BED
Past
Once upon a time there was a little house…
I was that girl and the bed was my cloud. I sat there, like an angel with my books open, my toys listening attentively as I filled them in on the exploits of Amelia Jane Again and the folk from the Magic Faraway Tree.
My bed.
Made, with love, by my mum.
Present
This is my bench with a view.
‘Cheers mate!’ I say, looking up.
I used to be an angel,
Eventually she left us,
Dad drank himself to the grave.
*
It’s been a strange kind of week.
Future
So my future bed is my past bed but where there once was a cloud, with a quilt so divine there is now a simple divan, too small for my limbs and too lumpy for my back.
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©Lisa Lee 2012, re edited 2014
Squirrel
Strolling through the woods, fallen leaves all squelchy and soggy under my wellies. One long step to get over the fast-flowing brook that's carrying twigs to the bottom of the hill.
Silence, except for the snap of dead wood as I pass.
Looking up to the morning sun, reaching through the boughs of the naked trees, stretching her warms fingers over the strange woodland inhabitants. As the sunlight bathes the huge body of the oak, I tiny door is lit up at his base. A tiny, wooden door with a tiny holly wreath fixed to its knocker.
Silence, except for the snap of tiny crackers being pulled behind the tiny door.
Several pairs of eyes are watching me. Looking up, I catch a glimpse of two, no, three bushy tales, spiralling up and up, to the uppermost branches.
Giddiness, from the sunlight and the motion cause me to look away. But as I do, I notice something drop from the mouth of one of my watchers. It spins like a sycamore seed in Autumn. I catch it as it gently bounces into my hand - a tiny green stocking. For a tiny squirrel's paw.
©Lisa Lee, 2014
'One Giant Leap'
One bright and starry night, on a planet far, far away from here there sat a little alien called Graham.
He was the youngest Graham on the planet and a great weight was weighing down upon his bumpy, orange shoulder-like things.
"Oh dear," he sighed, "Whatever is to become of us all?" Graham glanced at the bare 'leap patch'. Not a single leap had grown there since Graham had been made 'Watcher of the Patch' and unless one grew very, very soon, the planet would die and that would be the end of the Grahams. He sighed again and lifted one of his heads, the green one, up towards the stars. "Stars, please hear me tonight," his green head said. "Without leaps in our tummies, nothing will live and the whole planet will die!" But the stars just shone. Except one. On the right. Which seemed to throb and then fall. Graham didn't notice though as he replaced the green head and rested his red one in his hand.
The next morning, as the stars shone brighter, Graham cautiously opened his eyes. "Wow!" he gasped. Then, getting up to his foot, he hopped over to where the other Grahams were still napping. "Wake up!" he shouted.
"What's all this young Graham?" questioned the elder Graham, as he too hobbled to his foot. "Look! Look at the leap patch!" They all followed Grahams gaze and with joint amazement, started swaying backwards and forwards on their feet. There, right in the middle of the patch there was a green shoot just surfacing above the pink soil.
The Grahams all leant forward, eyes widening as the shoot carried on growing!
By the end of the day, as the sky grew even darker, the leap covered the entire patch. Little Graham watched in wonderment as it stopped growing and became still. A leap. One giant leap. Big enough for all the Grahams on the whole planet to share. He looked up into the sky once more. "Ooo," he said. "What's that?" Up in the sky, to the right there was a new star. It was bigger and brighter than all the rest. A glow grew around it and moved towards the planet. "Could this be what helped the leap grow?" he thought. All of his eyes widened as the sky lightened. He felt warmer too and a smile spread across his green head.
And so the Grahams lived. The planet lived. All thanks to a massive, glowing star and one giant leap.
©Lisa Lee 2010, edited 2014
RED
She never usually wore red but today was different.
“Tis only a whore that’ll dare to wear red!”
She takes the faux fur coat from the wardrobe and tries it.
“I’m right!” said a voice from the pot on the shelf,
She sat on her bed with the pot in her hands.
“You don’t understand Gran, you don’t understand!”
She sniffed back her tears and started to talk.
“Remember Tom, Gran, with the dark floppy hair?
She stopped her tears and looked down at her dress.
“I’m wearing this dress Gran, I’m making a stand,
She looked at the peach mess that hung on the door.
“A bridesmaid? His bridesmaid?? You gullible fool!”
She loved her Gran, she did, though she couldn’t always talk to the pot.
©Lisa Lee, 2014.
NURL
In a land of cats,
“Oh almighty Nurl, I ask of thee,
A clowder of cats,
“Oh what kind of mana is this, pray,
The mew of the cats,
“Oh sweet thing I implore you be,
The eyes of the cats,
BED
Past
Once upon a time there was a little house…
I was that girl and the bed was my cloud. I sat there, like an angel with my books open, my toys listening attentively as I filled them in on the exploits of Amelia Jane Again and the folk from the Magic Faraway Tree.
My bed.
Made, with love, by my mum.
Present
This is my bench with a view.
‘Cheers mate!’ I say, looking up.
I used to be an angel,
Eventually she left us,
Dad drank himself to the grave.
*
It’s been a strange kind of week.
Future
So my future bed is my past bed but where there once was a cloud, with a quilt so divine there is now a simple divan, too small for my limbs and too lumpy for my back.
©Lisa Lee 2012, re edited 2014
Squirrel
Strolling through the woods, fallen leaves all squelchy and soggy under my wellies. One long step to get over the fast-flowing brook that's carrying twigs to the bottom of the hill.
Silence, except for the snap of dead wood as I pass.
Looking up to the morning sun, reaching through the boughs of the naked trees, stretching her warms fingers over the strange woodland inhabitants. As the sunlight bathes the huge body of the oak, I tiny door is lit up at his base. A tiny, wooden door with a tiny holly wreath fixed to its knocker.
Silence, except for the snap of tiny crackers being pulled behind the tiny door.
Several pairs of eyes are watching me. Looking up, I catch a glimpse of two, no, three bushy tales, spiralling up and up, to the uppermost branches.
Giddiness, from the sunlight and the motion cause me to look away. But as I do, I notice something drop from the mouth of one of my watchers. It spins like a sycamore seed in Autumn. I catch it as it gently bounces into my hand - a tiny green stocking. For a tiny squirrel's paw.
©Lisa Lee, 2014
'One Giant Leap'
One bright and starry night, on a planet far, far away from here there sat a little alien called Graham.
He was the youngest Graham on the planet and a great weight was weighing down upon his bumpy, orange shoulder-like things.
"Oh dear," he sighed, "Whatever is to become of us all?" Graham glanced at the bare 'leap patch'. Not a single leap had grown there since Graham had been made 'Watcher of the Patch' and unless one grew very, very soon, the planet would die and that would be the end of the Grahams. He sighed again and lifted one of his heads, the green one, up towards the stars. "Stars, please hear me tonight," his green head said. "Without leaps in our tummies, nothing will live and the whole planet will die!" But the stars just shone. Except one. On the right. Which seemed to throb and then fall. Graham didn't notice though as he replaced the green head and rested his red one in his hand.
The next morning, as the stars shone brighter, Graham cautiously opened his eyes. "Wow!" he gasped. Then, getting up to his foot, he hopped over to where the other Grahams were still napping. "Wake up!" he shouted.
