Story number 10 Train Talk

Hello friends,

Something, I hope, to amuse.

Very best wishes from Philip

Train Talk

                                                                                                                                    Mr. Dubois was not what you would call a shy man. He was congenial and popular with his friends. His quickness of wit and freshness of spirit lent a delightful breath of extempore to the stuffy drawing rooms of late Victorian Dewsbury.

To some, his disregard of etiquette overstepped the limits of bonhomie but to the majority his intractable sense of fun brought welcome relief.

The day promised to be a hot one. He wondered if he shouldn’t have avoided the tweed suit and gone for sometimes light, but his client was not a modern thinker and he didn’t want to ruffle his hidebound feathers unduly.

 The journey from Dewsbury to Leeds was uneventful enough. The carriage was but half full which allowed ample room for spreading his paper at ease and, with legs unconstrainedly crossed, burying himself in the latest from the Boer.

“There’ll be just time enough to down a cup of tea at the station” he thought to himself. The buffet was right at the other end of the platform. There really wouldn’t be sufficient time but the dilemma between realizing his desire and bowing to common sense had yet to thrash out their differences. A large queue decided the question and, mentally planning an immediate diversion to a tea shop on arrival at York, he gave a reassuring squeeze to his neck tie and positioned himself on the platform. Within minutes the train arrived, with the very last compartment stopping directly in front of him. Taking a firm grip, he swung open the door and let himself in. As they pulled away, he just had time to see his paper on the bench where he had left it.

“How maddening!”

The compartment was stuffy. His collar already beginning to rub mercilessly on his neck.

“Do you mind?” he directed towards the only other passenger, as he leaned up to open the window a little. She said nothing but remained motionless, her head inclined towards a thin volume she secured between grey kid gloves.

“Very hot, Madam, don’t you feel?”

The lady continued reading. Mr. Dubois’ eyes wondered to the advertisements above the dark green upholstery.

“Enjoy a bracing sojourn at Skegness!”

“Has Madam ever visited Skegness? He ventured. “I believe it is most bracing”.

Still not a word. Mr. Dubois began to observe her. She was probably about his age, something between fifty and sixty. She was wearing a cavernous black hat that resembling a collapsing meringue with a rather impertinent plume bobbing incongruously at the front.

“How dull!” he thought. “An hour and a half with a taxidermic contender and no paper to alleviate the boredom”.

The woman was draped from head to toe in black. She wore jet beads that ran from her high collar and terminated in a squat bog oak cross. She was compacted in impregnable taffeta. Tightly crimped lace besieged her neck and wrists; he wondered how she could breathe at all.

“It really is most intolerably hot. Does not the lady desire that I open the other window to facilitate a refreshing passage of air?”

Her kid gloves twitched slightly and she breathed out fractionally harder through her nose. The exercise was becoming amusing.

“I’ve always thought it judicious to carry a flask of water in this sultry season but today I quite clean forgot. Do you have any recommendations for alleviating the discomfort of summer train travel?”

This time, the collapsing meringue rose suddenly, the incongruous plume almost knocked from its perch and, inclining her chin upwards to the right, she resolved to stare out of the window, not before emitting a very audible “hurumpf”.

The game was going nowhere, the sun was unrelenting and gradually, the lady resumed her reading position while Mr. Dubois absently re-scanned the promise of bracing diversions at Skegness.

The abrupt rocking of the compartment as the train crossed rails pulling into York woke them both to their senses. The slim volume had fallen to the floor and for a moment, the lady in black was incapable of making a move. Mr. Dubois stood up and stretched copiously. Alarm spread upon his reluctant companion’s face. He bent down to pick up the temporarily relinquished article.

Slowly their eyes met and, as the train jerked to a halt he adroitly dropped it into her lap.

“Madam”, he said. “You may have denied talking to me, but you cannot deny having slept with me. Good day!”

Story number 9: 'In the Name of Art'

Hello friends,

I hope this gives you some pleasure.

Best wishes,

Philip

In the Name of Art

Nobody liked the graffiti. It had begun as a small daub of unintelligible lettering – an obscure symbol on the last corner house but, over the last year and a half, it had spread like a deadly fungus over every available surface: garden wall, garage door, even the lamp posts. The houses with no front gardens to offer protection were most hard hit; below the ground floor windows, around the front doors, the space between the upper and lower windows – anywhere the spray cans could reach. No-one saw the perpetrators; they came in the dead of night working quickly and silently. Only when their next victim left his house the following morning would the evidence of their nocturnal labours be noticed. Residents complained to each other; various neighbourhood schemes were set up but with little effect. People needed to work, and if they needed to work, they needed to sleep. Nobody was prepared to sit up all night, perhaps for an entire week, on the off-chance of observing the night visitors.

