side of her body. She slowly closed her eyes and breathed softly. All was well. All was really just fine.

********

Another busy morning, porters and nurses everywhere. The sounds of bed baths and commodes and the rattle of the tea trolley.  Around one of the beds the curtains were still drawn and the vague shapes of human forms could be seen momentarily as the nurses busied around the bed…

                                               ---------------

Short story number 3

Hello friends!

Here is story number 3. The first 5 stories were written in Santa Catarina. Numbers 1 and 2 were inspired by people in the neighbouring chalet while the present story was written inspired by a little black dog that made friends with us.
Hope you enjoy it!

Very best wishes,

Philip

It’s a Dog's Life

When you are grey flecked, black, slim, with eyes a little too wide apart and protruding slightly from a bulbous little head that smacks of pit bull – not one of the most endearing breeds, and all this a top of  an incongruously slim greyhound style body, a dog needs to be smart. And this one had schooled himself more than adequately in the art of survival and charm. Out of season was another thing altogether, but this was peak charm time and he wasn’t going to lose any chances.

He broke a lot of hearts – he knew that, but that wasn’t his problem. You couldn’t blame him for the way he was – a broken home, a mother of dubious morals and a daunting list of possible fathers. His path was an uncertain one from the very beginning and he soon perceived that, if he were to have any real chance of survival, he was going to have to learn fast.

He was a beach dog, but not of any one in particular. You had to be ready for any opportunity and if that meant hiking up and down hills and into other bays, so be it. There were all sorts of little surprises – an old ice cream carton filled with water by a front door – very thoughtful of the owners. Left-overs from the beach-side restaurants thrown out in surprisingly easy-to-tear plastic sacks. But this was undignified business. This dog was a lady’s man, or man’s man, or anyone else’s really in whom he could exercise his seduction skills. He had cultivated a highly endearing whimper and a way of lowering his head in the most pathetic and appealing manner. Admittedly, he couldn’t win every time hands down but there was always somebody who would see his doleful performance and be suitably moved.

Young girls cooed and sighed. Down would go the head a little further and he would look up with an irresistible plea for their attention, their exclusive and unconditional surrender to his desperate need for love and affection. Within less than a minute there was a biscuit or two or, in some cases, even a piece of chocolate. With men it was different. He would cock his head on one side and pause attentively, waiting for an encouraging click of a thumb and finger to beckon him for a stroke. Men liked to show that they were in command and he was expert at receiving grateful pats with a submissive but faithful glimmer in his eyes. The next stage was to hang about his adopted providers long enough to begin appealing to their sympathies and sense of responsibility, without being too pushy or showing signs of desperation, a sure way of ending the game abruptly. He would gamble about and wag his tail and run a little ahead – always turning to check he was well within view. “Oh look, he wants to come with us!”, or “I think he’s following us” – all encouraging signs of doggy bonding. Sometimes this took him straight to the beach away from the bars and restaurants – the prospective for welcome pieces of fish or batter from the prawn fritters seriously diminishing, but, there might be the odd something lurking in the numerous bags that people insisted in carrying with them and if things really began to look hopeless, there were plenty of other possible candidates.

Of course, there had been occasions when he’d genuinely felt a glimmer of cosy belonging. It was a dangerous emotion and had more than once left him strangely forlorn when this fleeting illusion of being loved had melted away all too quickly and, with sad regretful eyes, in pathetic contrast to his well rehearsed theatrical version, his fanciful owner had turned round and gazed at him from the car window as it drove away. But on the whole, he felt he was in control.