"What's all this young Graham?" questioned the elder Graham, as he too hobbled to his foot. "Look! Look at the leap patch!" They all followed Grahams gaze and with joint amazement, started swaying backwards and forwards on their feet. There, right in the middle of the patch there was a green shoot just surfacing above the pink soil.
The Grahams all leant forward, eyes widening as the shoot carried on growing!
By the end of the day, as the sky grew even darker, the leap covered the entire patch. Little Graham watched in wonderment as it stopped growing and became still. A leap. One giant leap. Big enough for all the Grahams on the whole planet to share. He looked up into the sky once more. "Ooo," he said. "What's that?" Up in the sky, to the right there was a new star. It was bigger and brighter than all the rest. A glow grew around it and moved towards the planet. "Could this be what helped the leap grow?" he thought. All of his eyes widened as the sky lightened. He felt warmer too and a smile spread across his green head.
And so the Grahams lived. The planet lived. All thanks to a massive, glowing star and one giant leap.
©Lisa Lee 2010, edited 2014
RED
She never usually wore red but today was different.
“Tis only a whore that’ll dare to wear red!”
She takes the faux fur coat from the wardrobe and tries it.
“I’m right!” said a voice from the pot on the shelf,
She sat on her bed with the pot in her hands.
“You don’t understand Gran, you don’t understand!”
She sniffed back her tears and started to talk.
“Remember Tom, Gran, with the dark floppy hair?
She stopped her tears and looked down at her dress.
“I’m wearing this dress Gran, I’m making a stand,
She looked at the peach mess that hung on the door.
“A bridesmaid? His bridesmaid?? You gullible fool!”
She loved her Gran, she did, though she couldn’t always talk to the pot.
©Lisa Lee, 2014.
BED
Past
Once upon a time there was a little house…
In this little house was a tiny bedroom…
In this tiny bedroom was a small girl…
And this small girl was seated on a massive bed.
I was that girl and the bed was my cloud. I sat there, like an angel with my books open, my toys listening attentively as I filled them in on the exploits of Amelia Jane Again and the folk from the Magic Faraway Tree.
At night, with my thumb in my mouth, I would wrap myself up tightly in the quilt my mum had lovingly covered for me with a pretty floral fabric, my head would sink into a matching covered pillow. The pervasive Dry Musk perfume she wore washed over me, a spiritual reminder of motherly love that would gently lull me to sleep.
My bed.
Made, with love, by my mum.
Present
This is my bench with a view.
It’s of the river with boats and shit.
But as the joggers jog
A man with a dog
Stops and it pisses on it.
‘Cheers mate!’ I say, looking up.
But he’s hot-footing it down the path.
‘Come again then, you dick,
And bring a big stick,
We’ll all have a jolly good laugh!’
I used to be an angel,
On my cloud with my toys, reading books.
But it all went to pot,
As dad drank a lot
And mum gave him reproachful looks.
Eventually she left us,
And my cloud felt all acrid and dead.
I walked out of the door,
An angel no more,
This bench, ever after my bed.
Dad drank himself to the grave.
I was just told about it tonight.
We didn’t stay in touch,
And no one cared much.
Although I think my mother might.
*
It’s been a strange kind of week.
Mum found me on my bench fading fast.
The day turned to dusk
As I smelled her Dry Musk
And she held me,
She breathed me,
Her tears soaked into me
How I long for this moment to last…
Future
So my future bed is my past bed but where there once was a cloud, with a quilt so divine there is now a simple divan, too small for my limbs and too lumpy for my back.
But I can stretch like a cat, if I dangle my foot over the edge.
I can curl up in a ball, as long as I avoid the middle.
I can sleep like a baby, if I have the radio on.
I can close the door on the world so that sleep can descend upon me without any fear.
I’ve had two beds in my life, not including a cot. One saw me through childhood, kept me warm, save from harm and nursed me through sniffles and coughs. One saw me through heartache, kept me down, save from no one and bought my mother back to me.
Given the choice, I’d be where I am now, complete with the lumps and the occasional misplaced spring. I’ll die in this bed, I swear, but not yet. For tonight we’re off out, my mother and I, made-up and with Dry Musk pervasive.
©Lisa Lee 2012, re edited 2014
Squirrel
Strolling through the woods, fallen leaves all squelchy and soggy under my wellies. One long step to get over the fast-flowing brook that's carrying twigs to the bottom of the hill.
Silence, except for the snap of dead wood as I pass.
Looking up to the morning sun, reaching through the boughs of the naked trees, stretching her warms fingers over the strange woodland inhabitants. As the sunlight bathes the huge body of the oak, I tiny door is lit up at his base. A tiny, wooden door with a tiny holly wreath fixed to its knocker.
Silence, except for the snap of tiny crackers being pulled behind the tiny door.
Several pairs of eyes are watching me. Looking up, I catch a glimpse of two, no, three bushy tales, spiralling up and up, to the uppermost branches.
Giddiness, from the sunlight and the motion cause me to look away. But as I do, I notice something drop from the mouth of one of my watchers. It spins like a sycamore seed in Autumn. I catch it as it gently bounces into my hand - a tiny green stocking. For a tiny squirrel's paw.
©Lisa Lee, 2014
'One Giant Leap'
One bright and starry night, on a planet far, far away from here there sat a little alien called Graham.
He was the youngest Graham on the planet and a great weight was weighing down upon his bumpy, orange shoulder-like things.
"Oh dear," he sighed, "Whatever is to become of us all?" Graham glanced at the bare 'leap patch'. Not a single leap had grown there since Graham had been made 'Watcher of the Patch' and unless one grew very, very soon, the planet would die and that would be the end of the Grahams. He sighed again and lifted one of his heads, the green one, up towards the stars. "Stars, please hear me tonight," his green head said. "Without leaps in our tummies, nothing will live and the whole planet will die!" But the stars just shone. Except one. On the right. Which seemed to throb and then fall. Graham didn't notice though as he replaced the green head and rested his red one in his hand.
The next morning, as the stars shone brighter, Graham cautiously opened his eyes. "Wow!" he gasped. Then, getting up to his foot, he hopped over to where the other Grahams were still napping. "Wake up!" he shouted.
"What's all this young Graham?" questioned the elder Graham, as he too hobbled to his foot. "Look! Look at the leap patch!" They all followed Grahams gaze and with joint amazement, started swaying backwards and forwards on their feet. There, right in the middle of the patch there was a green shoot just surfacing above the pink soil.
The Grahams all leant forward, eyes widening as the shoot carried on growing!
By the end of the day, as the sky grew even darker, the leap covered the entire patch. Little Graham watched in wonderment as it stopped growing and became still. A leap. One giant leap. Big enough for all the Grahams on the whole planet to share. He looked up into the sky once more. "Ooo," he said. "What's that?" Up in the sky, to the right there was a new star. It was bigger and brighter than all the rest. A glow grew around it and moved towards the planet. "Could this be what helped the leap grow?" he thought. All of his eyes widened as the sky lightened. He felt warmer too and a smile spread across his green head.
And so the Grahams lived. The planet lived. All thanks to a massive, glowing star and one giant leap.
©Lisa Lee 2010, edited 2014
RED
She never usually wore red but today was different.
©Lisa Lee, 2014.