Mrs. Jupp lived at number 57. Her house had been particularly targeted. It was once a pale peach colour with pretty plasterwork details around the windows. It now resembled a painter’s palette. The prolific but untalented artists drawn by the cool canvas of the facade, had competed one with the other until it was a dense confusion of juxtaposed letters and symbols, almost obliterating the door and windows themselves. Mrs. Jupp sympathised with her neighbours and they nodded and sympathised with the jumbled mess that was now the front of her house. “Poor thing. Such a sweet old lady – and her house had always looked so pretty!”

The old dear loved her garden – more of a jungle really. She hadn’t her old energy and she had learned to love the weeds as much as the faithful perennials that jostled for space amongst them. There was one part of the garden, however, that she never went. Years before, surveyors had been and declared that the whole place would have to be dug away and re-earthed – all at great expense; something about an old unregistered tin mine that was conjectured to have existed some two hundred years previous. But nothing had ever been followed up and Mrs. Jupp had ceased worrying about it. But there, between the michaelmas daisies and the rockery was a straight oblong of grass that had curious dents in it. She could just as easily reach the rockery via the rhododendrons so she had no cause to step onto it. It was often wet long after the rest of the garden had dried off from the rain and, if she bent her ear close to the ground, she could hear strange popping sounds. For half the night, Mrs. Jupp sat thinking. Her bedroom light, glowing like a luminous peach behind the drapes, burned well into the early hours. The following morning at around 11.00 o’clock she returned from town with several large plastic bags in each hand. For the remainder of the day she kept quietly to herself.

The side of the house was reached by a wooden gate, which lead directly from the street; a huge tract of sprayable wall which composed the entire right lateral of her home and stretched upwards and long-ways – a perfect heaven for any would-be spray handler with itchy fingers.

A little after midnight she crept out of the kitchen and round to the side of the house and there, right by the wooden gate, she placed her first irresistible treasure: a brand new spray can full of luxurious purple dye. A few steps further an identical canister, only orange; and then, a foot away from the michaelmas daisies, a luminous green variety. It was from here that she had thrown, with certain difficulty, some dozen more – all a glorious rich red, mounted up like a funeral pyre over the strangely uneven tract of grass between the daisies and the rockery.

That night, Mrs. Jupp omitted to bolt the gate. In fact, she left it wide open, giving a perfect view of the virgin canvas and there, in the still of the back bedroom, she sat and waited.

To keep herself busy she picked up her knitting – a navy woollen scarf for an undeserving great nephew. Still, it kept her occupied. Click, clack, click, clack,… the needles kept time with the bedside clock. Click, clack, click, clack… She could wait all night if needs be. And then she heard it; an uninvited foot had knocked over the first trophy. There were footsteps, she had no idea how many. The prey were taking the bait. She let go her knitting and peeped just above the sill. There must have been at least half a dozen of them – the whole gang may be. One of them had spotted the final prize. There was no order, no caution. Ah, foolish youth. The daisies were crushed underfoot as eight pairs of legs ran thundering onto the forbidden rectangle. What nocturnal scribe would not have jumped for joy at such a find? – and with the prospect of two hundred square feet of free expression into the bargain.

There were no cries, no shouts, no commotion at all. As silently as they came, they made their final exit. Mrs. Jupp heard a short, low rumble. The house shuddered very slightly and a huge cloud of dust rose up and began drifting over the garden wall. She made her way slowly downstairs and stepped onto the gravel path. The rockery had all but disappeared. A couple of pieces of stone were sticking up through the soft earth and the rhododendron was leaning perilously to one side. The michaelmas daisies would have to be sorted, quite hopeless they were. But that could wait until morning.

During the following few months the street began to put on a fresh face. It was imperceptible at first; a lick of paint here and a lick of paint there. Slowly it began to assume its old charm as the awakening house owners took pride once more in their homes; none so much as dear Mrs. Jupp. There was even a whip round to help her. Her little house had been so disfigured.