In one particular moment when business was tediously slack, a large white car suddenly drew up and stopped just before the beach steps. With a noticeable lack of agility, two large puffy legs with feet of similar description squeezed into gold coloured sandals descended. He hadn’t even begun his accustomed routine when he heard a high squeal and the two puffy legs came lolloping towards him. Something told him to run but he was strangely mesmerized. Within an instant two flabby arms with clanking metal rings were reaching out and, in a moment he was being propelled into the air and wiggled from side to side in a very undignified manner. What was she doing? – Yes, she was puckering her lips and something was planted warm and wet on his nose. For the first time in his life he was losing control of the situation and with alarming speed. With unnerving vigour he was clasped to the large bosom of this uninvited benefactress; the smell of her perfume was overpowering. There was someone else with her and she spoke excitedly to him. The man was reaching for something from the car and before he could release himself from the grip of the flabby armed woman a bright red loop was lowered over his head. It suddenly tightened and he felt a strong tug. She was covering him again with kisses and was trying to lower herself with him into the car. Was this what he’d thought he’d wanted? Someone special who would treat him well every day, feed him and pet him? No, not at all! With a wild spasm, he jerked himself free. For a moment the red cord choked him as he tumbled to the ground, but in seconds he was on his feet and running and running – away down the steps and far across the beach, the red cord trailing and leaving a snaky impression on the sun bleached sand. He ran past the rocks and the river inlet, on towards the dunes. Only when he was safely within their welcome shadow did he stop, his tongue lolling out and his bulging eyes alarmingly distended. He was confused and frightened. The experience had been humbling. You could never be too careful, even a talented heart puller like himself. He sniffed the red cord disdainfully. It would probably take days before he could rid himself of it but no matter.

The long line of breakers hummed in his ears. They moved along sideways like a steam train before dispersing themselves in the wash. Above him the albatross wheeled in the air currents. In the shadow of the dunes it was cool and so, so comfortable. He let out a prolonged sigh of relief. He was a beach dog and more than ever before in his life he felt immeasurably happy to be one.

Short story number 2

Hello Friends,

Thank you so much for taking the time to read my first story and for the very encouraging response.
When you have the time, here is my second story, which I hope you will enjoy.

Bye for now,

Best wishes,

Philip

The Swimming Lesson

“Ok, ok, but are the tables ready? I need the tables by Wednesday, get it?” Lucio slapped down the mobile. “What do I need to do to get a simple set of tables produced?”

He wiped the sweat on his brow and rubbed his hand on his shorts. There was still plenty to be done before Wednesday, at least two more projects in the pipeline. They could wait or could they? But why wait when it was so easy to begin planning?

He switched programmes and began tapping the keyboard.

“Aren’t you coming down for breakfast?” His wife was standing by the open door of the chalet with their little boy tugging at her tea-shirt.

“Come, Dad”, he whined.

“In a minute, son. Just let Daddy finish this”

His wife didn’t bother to respond but began making her way down the steps that lead to the hexagonal room where breakfast was being served.

“We’ll go for a swim later, ok Duda?” Lucio kept his eyes fixed on the screen. “Ok, Duda?”

But Duda was already ahead of his mother and hadn’t heard him.

Tap, tap, tap. “If I could just get this started”…

The mobile began to buzz – confidential number. It could only be his boss.

“Yes, sir!”

“Yes, lovely thanks. Wonderful weather, very hot”.

“Yes, absolutely, I really need the break”.

“Yes, they’re fine – enjoying themselves very much.

“Of course! – they‘ll all be ready by Wednesday. You know me. Once I set my mind to something I get it done”.

“Don’t you worry, plenty of time to relax”

“Yes, we will. Thanks”.

“Yes, I’ll be there. Bye.”

Tap, tap, tap. The sweat was trickling constantly; it dripped onto the keyboard.

“Bugger it!”

He could go down for breakfast but then there’d be the conversation and his wife would be sure to want to make plans for the day. She was so exacting. Why couldn’t she understand that work couldn’t wait? Weren’t they all on holiday together? Hadn’t he taken time away from the office to get them all away to the beach? And who was paying for this holiday anyway?

Tap, tap, tap. He’d grab a coffee later, or get something down at the beach. There’d be plenty of time.

His wife was tired. “Laptops and mobiles are transforming the business world”, Lucio had announced to her one day. She didn’t need Lucio’s speeches to know that her own life was certainly transformed. He had less and less time for her and certainly much less for little Duda. His promises had become mere banalities. She had stopped believing them long ago and more sadly, so had Duda.

A couple slightly older than she and her husband were staying in the adjacent chalet. They had struck up a holiday friendship and Sara was glad of their company. This time, they beckoned her and Duda to their table. They had warm open faces and conversation seemed to flow so easily. How comfortable she felt. Their friendly easiness soothed her irresistibly and she fell readily into light, undemanding chatter. Lucio could stay as long as he liked with his lap top. Just at this moment the mellow smell of coffee and the table littered with breakfast temptations was all that she needed.