NURL
In a land of cats,
THREE DEGREES OF SEPARATION
Rachel keyed in her unique four-digit number, pressed ‘enter’ and waited. It was bitingly cold on this street corner, she thought, as she instinctively pulled her coat tighter, shuffling from one foot to the other. Her card was returned to her just moments before the crisp, ten pound note was dispensed from the slot above the keyboard. She hastily folded it and placed it into her purse. Then she marched herself back to the café, where her skinny cappuccino and granola slice was being prepared.
‘Sorry about that!’ Rachel smiled at the cashier and handed over her money.
‘Not a problem, madam.’ The cashier counted out her change. ‘Where will you be sitting?’
Dropping the loose coins into her purse, she looked around. The room had filled up quite a bit in her absence. ‘Oh damn, it looks like I may have to…’
‘There’s a table over there, madam,’ a waiter interrupted as he breezed passed her and into the kitchen beyond.
‘Ah, yes. Marvellous. Thank you.’ She bustled through the packed tables, trying not to knock anyone’s coats to the floor, mumbling her apologies until she reached her destination. Then, with a shoppers sigh, she took the weight off her feet and tucked into her lunch.
The waiter emerged from the kitchen with a hearty laugh,
‘Deb, we need more milk! I’m taking a tenner from the till, okay?’ He was out of the door, still wearing his pinny, before Deb, the cashier, nodded her agreement.
Come on, come on, thought the waiter. He rose himself up onto his toes to see what the hold up was. A little old man was stood behind him and was trying to get a view of the situation himself.
‘There’s never enough people on these bloody tills, lad!’
The waiter turned round and laughed, ‘No sir, there is not!’
‘Cashier number 4 please.’
Finally, he thought, strolling towards number four. His smile broadened as he recognised the pretty girl about to serve him.
‘Well, if it isn’t Callum, as I live and breath!’
‘Hello Ruth. How’s tricks?’
‘Good Cal. You? That’ll be £2.78 please.’ Cal thrust his hand into the pinny pocket and pulled out the £10 note,
‘Cheers. Yeah, it’s all good! Listen, you doing anything for New Year’s Eve?’
‘Nooo, why? That’s 2.78, 2.80, 3, 4, 5 and a fiver is 10.’ She slammed down the lid of the till.
‘Well a few of us are getting together at Po-Na-Nas. You don’t need a ticket just, well…’
‘Sure, why not! You remember where I live, Cal. Pick me up, yeah?’ Ruth smiled. Cal smiled back,
‘Yeah,’ he nodded.
‘Cashier number 4 please.’
‘Sorry, I was miles away! You’re not ‘cash only’ are you?’
‘No love. We’ll take your money any old way here!’ Ruth’s still smiling with thoughts of Callum in her head. Rachel was exhausted,
‘Only I had to draw cash out earlier for a coffee but I clean forgot I needed to buy milk too! Honestly, I’d forget my head if it wasn’t screwed on…’ Then she noticed the ‘Cash-Back’ sign, ‘Oh, do you do cash-back?’ she asked,
‘We do my love. How much?’
‘Oh, I’m not sure, um, a tenner I think. Yes, a tenner.’
‘There you go,’ Ruth’s fingers lingered a little on the crisp ten pound note that she had only moments ago taken from Callum. Rachel hastily folded it and placed it in her purse. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘and Happy New Year!’
©Lisa Lee 2014
Diet
My name is Bess. Bess May Smith and I have a tale to tell, though it isn’t really mine. It is the tale of my Granny but she is unable to tell it anymore.
Back in the black and white days, when ladies wore murky, long dresses and men were all uptight and combed their moustaches, my Gran was born. It was a rubbish time to be born, she told me. There was no colour in the world and children were not really liked by anyone, not even their own parents! That is why, she said, her mother left her in the village orchard.
Her first memory is the smell; a gentle, soporific scent that wafted from the soft, green grass that enveloped her tiny body until she stopped crying and then lulled her into a dreamless sleep. From that first peaceful night she bloomed, protected by the canopy of the oldest tree in the orchard and nourished by the fruits it dropped beside her. She spent her first twelve years alone, my magical, beautiful Granny, toddling through the trees with an apple in each hand, then shinning up her ‘mother’ tree and weaving in and out between it’s limbs. Idyllic days, filled with innocence and an abundance of fruit. No one entered that beautiful orchard. It was a lost paradise, the railings and rusty gate overgrown with bind weed. Even the magisterial tree in the middle was viewed from afar as just part of the landscape. So she was safe, in one sense but quite lonely in another.
*
One day, so the story goes, a young man came wandering into the gated orchard and ambled purposely towards her tree! His legs were long and thin and he wore a jacket of velvet to cover his narrow back. She saw him through the boughs of her tree and her clear, bright eyes bore through his thick, curly blonde hair. He picked a fallen apple from the ground, sat himself down and leant back against the wide, gnarly trunk where he promptly fell asleep. As she held her gaze she found that she could see into his mind, his thoughts were like an open book to her, and they mirrored her own. She fell hopelessly in love that day, reading his soul through the leaves, breathless and still. She watched as his closed eyes flickered and a smile played upon his lips. Then, suddenly, one eye opened, followed quickly by the other! Granny squealed and (this is my favourite bit) fell from her branch, landing rather luckily and romantically, in his long velvet-clad arms. Now he was breathless, the only sound was the rustle of the leaves in the tree above them. Love is a magical thing you know. Really, it is.
*
That’s how my Granny met my Grampy. They built a hut in the orchard, to the left of Granny’s tree, and made a comfortable home. It wasn’t long before my mum, Rosie, came along. Never was a child more loved, never was a child so wanted. Her skin was pale, like her father’s but her cheeks were touched with the red that her mother held in hers. She fed on her mother’s milk for nearly two years - no wind-fell apples for this precious girl.
Now the world had kept moving, the sun rose and set and progress, well, progressed. Rosie was a child of natural rebellion and so soon outgrew her orchard in the same way that we all outgrow our childhood home. The time came for her to branch out (that’s how Grampy put it, with a chuckle). But Granny was confused. She had never left the orchard, contenting herself with her beloved’s tales of ‘life beyond.’ My mum always said she was scared. You see, over the years and a diet purely of apples, Granny’s skin had taken on a slight green tinge. I think she looked beautiful but there was no denying that she looked different to other people. Grampy never pushed the issue, choosing to protect and cherish his wife wherever she wanted to be. That day, the day of Rosie leaving, everything in the orchard fell still. The tree bowed her boughs as Rosie wrapped her arms around it’s trunk, her tears soaked into the bark. They saw their precious girl to the now almost invisible gate. Granny watched as she slid through the slight opening. Grampy gave a jolly wave, put a reassuring arm around his wife’s shoulder and gave her a squeeze.
The End
The end? Of course not! All good daughters visit their parents and when you have two as special as my Granny and Grampy, well, you just try and stay away! Mum’s first visit was to introduce them to my dad. We don’t talk about that. All I can say is that, according to the tale, the tree, on seeing his face, shook her branches so ferociously, all her apples just dropped to the floor. One caught him a fine clout on the side of his head and fetched the tree a swift kick in return. Granny looked at her beloved and said, ‘Now there’s a bad apple if ever there was one.’ He nodded in agreement.
The next time mum visited, she was alone. Well, almost alone. There was me, like a little pip inside her tummy. Her parents received the news with delight and by the time I put in an appearance, mum was back in the orchard. She had a hut of her own, with a nursery for me and a tended garden roped off for my safety. That’s how I grew up! The same way my mum did and, almost, the same way Granny did. We were one very wonderful, magical family with my exceptional grandparents holding us all together. Until Grampy died. Oh dear reader, my poor Granny. Never was a soul left so bereft. Death had never visited the orchard before, it had never even come up in their many conversations. He fell asleep one afternoon and just never woke up.