“Not peach this time I feel” she was heard to say.

“Something a little bolder… why not a nice bright red? … and, by the way, I’d be terribly grateful if someone could lend a hand with the garden, it’s really needing a good going over?”

Short story number 8

Collectables

Sarah Miles had practically the entire collection but then she would, wouldn’t she? Sarah Miles had just about everything she ever wanted and whenever she wanted it. She would line them up provocatively along the edge of her desk; ten wonderful little rubber animals. Two more and the collection would be complete. Darell looked longingly at them. So far he had only managed an elephant with a torn ear, which he had exchanged with Jimmy Robson for five highly prized bubble gums. They were expensive. Why did things always have to be expensive? Darell sat behind Sarah well to the left and had a clear view of his heart’s desire. Every single class there they were: a tiger poised and ready to pounce, with his tail curled high, an eagle with wings fully outstretched, a bear on his hind legs, a dear glancing behind her, a snake coiled around and around with just its head peeking out from its concentric form – so much fun to be had, so many fights, attacks – sometimes fatal, sometimes not. A whole world of wonderful adventures, and all Sarah Miles could do was to stick them in front of her and ignore them. Darell turned back to his exercise. “What I did at the weekend”. He could think of nothing at all. It had rained most of the time. He leaned his head on his hand and stared out of the window. Finally, and it surprised him, the bell went. He just had time to see the prize menagerie scooped up and squashed into a pink fluffy pencil case. Outside, his mother was waiting for him at the gate, along with a lot of other Mums or Dads or older brothers and sisters. “I have a few things to do before we go home, ok Darell?” Darell nodded mechanically and they began to make their way towards the parade of shops that ran just behind the playing fields. They stopped at the bread shop. A wonderful honey smell and lots of things stuffed with cream or smeared with a pink gloss with coloured bits on. His mother bought a ready sliced family loaf and then she suddenly said: “Do you fancy a doughnut, Darell?” She never bought doughnuts. She never bought anything apart from the white sliced and, occasionally, a macaroon for Granny. “Err, yes!”, he stammered. He wondered if he ought to try his luck and ask for one of the pink glossy cakes or two fat meringues with cream bulging between them and a sticky glace cherry submerged on top, but the moment passed.

“Just the post office and then we’re done”.

Off they trudged. The post office was in fact tucked away at the back of a stationer’s. It was the oldest building in the street with lots of steps up and down and curious rooms to the sides. There was a narrow staircase somewhere in the middle but it had a chain strung across it with “Private, no admittance” written in red on a white sign. He always longed to step over it and see just what was beyond the “no admittance”. Right next to the staircase was a small counter crammed with all kinds of useful things for school and behind it, a big roundy lady in a pale blue overall. She had soft, pink cheeks and wore glasses with a gold chain. Her lips were bright red and when she smiled she showed incredibly perfect white teeth. “And, how’s Darell today?” she asked, half looking at Darell and half at his mother.

“Fine, thanks”, he mumbled. The two women began talking and Darell began to idly scan the counter. His eyes stopped short; there they were: the whole incredible collection all practically spilling out of a box right in front of him – all the animals jumbled together. There must have been at least five of every kind. He didn’t plan anything. He didn’t even look up at his mother or the lady in the pink overall. He simply opened his palm as wide as it could go and, spreading his fingers over a random assortment, thrust the rubbery loot into his trouser pocket. For a second, the world stopped: surely something horrible would happen, but it didn’t. He could feel his treasure pressing on his leg and he pulled his jumper down to hide any tell-tale bulge.

“See you soon, Darell”, the pink lady said, and his mother propelled him out of the shop and along the street.

“I’ll get the kettle on as soon as we’re in and we’ll see about those doughnuts”.

Doughnuts? He couldn’t even think about them. What had he done? There must have been at least ten in his pocket. How could he possibly smuggle them into his room? Where would he hide them? He’d never be able to play with them except in the strictest privacy – and he’d never be able to take them to school. No, it was lunacy. They’d just reached the pedestrian crossing. The little green man lit up; they stepped into the road. “It’s now or never” he thought; and ramming his hand into his trousers, he dug out the mass of rubber animals and, as hard as he could, flung them behind him. They were both walking towards the other side and the animals were thrown behind. It should have been the end of a very painful dilemma. But a blue and a red one bounced ahead of them, directly in front of his mother. It was a wonderful turquoise dragon and a bright red crocodile – right in front of his mother.