Duda swung his legs restlessly under his chair. “Why do adults have to talk so much?” Don’t they get bored just sitting and sitting and talking and talking?” There were so many other things much more interesting to do. He couldn’t see any attraction in being grown up at all and felt almost relieved to be so much younger than them all. The wicker chair was wide with a silky slippery green cushion. He slowly began to slide down it until his feet just touched the parquet – nobody noticed. He inched a bit further down and then slithered to the floor and waited to be called back to his seat. There were his mother’s slim brown legs, two rather fat, white legs of Mummy’s friend, and two skinny legs of the man, covered in silky black hairs, not like his father’s at all which were smooth and muscular. The conversation continued on and on. There was a space between the man’s chair and his own – just room enough to squeeze through without attracting attention. He pushed forwards on his hands and knees, keeping his eyes fixed on the open door. Just a bit further, a little bit further… and he was out! What a laugh, and no one had even noticed! There at the bottom of the grassy slope was the swimming pool; a lovely turquoise blue shimmering in the sunlight. He ran down the slope eagerly and stopped at the edge. There was nobody around. They’d been at the resort three days and he’d still not been in. “Just my toes”, he said. “It’ll be so nice to splash them”. He sat right at the edge, slipped off his flip-flops and lowered his feet into the water.

“So cool, so delicious” – he wriggled a bit further forward. How good to feel the water creeping up his legs – too good to resist. And suddenly, he slipped! It was so fast, too fast! The turquoise blue and sunlight was all around him and in him and choking him.

From up at the chalet’s you could have seen the frantic disturbance on the surface of the water, could even have heard the anguished, burbling cries.

“Just five more minutes and I’ll be done”, said Lucio, frowning at the screen – and then I’ll see about that swim for Duda!”

Story 1: The open door

The Open Door

It had been a difficult birth. She remembered seeing the sickly babe lying still by the side of her bed and had wondered at her own indifference. Wasn’t it what they had both been wanting, their own child? The light coral painted walls reflected the same blandness that seemed to have overtaken her. She felt a terrible weight within her. The child had been born and yet another weight had crept in and seemed to be pressing on her womb, pushing against her insides. She wanted to jump up, tear off her clothes and run out away down the road, away from the hospital, her new born child and away from Marcelo. But instead, she lay there, staring down at the wan face of her baby, their baby and those pale coral walls seemed to ease the trembling anguish that was growing within her.

Her little boy had grown. She had met the demands of motherhood with a placid resignation. She supposed she loved him in the same way that she supposed she loved Marcelo. It didn’t seem to matter. While he needed her there seemed no reason why she shouldn’t be there – and yet she was conscious of a growing awareness that the absence of tenderness that was constant in herself was reflecting in her own child; it disturbed her. While she could live with a man who looked after her, at least materially, though incapable of inspiring emotions, she felt a revulsion that this same indifference should be invading the fragile world of her child.

Marcelo would be home in just over an hour. The little boy was engaged with his toys. She looked at the fair curls clustering over his wide forehead. His head had always seemed too large for his delicate frame. Whose child was he? He had Marcelo’s deep set eyes and the same fixed lower jaw. Marcelo’s methodical tenacity was there in the way the boy concentrated fixedly on the cardboard pieces of his puzzle. There didn’t seem any space for her. She wanted to love him. She wanted to love Marcelo. She looked again at the clock. Marcelo would come from the station. Time enough to walk in the opposite direction until the bus stop. Nothing untoward in her catching a bus at this hour. No need for any cumbersome bags. She felt no real connection with anything in the house at all. The child was separate from her in his own world and she in hers. Father and son would be good for each other. Her presence was useful, even important but not essential. Perhaps they would be free too; free to love without this cloud of indifference, this echoing scream of emptiness that raged just below the surface.

The television was on but the child still bent over his puzzle, deaf to the noise of the screaming children on the screen, deaf to the soft tread of rubber soles on ceramic tiles, of the abrupt click of the closing of the front door and quick footsteps on and away into the night.

Second time round

Hello friends,

I have tried several messages to 'the blog people' but had no replies so have decided to start again.

The address remains the same so I hope very much it will shortly begin to work.

Wish me luck!

Best wishes,

Philip