*
In the days, weeks and months that followed, my mum and I pulled Granny through. Mum, by keeping house and organising the funeral. Me, by singing and dancing, with a smile on my face. There were many tears too but we did manage to raise the occasional chuckle from her. As she grew more peaceful and accepting of the passing of her beloved, Granny’s skin became darker. When she stood beneath the tree it was hard to tell the difference! Then one day, after mum had finished the housework and come looking for me, we found her stood there, smoothing the tree’s bark and speaking softly. ‘Mum?’ my mum called. ‘Granny?’ I added. But it was as if we weren’t there. Her body was still, as still as the tree she was caressing. We looked at her, her face was still so beautiful, still had the apple red blush on each cheek, the wide, dimpled smile that lit up her eyes, but her skin was now a deep green colour. Together we stepped forward and both put a hand on each of her arms. A flicker of recognition in her eyes, a single tear and she was gone. My Granny had become part of the orchard that had given her life, protected her, found her her soulmate and nurtured her precious family. Now it was time for her to pass on and I can think of nothing more fitting for my amazing Gran than to be forever rooted to the spot where she first cried, fell in love and said goodbye to my Grampy.
Now that’s an ending.
©Lisa Lee 2013
A Home Is Something More…
A house is a home when somebody loves it.
So what is it, I wonder, when somebody hates it?
A hovel, a prison, a financial strain
With no sense of warmth and an aura of pain
That seeps into your bones, making every one ache,
Coils around your heart like a venomous snake.
Injecting its darkness to kill off the light,
Wrong choices are made when you used to make right.
But everyone suffers as you become rotten
And all happy memories conveniently forgotten
Sit now in the garage in boxes stacked high,
Neglected, unwanted but then, by and by,
The house that is home, the one that is new,
Feels suddenly lonely and awfully blue.
You stop and you look,
You espy a book.
The one, the only book on the shelf
Is sitting there, lonesome, all by itself.
Your eye wanders thoughtfully to not one box but three.
Then you look at the bookshelf and finally see.
It’s not all about buildings and auras and aches.
It has nothing to do with metaphorical snakes.
When you take a step back
When you take in what you lack
You see it as plain as the quizzical looks
That what makes a home is a shelf load of books.
©Lisa
Lee 2012
Speed Date
DING,
DING!
‘This
is me then.’
‘Yep,
this must be me too.’
‘My
name is Rob.’
‘Susan.
Call me Sue.’
‘You
have great…’
‘Eyes?
Mmm, so I’m told.’
‘I
was gonna to say tits!’
‘Ha!
You’re a bit bold.’
‘Nah,
I’m kidding.’
‘Really?
That’s a shame.’
‘Sorry,
I’m no good at this.’
‘
It’s just like playing a game.’
‘But
games, I never win.’
‘Aw,
that can’t be true.’
‘Well,
possibly once.’
‘Then
I’ll play with you!’
‘Because
you think you’ll win?’
‘I’d
rather like to lose.’
‘Are
you flirting with me Sue?’
‘Flirting.
Playing. You choose?’
‘We’ll
be moving on in a bit.’
‘I’ve
already decided, ta.’
‘I’ll
get my coat, shall I?’
‘And
I’ll get ‘em in at the bar!’
DING,
DING!
©Lisa Lee 2011
Happy New Year!
It was another
New Years Eve and she was still alone. Francine entered the raucous pub,
laughter spilled through the doorway making her blood run cold as she made her
way through the throng of party goers to the bar. This is no time for singletons,
she thought. A glance to the right of her revealed Scott, the drip from the
office who, even now, would be more than happy to be her guide into the new
decade. But as Francine was contemplating settling for Scott she noticed
another, far more suitable chap beside him. She, too, had caught his eye. They
were drawn to each other as if pulled by an invisible cord. Francine was
smitten by his winning smile showing his perfect teeth.
“Madness in
here, isn’t it?” She looked up into his soft, brown eyes. Nothing remarkable in
that, she was less than five feet tall, looking up was a common enough
occurrence. “Yes,” she laughed, softly, “it is a little crazy. But then, I’m a
little crazy too, so I guess I’m in the right place!” Bobbing her head from
side to side, she added, “Crazy, crazy, crazy…” The silence within the room,
despite the live music and hoards of pleasure seekers, was palpable. Francine
risked a demure cough to cover her faux pas. “Yes. Well.” There was that broad
smile again, “Would you like to sit down maybe? I think there’s a table over
there.” He pointed towards the toilets where a small, round table sat,
protected by two stools. Francine nodded and followed his broad shoulders.
Continuing her gaze southwards, she lingered on his tight bum, encased in blue
denim jeans that were definitely not Primark. Instinctively she pulled her coat
tighter around hers, which were.
“Here we are!”
He was already seated. Well, she thought, it’s a bit difficult to pull up a
stool for a lady. She sat opposite him, as delicately as she could.
“Um, I’m
Francine,” she offered, “Francine Milton.” He took her outstretched hand gently
in his. Her breath faltered as she waited for the kiss. She received a limp
hand-shake instead.
“How do you do Francine! I’m Scott.”
“Oh. Well Scott,
are you from around here? I don’t recall…” Scott? She screwed up her eyes,
drawing in her eyebrows. She reached for her bag, took her glasses out and put
them on.
“Very good
Francine!” he shook his head, took a gulp of his pint. Francine felt sure she’d
seen a Martini in his hand earlier. She sighed, seeing clearly now his
cock-eyed grin, the nicotine-stained teeth peeping through thin, chapped lips.
The same mouth that shyly smiled at her every day at work. She drew back
slightly, as if reading her Mills and Boon, trying to focus on the perfection
of the ultimate romance. No dice though. This was a short-sighted catastrophe
of her own making and the bar had started the New Year countdown. Any second
now, she thought. She was right. As the bells chimed, Scott planted his puny
lips upon hers and was welcoming in 1980 with as much gusto as he could manage.
Not bad, she thought. Drawing back for breath, her eyes met his. “Not bad at
all!” she said, and this time it was she who planted her lips onto his.
Bill
“I couldn’t have
known we were brothers. There was nothing similar about our appearance, save
for the colour and wave of our hair which he wore shorter than mine so it
wasn’t obvious.
*
“Bill had moved
to Slings Town when he was eleven. I was a year younger and so for his first
year at the comprehensive school, we never met. When I moved up, the following
Autumn, he found me. I’d been crying in the cloakroom. My coat had been torn,
new gloves taken from its over-sized pocket and in their place was stinking
excrement. Shit, if you like. I was crying because I’d gone for my gloves and
found, well, you know. Shocked and unable to move, I just sat there, like some
kid from the special class. I’ll never forget how Bill looked at me. He sat
down, asked me what was wrong and then sniffed, ‘Oh man, that’s gross!’ I’d
stopped crying and managed a weak smile. ‘You need to get that off kid. You’ll
get yourself a nickname if you ain’t careful! Something like, ‘Shitty Fingers’
or worse, given where they must’ve been…’
‘No! It was in
my pocket. I, I wanted my gloves!’ But Bill was laughing. Head back, proper
chuckling he was. ‘Come on,’ and just like that, he took me to the loos and
helped me wash my hands. From that moment he was like my Guardian Angel, there
whenever I was in trouble, squaring up to the bigger kids who seemed as scared
of him as they were loathsome to me. I wasn’t a complete tool. I did have some
friends in my class. Paul in particular seemed to appreciate my company. After
he met Bill though, I saw him less and less. I figured Paul was a little bit
scared of Bill. Most were.