“What the - ? Darell!” She spun round and there were the remaining pieces of the filched collection at varying intervals over the tarmac.

“Get back onto the pavement”, she yelled.

Cars were already hooting their horns but with one arm held up in an awkward halting position she continued picking up every one of them. Her face was red and puffy looking.

“Right, straight back to the shop” she panted. They marched along in silence, his mother’s plastic mack making a harsh crackling sound as they walked. It wasn’t happening. She wouldn’t make him go back into the shop. She wouldn’t do that. They’d reached the front door.

“In you go, Darell”

The shop was still busy. The lady with the pink cheeks was serving somebody. His mother didn’t wait.

“I’m sorry to interrupt”, she burst out. “My son’s got something to say, haven’t you, Darell?” And she glanced down at him, her eyes wide and staring. He couldn’t speak, he could hardly move.

“What did you do, Darell? She was breathing hard. “Tell the nice lady what you just did”.

“I,..I…-“

“Hello, Darell”, said a familiar voice at his elbow. And there was Sarah Miles, in a smart white imitation leather coat with black shiny buttons.

“I’ve come to buy the two missing animals I need to complete my full set – a dragon and a crocodile. Then I can start collecting ‘My Little Pony’!

Short story number 7

Hello friends,

Please read at your leisure number 7.

Best wishes, Philip

The Heart of a City

The streets may be dirty, the buildings unkempt, the shop traders noisy. When a man has a friend, he sees beyond the physical incognito and what may have been hostile and alien now warms his heart and he feels truly at home.

Meredith had lived fifty years in the city. After seven he had stopped counting. The place had claimed him for its own. He could have left at any time, it was certainly ugly enough, but something had knotted him to it, like a tangled green moss wedded to a wall of granite.

“Full cycles”, “Things come round again” – was that something he’d heard in a song? He hadn’t allowed his thoughts to develop the notion further but, nevertheless, the phrases sat uncomfortably on his chest. Was this city going to discard him after all? a faithless lover who would drop him off now she’d taken all she’d wanted? He turned into Rua Otavio Rocha. So many people, rushing, rushing, “The city is anxious” he thought, “but what could be so pressing?” He wondered if anyone of them would abruptly keel over should he stop them suddenly. Did they see what he saw? They were trampling all over his town. It was his town, not theirs. What were they doing? They had no business to be pounding their vulgar trainers over its cobbles and pushing, pushing. “Perhaps they will push me over?” He felt small and frail. A shudder of helplessness shook him and he teetered into a doorway where in the sudden cool of its corridor he sensed an aura of protection.

A long gray corridor with a number of faceless offices to right and left but right at the end something completely different. There are plenty of such corridors in Porto Alegre. It is impossible to know all of them. Exactly at the end of this one was a large plate glass window and a simple glass fronted door to the left; a beacon at the end of the gray gloom. There were lights burning and the place was buzzing. Instinctively he walked towards it. A large counter swept away to the left and waiters in long white aprons were gliding deftly between the tables. He noticed that there was plenty of movement amongst the customers themselves; some were sitting, others standing. There was a contagious air of animation among them and he stood transfixed at the window. It was then that he saw him. Somebody leaned forward and for a moment he could see a couple sitting a little way behind. He gasped. “João, it’s João!” The gap closed again and he felt his head grow strangely hot. “João, my dear friend, but…”  João had died some forty years previous. He must be mistaken but, no, his prematurely gray beard and moustache and the way he hunched his shoulders forward when he was talking. Had João noticed him? Yes, he had for a moment looked up. They were his eyes; brown laughing eyes but with a whisper of sadness behind them. It was too much. A waiter was walking directly to the door and he quickly moved away back down the corridor and out into the busy street.

How they had laughed together! It was after knowing João that the city had begun to change. How many coffees had they drunk together? How many films had they seen? And what about the choir? Yes, he’d even joined a choir. Those were good days, such good days, and then he’d suffered a devastating stroke and that wonderful friend had simply passed out of his life.

Meredith steadily made his way home but he was no longer conscious of the pressing crowds around him. He was walking once again with João and the certainty of a true friend filled him with an unspeakable joy.

The morning bought with it cold reason. It was just a coincidence; of course, he hadn’t see João but, nonetheless, he got dressed with a curious lightness in his heart and knew without knowing why that he must find that corridor again.