Bill left school
and for a year I fended for myself. I can’t tell you how nervous I was that
Autumn term. No Bill, I thought, no one to sort out the kids who stole from my
bag or who wrote vicious things about me on the toilet doors. Or to defend me
to the Head Teacher when false accusations were made, anonymously of course. I
would have to sort out my own PE kit, which always seemed to find it’s way into
the branches of the conker tree in the playground. All these things, and more
besides, weighed heavy on my mind as I pulled on my uniform that first day of
September. But I needn’t have worried. Bill’s protection seemed to envelop me
even in his absence. For that final year I was left alone. Not a single
violation against my person and Paul started to speak to me again.”
The young
officer shifted in his seat, “Can we move forward to the night in question Mr
Rose?”
“Um, yes, sorry.
Well, we were having a drink, like every Thursday only Bill was already drunk.
No job so, well, he obviously started way before I got there. He kept looking
at me, sideways glances, like he wanted to say something. But, anyway, just as
he was about to talk, this guy comes into the bar. ‘Bloody hell,’ I said, ‘It’s
Paul!’ Bill stopped and looked at Paul. I said something to Paul like, ‘How are
you mate?’ Can’t remember exactly but he looks well chuffed to see me, until he
sees Bill. Then he looks all terrified, pays for his drink and walks over to
the other side of the pub. Bill laughs, a weird, low, menacing laugh. I asked
him what the problem was, with Paul, and he started recalling something from
our school days. How Paul didn’t really like me because if he had then why
didn’t I know? ‘Know what?’ I asked, loudly, I guess, as Paul looked over. He
looked straight back into his pint once he caught my eye though. So I asked
Bill again. ‘I’m your big brother!’ he said, just like that.
“Well, I didn’t
know. Like I said, we looked nothing alike. But then I got to thinking, yeah,
and I said, ‘So, that’s why you looked out for me then? Because I was your
little brother!’ Do you know what he did officer? He laughed that weird, sick
laugh of his. ‘Oh, I didn’t want
to protect you little brother,’ he said, ‘I sought you out to make your life
hell! To give you just a tiny bit of my life since our dad buggered off and
left me and my mum with nothing.’ I didn’t understand. ‘Your mother was a whore
where as mine? She was an angel, a Duchess, worthy of a thousand times more than
she got and you! You had everything!’ Well, I could feel my temper rising right
then officer, when he called my mum a whore. ‘And Paul?’ I asked. He laughed,
looked over to Paul and raised his near empty glass. ‘Who do you think did all
that shit, eh? Who do you think filled your pockets with crap, threw your
perfect PE bag into the tree, spread rumours? ME! And your precious Paul
figured it out didn’t he? So I scared him off.’ Paul nervously nodded as I
looked over. ‘It was all me!’ He was right in my face by now. I was calmer,
things had sunk in and I was gathering my thoughts. Then he hissed, ‘ME, ME,
ME, ME!!’ Over and over. He wouldn’t shut up.
So I killed him.
Put my hands around his throat and squeezed. By the time the bar man had got
round the bar to me it was done. I’m not sorry either. He made my life hell at
school. I barely slept, when I did I had night terrors. For Christ’s sake, I
pissed the bed until I was fifteen! All the time I thought he was my Guardian
Angel. But he was something far worse officer.”
“And what might
that be?”
“He was my
brother.”
©Lisa
Lee 2012
Temptation
Shaken by the growing realisation of what she had done, Angelica walked nervously down the road to her house. She talked to herself, hoping that the young couple that just walked by would believe she was on her phone. “I’ll say, ‘Hey dad!’ No, too casual. ‘Hey. Dad? You know how you always wanted a son?’ God no, he’s never wanted a son!” She paused, looked down at her phone that was flashing again. Six messages. Six! “That’s a bit mad,” she said, “Needy or what!” She pressed ‘silent’ and put the phone into her bag, where it managed to wriggle down to the bottom, beneath all her sundry items essential to life. “I just need to think!” she exclaimed.
“Ah, if only more people did that!” Startled, she turned around and found herself staring straight into the deep brown eyes of another man who was neither her father nor newly acquired fiancé. “I was just talking to - ”
“Yourself? It’s okay, I do it all the time!” He smiled. God look at that mouth, those perfect teeth. She wondered what it’d be like to kiss, briefly closing her eyes. Then, composing herself she explained, “No! My phone, I was on my - ,” she realised that her phone was languishing, silently beeping, in the dark depths of her bag and she’d never be able to convincingly produce it. So she coyly smiled up at him. “Busted!” she said.
They fell into step together, him with his hands thrust into his jacket pockets, hers folded defensively across her chest. He looked at her and said,
“Angelica, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, do I know you?”
“Of me, maybe. I’m here to help.” They stopped and Angelica took a good, long look at her new companion. There was something about the eyes. She couldn’t look into them for long, they were like infinite pools and she could feel her knees buckling. “Who are you?” she gasped. He leant down, put his warm hand on her cheek to steady her and whispered into her ear, “You know who I am. Six years ago you created me;
If ever I lose my direction in life,
If ever I agree to be a wife
Then send to me quick
A gentleman who
Will guide me, seduce me,
And keep my heart true.
Let his eyes be a brown so divine and wide,
Let his hair be wavy and part on one side
But most of all, and this is a must,
Let this gentleman fill me with lust!”
“My poem! Does that mean I’m magic?”
“Maybe. The question you should be asking is why? If you were happily engaged then I could never be. But, as you see my love, here I am.” His eyes, oh his eyes, drank her in, making out all the contours beneath her long coat. Angelica stood fascinated, could this be? She cradled his chiselled face in her hands, reached up and planted a kiss on his perfect mouth. Between soft kisses he said, “You are free to be with me now but after marriage, never. I am Temptation, Angelica. Do you give in?” “I do,” she sighed, and truly meant it.
Cornish Home
I guess it was a summer like any other. We were wearing shorts and climbing rocks so, yeah. See, that was the only distinction for us, my brother and I. All year we studied at Pencalenick Secondary in Newquay, where we lived, and as tourists meandered along the steep, narrow streets, peering into the windows of the never-ending galleries, we still had weeks to go with our heads in books and our blazers sticking to our backs. But once the term ended, we joined the masses, adding to the wet-suited bodies on the beaches and the flip-flop sound along the sea front.
Surfing was cool. It’s how we gained attention from the girls, even though we weren’t that good at it, they still hung around us. But rocks were really our thing, our passion. Since we were small our dad would encourage us to venture further out, further up. Mum would busy herself with a book or take herself off completely to a café, refusing to watch us clamber precariously over centuries old boulders. When we were about 6 or 7, dad used to lead the mini marine expeditions. To begin with we would explore the crystal clear rock pools, lifting rocks to find scurrying hermit crabs and tossing slimy seaweed at each other. Our activity would alert the gulls and they’d fall from the cloudless sky, beak first, into the sea beside us. I fell asleep as a newborn to the sound of gulls and even now they can lull me to a place of tranquillity like nothing else. When we tired of the limited marine life the rock pools provided, we’d set off again, dad in front, then Mike and then me. Mike had an unerring desire to climb. He’d scale the rocks higher and higher, seeking out the mouths of ancient smugglers caves. I followed, warily at first as I was never as natural a climber as him but with each new cave discovery, I became as hooked as my twin brother. Dad would glance back with a wry smile and a few cautionary words but pretty much left us to get on with it. “Don’t tell your mum!” was all he ever really said.
I remember those halcyon days of our youth. I remember, too, how it changed that summer. As I drive along the now-familiar roads to the family home, I breathe in the pure, sea air. It fills my lungs and it hugs my heart. The faint saltiness makes me crave an ale, a pint in my Cornish local with my brother. We’d reminisce about those long hot summers, they were definitely warmer back then, and fill the brief silences with guffaws and wide smiles.
“Are we here?” Gabe asks from the back seat as I stop the car and apply the hand brake. Harry groans and wakes up. “Yep. There’s nan,” I reply. The back doors click open noisily and I watch them race across the gravel car park to my mum. A deep breath to stay the nausea and a smile through the window. It’s the same every year. It never gets easier and I feel the frailness of my parents, one either side, as we walk through the cemetery to Mike’s perfect grave.
©Lisa Lee 2012
Book of Names
“If you told me last week that I’d be sitting here, in this God-forsaken place again, I’d have laughed in your face.” Her expression was soft, eyes cast downwards, following the small concentric circles she habitually made on the Formica topped table.
“Well, Miss Grace, we appreciate your cooperation. Now, tell me about the book.” He was soft too. Young, yes, but in age only, his eyes reflected back the barbarity he had witnessed since the investigation into the orphanage began. Miss Grace was just another in a long line of victims he’d met since its closure.
“Ah, my book of names. Yes. I went back for it you know.” She searched for his eyes with hers, found them and he smiled. “Yes. We have that down here. You say it wasn’t there though.”
“No, it wasn’t where I left it. It was still in the room.” She put her hands together, as if she was praying. “I know that when I fled that - this room, the book was in the desk. The drawer was locked and this,” she flicked her finger under the chain around her neck, revealing a small key, he leant forward on his elbows, his interest keen, “this is the only key.” She let it swing from side to side. “So I knew someone had broken into the drawer. I knew the book must have been read. And that, officer, was enough to send me high-tailing it out of there. I never looked back. Until now.”
“Bugger me!” he thought, not believing his eyes. She stood before him, her robust figure partially blocking the sunlight through the tool-shed doorway. The sudden arrival of the mid-afternoon sun into his dim, shaded work place played havoc with his vision briefly. As his eyes adjusted, he could see her, arms akimbo, shoeless and smiling a smile that, even to his squinted orbs, signalled trouble. The lady of the house was clearly feeling playful.
After his initial glimpse, Doug, the gardener, averted his gaze to almost everywhere other than the occupied doorway. He settled on the far left corner, where he could just make out the handle of his long lost trowel from underneath an old potato sack. “Ah, Mellors,” she breathed, lustily.
“Who’s Mellors?” he thought, putting the thought of his trowel out of his head.
“I was wondering if you had a…” she flicked her long, auburn hair and then, with just one step she was in!
Into his soiled world she came, all satin, fresh air and expensive cologne. Her presence was as alien to him, amongst the stacked plant pots, cumbersome tools and general mess as, well, an alien. He watched her, intrigued, as she took in the paraphernalia that lay strewn around his shed, finally allowing her eyes to alight on his very best screwdriver set. She fixed her gaze on his crotch, “a screw… driver?” He let out a sort of squeak as the emphasis here was clearly on the first part of the word, the latter part being lost in her breathlessness.
Running her man-sized hand along the vice bench and stepping surprisingly delicately through the debris, that had lain for years on the wooden boards, our lady was soon upon our humble gardener, Doug. He gasped as the small wooden table pressed into the back of his legs. He searched for a metaphorical hole in the ground to open up and transport him, ideally, to the pub. But he succumbed, as she placed her hand on the back of her lover’s head, tousled his ginger curls and expertly bought her lips to meet his. “Bugger me!” he thought again, pulling away so as to get a better look at her, and then he said, “Um, Phillips or slot?”
New Chapter
Radio alarm clock goes on. Max yawns and turns the radio off.
MUM: Max!
MAX: I’m up! Well, I’m vertical. (Door opens, closes. Footsteps down the stairs)
Kettle boils. Water being poured into a teapot. Lid placed on.
MUM: Tea?
MAX: Mmm, yes please. (Yawns)
MUM: You alright then?
MAX: (Cupboard door opening, bowl put on worktop) You should’ve seen Tim last night! Man, he was wasted. (Laughs) It took three of us to get him home!
MUM: I bet Barbara was pleased! (Cup being put down on table)
MAX: She wasn’t there. (Sound of cereal and milk being poured into a bowl. Chair being pulled out) You know some of my mates have mums who go out.
MUM: (Laughs) Mmm, chance would be a fine thing. (Chair pulled out) I can’t remember the last time I went out.
MAX: Well, that’ll all change now won’t it? No son holding you back.
MUM: (Clears throat) Yes. Well. (A lighter and a puff on a cigarette) What time’s your train love?
MAX: You’re changing the subject. You know it’s at half nine, you bought the bloody ticket! (Pause) Can I have one of those? (Cigarette being taken, lit and puffed)
MUM: (Sniffs) You’ll have to buy your own from now own. Or give up. (Chair moved, tap turned on, pots being washed) I’ll drive you to the station then. If you’d like. Have you got everything sorted?
MAX: Pretty much. Oh, might need to bum a tenner off you though. You know I wouldn’t ask but…
MUM: Ten? Well, (Sigh) I’ll have to stop off at the cashpoint.
MAX: (Whilst moving the chair out, putting pots in the sink) I’d best get ready then! (Kisses his mum) Don’t want to keep you from your partying days do I? (Distant footsteps up the stairs)
MUM: (Quietly) No. Of course not.
Car door slams – mum gets back into the car. Radio turns down. Engine starts.
MUM: (Clicking seatbelt in place) There you go love.
MAX: Cheers.
Silence, as the car drives off. Indicator.
MAX: Um mum?
MUM: Max?
MAX: You’re okay about this aren’t you? I mean, I know since, well, since you and dad err, what I mean is, you’re not going to be lonely?
MUM: Look, it’s lovely that you ask but honestly love. (Nervous laugh) I’d be more lonely if your dad was still here! (Pause) Anyway, this is not about me. It’s about you and (car stops, engine off, hand-break on) I’m so proud. (Sniffs)
MAX: (Sighs) I know but, well, it’s a new chapter for you too and I, like, wanted to check. That’s all.
MUM: Well perhaps I’ll call Barbara. Go out for the night. You know, like the old days!
MAX: Huh, don’t think you want to go to the places she goes to. I don’t think I want you to go to the places she goes to! (They both laugh)
MUM: No, well, maybe you’re right. Shit! Is that your train? (Car doors open. Shut. Heels on the platform)
Whistle blows.
MAX: Well, this is it! Come on, I’ll let you hug me.
MUM: As if you could stop me! (Sound of hugging) Look after yourself gorgeous.
MAX: You more! (Train door slides shut)
MUM: (A bit louder) I love you!