Rua Otavio Rocha once more and teeming with bodies. Perhaps he wouldn’t find it? Perhaps he’d imagined it? Panic gripped him and his head began to swim. A dumpy looking woman stepped out of a doorway and, to avoid colliding with her, he veered sideways and, lurching to the right, found himself standing again in the familiar cool. He slowly raised his head and there it was. He’d not been deceived. This time there was music playing. He knew the tunes, good ones. He could have danced to the door. How cosy it looked. How inviting! There was such laughter and so much activity. He longed to go in. It seemed busier than yesterday. There were people leaning up against the counter and cups and glasses were passing to and fro with a delicious clatter. He couldn’t help it, a smile, one that had long been discarded, crept across his tired face. A peal of laughter, fresh and candid filled his ears. He knew that laughter. Only one person in his life had laughed like that; Elza, his saintly friend, the kindest soul he had ever known; a shoulder to cry on, an ear for a good gossip and a ready companion for any adventure. There she was; a glass of something in her hand and she was looking directly at him; her round eyes laughing and her face radiant and full of love. But dear Elza had been brutally murdered. Her assassin never discovered and her simple, beautiful life extinguished. “Please, come in, Mr. Williamson”. The door was open and an olive skinned waiter with a neat black moustache was standing in the entrance. His long white apron was smooth and spotless. His tray covered in glasses of varying shapes and sizes, “If you want to come back later, please do. We’re keeping a table for you”.

Meredith began to back away. He felt his breath coming hard. He wanted to scream. He wanted to turn around and get back to the clamour of the streets and yet, it looked so tempting and the waiter had such a smile. Elza, João, there they were, and behind them he could just see his old friend Bernardo and Dona Linda, and there was Seu Henrique, dear Seu Henrique.

“Yes, yes, I think I’m ready. Please show me to my table”, and stepping lightly, he crossed into the warm embrace of the little café.

*********

A small crowd had gathered at the end of the gray corridor. They were clustering round something crumpled on the floor.

“Do you know him?” a voice said.

“Don’t think so. Looks pretty old, poor thing”.

“We’d better call the police but first, let’s move him away from in front of the fire exit”.

Short story number 6

Hello Friends,

At your leisure, short story number 6.

Thank you and best wishes,

Philip

Necessities

Was it a dull life? She rarely asked herself that question and even when she did she wasn’t sure if she could answer it. Mrs. Johnson was fifty seven. She’d been a widow for more that eleven years – it could just as easily have been five or seven. Time was no enemy to her. She never looked longingly to the past and the future was simply a non - threatening blank. She had a cat of whom she was fond and she lived on the 3^rd floor of a bland but comfortable block of 1970s flats. Nothing particularly perturbed her. She was on friendly terms with her neighbours, paid bills on time, was punctual for appointments and never returned her library books late. She occasionally went away by herself to a quiet hotel on the coast, Bengy and her modest pot plants being fed and watered by a friend. Despite these domestic assurances, she was never entirely comfortable and felt a heave of contentment as soon as her train returned home to Oakhampton.

Saturday was market day and when it wasn’t raining she was glad enough to push her shopping trolley around the familiar stalls. True, the fruit and vegetables were not in convenient packs or plastic bags but her inherent instinct for economy would never have allowed her to forego this weekend ritual; however, the supermarket was another story. There were no restrictions as to which day she went and she never imposed any. It was just five minutes from the flat and from her living room window she could see its red neon sign, a beacon of comfort and security, which blazed assuredly night and day. There was always some little thing to be bought. She had become expert at convincing herself of the utter indispensability of any stray item that came into her head. It wasn’t unknown for her to actually go in with no pending item at all but with the certainty that the temporarily unremembered necessity would announce itself forthwith, and it always did. There was a glow about the place; a cheery welcoming plethora of all that reinforced her feelings of well being. The music was never too loud and the songs were neither too modern nor vastly out of date. The wheels of the trolleys were smooth, the floor was smooth and the aisles were wide and welcoming. She knew every shelf and every corner and prided herself on remembering the cashier’s names without having to look at their identity tags.

There weren’t just items to be bought, there were friends, old familiar friends, loyal to the nth degree. She knew their colours, their shapes, even their smells. They sat in her trolley and spoke assuredly to her, ‘We are with you, we will always be – you are quite safe with us’.