MAX: (Louder) You more!
As the train pulls away, mum walks off.
MUM: (Stops) What’s this? (Reading from a poster) “Salsa Lessons in your area now” Hmm. I wonder…
Salsa music plays us out...
The Final Chapter
Unable to stand the cacophony of drunken voices and the unpredictable swaying of deodorant soaked bodies in The Grapes, Alice bit the proverbial bullet, cautiously stepped outside and bolted down the short alley. A dimly lit and narrow path that should normally be avoided by vulnerable girls alone at night, Alice chose simply because it provided her with the cover she needed. He wasn’t in the pub, she was sure of that, but he would not have given up yet. He would be waiting somewhere and Alice felt she knew him well enough to know that he would never expect her to take an unlit route when there were street-lights aplenty.
She made it through to the cobbled courtyard. The new and controversial Thermae Spa loomed up to the right of her; behind, the Cross Bath emitted a subtle glow. Even in her panicked state Alice thought about the couples behind the walls, soaking and romancing the evening away. As she allowed her mind to drift back to happier times, a sound shattered the illusion. It was unmistakable, the tuneful whistle was once again echoing around her. The ancient limestone walls bounced back the eerie tones so that Alice had no idea which direction the whistler was coming from. She hurried along Bath Street, towards the Pump Rooms, where she knew she’d be safe.
On either side of her were the tall, cold colonnades. As a child she had imagined them as Roman Gods, holding up the buildings of mortals. Now they appeared more like her personal entourage, ensuring she got to safety by providing her with the cover of shadows she so badly needed. As she passed each one, she glanced in every direction. The whistling was still travelling through the air although mercifully, the echo was no longer filling her head. Now only a hundred yards stood between Alice and the Pump Rooms. But it was a hundred yards of space. Nothing. Nowhere for her to hide. For the first time this horrific evening she would be exposed.
As Alice prepared to run the relatively short distance to where her friends were gathered inside the Pump Rooms she heard a noise behind her. She gasped and spun round. A low rumbling gradually filled her ears. It got louder. There was a slight echo and Alice turned her eyes to the small passageway that leads out from Bilbury Lane. The cash point machine in the wall was the only light so she had no choice but to wait until whoever it was emerge before she’d know for sure if he had found her.
The rumbling got louder, as the shadowy shape got nearer. Then it stopped. Alice edged forward a little, trying to see beyond the shadow. It started to move again, she moved back, the rumbling continued. She relaxed, as a Japanese gentleman came around the corner, dragging behind him one of those infernal suitcases on tiny little wheels and she smiled at him. The man was clearly unimpressed by the effort it had taken to pull such an inadequate case over Baths inexhaustible amount of cobbles but still managed a slight smile back. Then he was gone. Right, Alice thought and once again steeled herself to make the final dash to safety. But she never got the chance, as she turned straight into his chest. “Hello,” he breathed, into her ear. She could almost taste the anticipation in his breath. Closing her eyes, Alice gave a final sigh as she fell slowly to the uneven paving beneath her.
“WE’VE NOT SEEN HER SINCE SHE WALKED OUT THAT DOOR…”
A FAMILY, today, is in turmoil after the bizarre disappearance of their much loved pet, Gertie, the tortoise.
A spokes person for the Sparks family today told us of the unfortunate events that let up to Gertrude’s disappearance;
“The family were eating their tea when they heard the front door click shut. Mr Sparks got up to see who had shut the door. Seeing nothing, he returned to his meal.
It was some time later, when Mrs Sparks went to give Gertrude the left over lettuce, that her absence was noticed.”
When asked why it had taken them so long to investigate the incident, the family remained tight-lipped.
“I SMELL A RAT!”
We spoke to next-door-neighbour, Dotty Doolittle, who had this to say;
“I’ve known Gertie all her life and she was never one to wander too far from her lettuce. I don’t like it one little bit. I smell a rat!”
Local historian, Dr Bill Blackspot, fears the worst. He explained to me how, in the 19th century, tortoises were considered a delicacy,
“especially giant ones, and Gertrude wasn’t exactly small. I think we’ve seen the last of her,” he said, knowingly.
If anyone out there finds Gertie the tortoise then please contact the phone number painted on her back.
My Good Life!
Oh God, Jemima Bilberry and Flora Finching are beating up Dita Von Teese at the bottom of the garden. Little Dorrit and Bettie Page aren’t exactly bonding either. As I pull on my wellies and tighten the belt of my comfy dressing gown, I can’t help wondering, and not for the first time, what Barbara Good would do. Apart from seductively sweeping her hair off her face, she’d have her tight dungarees on, tucked into her boots. So, dressed appropriately for herding chickens then. Of course she’d have been up for hours by this point too. Anyway, she’s bloody fictional and so this situation wouldn’t have happened. If it had then it would have been beautifully written, with a comic turn from both Margot and Jerry.
I give comedy a fair stab as I first almost lose my dressing gown to the blustery wind and then become, what seems, permanently attached to the inadequate gate. Chicken wire, you think you’ve tucked in every bit. Lucky it’s so early, I think, looking around for unlikely witnesses. There are just the two faces staring at me from over the fence. They belong to the old couple next door. They always seem to have such a vague grasp on reality that I’m pretty sure me, hooked on an dilapidated gate, open dressing gown with just a tacky school-girl ensemble on underneath, barely registers. Yeah, right. I manage a smile, deftly twisting bits of wire until I can stride purposely back up the gravel path, school-girl plaits bobbing as I go.
“Morning!” I say cheerfully. The old lady’s lips are pursed and her arms are crossed unbelievably tightly across her bird-like chest.
“How do.” The old man replies. Then, and this is really gross, he eyes me up and back down whilst licking his lips. Clutching my animated gown, I hurry on up the path. My husband pours the coffee as I rush into the kitchen. I let out a sigh of relief as the back door clicks shut. Turning around to look at me, a somewhat dishevelled spectacle by now, he says, half laughing, “Have you been a naughty girl?” and he replaces the Mortar Board hat on his head…
©Lisa Lee 2011
HALLOWE’EN
TALES
Ella
Once upon a time there was a young girl called Rebecca. She lived with her husband, Adam, in the house next door to mine. It is fair to say that her beauty was talked about not just amongst the neighbours, but also throughout the town. Her long, deep red hair enhanced her piercing blue eyes that could’ve been unsettling if they weren’t framed by such a serene smile. Her sweet nature made it all the more tragic when, just two weeks after giving birth to their daughter, Ella, she left them both, in a tangle of pain and suffering. Adam was never quite the same again. The roses Rebecca had lovingly planted during her pregnancy were in danger of going the same way as her, as he kept himself and little Ella inside the house, away from prying eyes and difficult questions. I, myself, was unsure what to do for the best. I’d never been a close friend but I knew him well enough to be concerned. Then one day, having decided to pay my mournful neighbour a visit, I was surprised to have the door opened to me just as I lifted my hand to knock. Before me stood a man transformed; he wore a broad smile, the dishevelled appearance of his clothes, that I had become used to of late on my rare glimpses of him in his garden, had been replaced by a pair of smart trousers worn with a loose shirt. Over a cup of coffee, Adam told me of his impending marriage. I took it all in as I watched Ella playing in her play-pen, in the corner of the kitchen that I’d not entered since her mother’s untimely death. She was her image, you know, eyes as piercing blue and gorgeous dark curls. I had to pull my gaze away from her. “She needs a mother. I need a wife.” Of course I understood; he was still young, still very handsome.