There was only one thing guaranteed to unsettle Mrs. Johnson’s sea of calm and that was when, just to peeve her personally, the manager took the unthinkable decision of transferring a perfectly well placed sector of the supermarket to a totally foreign location. It vexed her and she would return home, not before having had a good few words with the erring manager, with the feeling that an intruder had broken into her home and deliberately rearranged all her furniture – it was so upsetting.

One fine Thursday afternoon, a notion to clean the silver came over her. There was more than enough silver polish to complete the job but she couldn’t possibly run the risk of letting stocks run low. She ran her entire home on the same lines – like a tip-top supermarket itself, only in miniature. Immediately, she reached for her pale blue woollen scarf, picked up her handbag from the hall table and lightly stepped out for her daily spiritual sustenance. Not the most fervent church goer could have rivalled her for loyalty and dedication.

As she crossed the road something disturbing caught her eye – the stalwart neon light, the herald to the faithful, was blinking erratically. She would have to speak to the manager at once, it was unheard of. And was it a trick of the light or had the ‘m’ from ‘market’ dropped slightly to the right? There was no time to lose and, quickening her step, she almost threw herself through the plate glass doors, determined to remedy this careless oversight at once.

Her path was almost blocked by a barricade of shopping trolleys – all huddled together any old how instead of in nice neat lines and she was obliged to squeeze through the end one and a pillar, and then she stopped short. The first aisle was littered with pyramids of packages piled high in all directions. She glanced nervously to left and right and almost felt her heart in her throat. Stretching along the shelves and into eternity were dozens of white objects, some square, some rectangle. She craned her neck slightly and found herself reading in plain black lettering ‘sugar’. A long marching column of square white boxes all exactly the same. The boxes swam into other boxes and she read ‘coffee’ and then ‘tea’. All white, all a monotonous uniform white. Her eyes were beginning to glaze over. She looked bewildered up and down the row.

And now she began to notice there were other shapes: bottles; tins of different sizes but all of them, every single one of them dead white. One said ‘oil’, another ‘fish’. Her knees were trembling and she reached out to steady herself.

‘Everything all right, Mrs. Johnson?’ – It was the manager himself but he was different. His tie had gone and he was wearing a white t-shirt with big black letters on it that read ‘Back to basics’. She mouthed the words falteringly and slowly  looked back into his face.

‘That’s right, Mrs. Johnson. Back to basics. We sell food here now, not ideas. You’ll have to bear with us for a while until we’re sorted. Feel free to look around – and now you must excuse me, I have a hundred things to attend to. Good bye, Mrs. Johnson’.

She had never felt so lonely in her life. A woman accidentally nudged her back with a trolley that jogged her forwards. She stumbled like an abandoned child to the end of the aisle. There was a horrible noise in her ears and a ritualistic beat – almost tribal. The voices were laughing at her, taunting her. Something they called ‘rap’, was it? She wanted to get away but there were people behind her and she had to go on – on into that world of white.

‘Oh my friends, why have you forsaken me? Through a doorway with thick strips of transparent plastic, somebody was stuffing something into black sacks. She just had time to see a rich brown, red capped jar, smooth and comforting with ‘Bovril’ written boldly across it being thrust into oblivion; and wasn’t that a  noble green and silver tin of golden syrup disappearing into the black void? No, it was too horrible. No act of barbarity could have more agitated this woman’s heart. They were massacring her closest companions right in front of her and there was nothing she could do about it.

 ‘Bumper introductory bargains this way’ a harsh confident voice growled over the intercom and she found herself being jettisoned forward like a piece of driftwood at the mercy of the tide, carried by a great wave of animated and excited shoppers anxious to buy the basics at sensible prices. Perhaps she should have been grateful for she was suddenly standing by the exit and, inhaling deeply, pushed herself forwards out into the open.

One unsteady step after another and she was at her own front door. It opened heavily. She took off her scarf and placed her bag on the table and, with trembling hands drew the living room curtains. There was comfort in the dark room. She steadily lowered herself into her armchair and sat perfectly, perfectly still.

It’s been six months since the supermarket initiated its new policy. You very rarely find Mrs. Johnson on the premises: in fact, it’s very hard to get hold of Mrs. Johnson at all, what with painting classes, Italian lessons, bridge parties. Nowadays, she’s pretty much game for anything – that is, when you can drag her away from her allotment.

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…

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