So, within the month, his new wife installed herself in his home. But she didn’t come alone. She had two daughters, about a year older than Ella and very unfortunate in appearance. If that doesn’t cause problems later on, I remember thinking, then I’ll be a monkey’s aunt.
*
Now we’re jumping forward to the girls teens. I rarely saw Adam after that cup of coffee what, fifteen years earlier. I saw the girls of course, walking to school, well, Ella walked whilst the other two went by taxi. You might be thinking that that was a bit neglectful but I believe Ella was a very sensible girl and would not have gone the half a mile to school by car when the walk only took ten minutes. Later, once they’d all left school, I saw Ella less. Unlike the other two, she seldom got dressed up, only leaving the house, it seemed, to do the shopping and fetch the dry cleaning (of which there seemed to be a frightful lot). Adam was even more elusive. His wife never left the house with him, preferring the company of younger men, more suited for her daughters I’d have thought. My concern grew when I came upon Ella sobbing in her back garden as I hung out my washing. I watched for a while, until she looked up at me and, embarrassed, spoke. “Oh, forgive me.” She hurriedly sniffed back her tears.
“Ella? What’s the matter?” She blinked those fierce eyes at me and shook her head. A chill ran down my back, “Where’s your father?” I asked, cautiously. At this she collapsed into a wail of sobs. I put down the washing. “Ella?” I asked.
“He’s, he’s dead!”
“Dead?” I gasped, “When?” I staggered forward. How could I have not known this?
“Two months ago now. But oh, how it hurts still!”
“Two months! How is that possible? The funeral, I was his friend! Why wasn’t I told” I was cross, not with Ella, you understand, but with his wife.
“No one knew.” She glanced up at me. “Mother didn’t want a fuss, but the truth is, she didn’t want anyone to…” Just then I heard her step mother yelling for her from the kitchen. “I’ve got to go. Please tell no one. She’ll know it was me and life is hard enough already.” Ella jumped up, hurriedly wiped away her tears and dashed back into the kitchen.
I kept my promise to Ella and told no one of Adam’s shocking death. I knew nothing anyway, so what was there to tell? However, I kept more than a cursory eye on proceedings after that and if I thought that his death was odd, then what happened next was positively peculiar.
*
It was a Friday night, full moon and I was enjoying the company of my own young man, well, needs must, when we were prematurely interrupted by the two girls next door, boisterously returning from a night out. This was in no way unusual and as I sighed for the moment that was lost the noise outside suddenly stopped. Eerily stopped. Passion resumed and it wasn’t until the next morning that the full horror of that halt in the proceedings became apparent.
As I pulled back the bedroom curtains, welcoming in the morning, I noticed two things about next door. First, I saw that their front door was wide open. This I’d never seen before and the girls have been in a far worst state than that of last night. Then I noticed the sisters. Both were together, a morbid twist of blood and entrails, their heads unnaturally askew. Their faces wore a shocked expression. Well, you would, wouldn’t you? It was clear to me that this was the cause of their abrupt silence last night. At least I could give the police a time of death, I thought, as I lifted the phone and dialled 999.
The young sergeant who came to my door was a little green in complexion. “You’ve seen them then?” I asked. He didn’t reply. He was too busy vomiting into my flower border. “Can I come in?” he asked. I led him into the kitchen, fetching him a large glass of water and advising him to just sip.
*
Later that day, I learnt that they’d found the mother in the kitchen. She was covered in blood, cradling the axe that surely must have delivered the horrendous blows to her girls. She was ushered from the house, humming, ‘Blue Moon’ and gabbling incoherently about ghosts. You may be wondering, as did I, and the police, where Ella was through all of this. Well, I can’t tell you. All I know is that she didn’t appear to be present during the attacks. Strange, I thought, as she seldom left the house.
Later it transpired she had been at a party. Ella received an invitation, anonymously, to attend a fashionable ball being held in the Town Hall. Everyone remembered her, how could you not with those unsettling eyes and fabulous locks. The Mayor’s son, himself, had spun her around the room on more than one occasion that night.
She didn’t return home until shortly after the police had arrived and so was spared the sight of her step sisters twisted bodies on the lawn. She did see her step mother, however, still clutching the axe and still humming that song that Ella knew so well.
It was one her mother had hummed during her first two weeks of life and that her dad kept humming for her until she was old enough to fall asleep on her own. She recalled the words:
Blue moon.
You saw me standing alone.
Without a dream in my heart.
Without a love of my own.
*
Nowadays the house next door is a happier place. The roses are blooming once more and, you’ll think I’m mad, you can see Rebecca and Adam tending them in the light of a full moon.
The police revealed that they were re-investigating the death of Adam following an anonymous tip-off. I wonder if that would be the same ‘anonymous’ that sent Ella the fortunate party invite? It appears that Adam’s second wife had quite a string of dead husbands behind her. No surprise, then, that she came to such a sticky end; suicide in a mental institute. It was said that as she breathed her last breath she was humming ‘Blue Moon’.
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Trees That Bow Low
Once upon a time, in a Norwegian wood,
There lived a kind woodsman,
Both loyal and good.
He lived with his wife who bore him a child
Then another, a boy,
Unruly and wild.
The Winter’s were cruel,
No food to be found.
What little there was
Lay under the ground.
The woodsman despaired,
His wife became weak.
They drifted apart
And seldom would speak.
The children seemed happy, content in their play.
The boy schemed a scheme and
The girl would obey.
They gathered up clothes and food they could steal,
Oats, bread and honey,
Enough for one meal.
They entered the wood,
The trees bowed down low
Showing the children
Which way to go.
The animals hid,
Not wanting to see
The Devil’s own son
Reach his destiny.
The morning arrived, bringing pain and despair,
For the wife checked their beds,
The children weren’t there!
The woodsman, distraught, took his axe and said,
“Wife, do as you’re told
And stay under the bed.”
For he knew the signs,
Of the Devils game.
His son, his own boy,
Was just not the same.
He’d known it for years,
It pained him to say,
But he knew the game
Would be ended this day.
Entering the wood, axe slung over his shoulder,
He furiously paced,
Grabbing a boulder.
Then with stealth, grace and a view through the trees
He launched his missile
With impossible ease.
Again the trees bowed,
Obscuring the view.
The boulder was lost.
Now on to phase two.
With his axe in hand
He cut through the wood,
His children watching.
One Evil, one Good.
The small boy, with a smile, stood, knife at the throat
Of his sister beside him
Who’s eyes looked remote.
With both menace and calm the deed was then done.
The woodsman’s two children
Became only one.
The little girl fell,
Her father yelled, “No!”
The boy licked his knife
With relish and so
The sacrifice done,
Pure blood in his vein
The boy stood trembling.
The trees bowed again.
The boy stood, transformed and still covered in blood
From his sisters throat
Who was pure and good.
Too good, it would seem, for the Devil’s own son,
As Evil struggled but
It was Good that had won.
Now cradled and safe,
Sister and brother
Were transported home
To the arms of their mother.
The Evil now Good,
The dead now alive.
Winter now ended,
The family thrived.
And what of the Devil, who possessed the son?
He left them alone,
And went on the run.
But where he is now, you can’t possibly know,
Just please watch your sons,
And trees that bow low.
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