I Was Ready to Fall in Love
Ten Short Stories by John Irving Clarke First published in this format 2012
© John Irving Clarke
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system without permission in writing from the copyright holder. This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events in the stories are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places or events is entirely coincidental. A version of Carrying On was first broadcast by BBC Radio Leeds. An Honourable Man was first published by Yorkshire Ridings Magazine I Was Ready to Fall in Love was first published in Arctic Night: the Featherstone Short Stories
Cover illustration © John Irving Clarke www.currockpress.com
CONTENTS
Carrying On
First Snow
A Thousand Tiny Shards
Peaches and Cream
On the Trail of the Phoenix
Skinny Dipping
Dear Anne
Put Your Feet Up
An Honourable Man
I Was Ready to Fall in Love

Carrying On

A tortured pile of metal, graphic skid marks and the broken bits of brick wall scattered along the roadside, all of it captured in sharp focus detail. The Evening Press had a cracking headline to go with it too: “Carnage On Our Roads.” They included an inset picture of Richard with his school tie askew smiling cockily. “Tragedy of Young Driver.” And the callous bastards could sit back and listen to the ringing of cash tills as their circulation grew. In the following days people were very kind. They couldn’t do enough for me. “Was I alright?” “Did I need anything?” They wanted to share my pain. Concern was writ large and care and compassion were the key words. Bloody ghouls. And the whispers, oh God, the whispers, “That’s her, that’s Vicky, the one whose boyfriend was killed in a car crash.” Sympathy and scandal in one indulgent scoop. “Do you know, she hasn’t been seen to weep one little tear. Not even at the funeral.”
“How awful.”
Yes, how awful. But how they envied me. How they would have loved to try on the mourning black and affect the grief-strained face. The funeral? Yes, I remember the funeral alright. All the talk was of tragedy and the loss of so much promise. Richard’s mum was there; what a cow, loaded with the grief of losing her only son, the football captain with the gleaming school reports. She didn’t speak to me. At school, the Head, no less, called me into her office. Photographs of three smiling kids stood behind her as she ladled out more care and compassion. She oozed concern, “Victoria, we must try and carry on…my office is always open, if you need to, do come and talk.”
A kind offer from the old vulture. After four years in school it was the first time I’d been in her office, the first time she’d called me by name, I preferred Vicky by the way, and the first chance she’d had to pick at the scraps and clean the bones of tragedy.
I wanted to be left alone and soon I had my way. Snarl and scowl and they’ll soon get the message, they’ll soon sniff out another source of gossip and get their snouts in the trough. And I could carry on attending lessons, compiling notes and completing homework. I could let the days blur into one meaningless treadmill.
“Right, stop!” The bell had gone, everyone was collecting stuff from their lockers and it was time to go home. Now I had that dummy Pete Howarth standing in front of me.
“What for?”
“Because I want to talk to you, that’s what for?” With his chin jutting out, he was a man on a mission. “Why haven’t you returned any of my texts?” There was no point in messing about, “Because I only text friends,” I told him. “You won’t do much texting then.” Wow. Sharp as a knife and twice as cutting. He had hold of my elbow now and he was half guiding, half dragging me towards a chair. “I wanna show you something.” He took a folder out of his bag and produced a fistful of photographs. “Here, look at these.” I took them from him and began to sift through the pile. Nearly every one featured Richard: Richard putting up a tent, Richard showing off, clowning about and pulling faces. And then, on the very bottom of the pile there’s one of Richard and me together. He’s in his football kit, he’s muddy and sweaty and he’s holding the City Schools’ Football Cup. His other arm is draped around me and I’m trying to avoid the worst of the mud and sweat, trying and failing to raise a smile of triumph, but it’s me and Richard together and it’s perfect. “Take it, it’s yours.” Pete was talking to me but I couldn’t focus. Everything was dissolving into a moist blur. And in the middle of that Year area, where everyone was fussing about with bags and books, I couldn’t stop myself; I let out a tortured howl of pain and the dam burst. The tears flowed, the snot ran down my nose and no doubt everyone was staring but I didn’t care, I didn’t care at all, the black weight had to shift.

“How do I look?”
Pete gazed at me critically from across the table. I almost felt self-conscious as his observation swept over me and he considered his reply. “A right mess.”
Somehow he’d got me out of that ruin they call a school and he’d sat me down in Luigi’s, the favoured haunt of those who think a cup of frothed up milk with a sprinkling of chocolate is the height of sophistication. And we’d drunk the stuff and talked and talked and talked. I told him that Richard and I had argued that last time we’d met. He’d wanted me to go to the coast with him and his mates on that bloody Sunday. And I told him I couldn’t; I had a lot of homework to do. Not everyone was like Richard, not everyone could sail through school and get good marks without seeming to try. I remember shouting at him as he stormed out of the door, “Some of us have to work.” And then I never saw him again. I looked at Pete and braced myself for the sympathy but he only said, “Richard was a good mate, but he still owes me five quid.” Pete was the first person who didn’t bathe Richard in a golden glow of sainthood. Richard was one of us, that’s all, a good footballer, a good mate and a dishy boyfriend. None of that changed because of the mangled wreck of a red saloon. Nor did it make him Mother Theresa. He’s just left a big hole that’s all,a gaping hole I still expected to see him fill every day: at school, in town and on the football pitch. And Pete too, must have felt that yawning chasm, the gap that opened up with depressing regularity each morning. Now he sat before me sipping luke-warm cappuccino, waiting patiently between my bouts of wailing incoherence and looking at what must have been a mish-mash of mascara. He wanted to help bridge that gap and maybe the tears, the unsightly weeping mess, had been the first step.
Pete was talking about carrying on, “We can’t forget Richard, but we have to carry on.”
“And you,” I said, “Are you sniffing round his girlfriend? Is that how you plan to carry on?”
I could still plunge the knife in deep, but I didn’t twist it, and that, I suppose, was progress.

THE END

First Snow

Cold, wet snow driving against the window. The sky is grimly grey and I don’t think we’ll see any real daylight at all. Not today. One of those days best wrapped up and forgotten about.
I’m sitting in a classroom behind one of a row of desks. We’re all facing the front and he’s standing there telling us to write about ourselves. Forget about the snow he says and concentrate upon your writing. “Commit yourselves, make it personal.”
How can you forget about the snow when it’s there every time you look up? It must be the coldest day of the year; the wind whistles around the Language block and, believe it or not, some of the windows are open: the windows are open and we all have to take off our coats and jumpers, only he calls them “non-uniform tops.”
I’m too cold to write. I wish I was in Cornwall. We went there last summer; all of us, the whole family, and I could have stayed there forever. It’s supposed to be packed with tourists but we found a glorious beach which was almost deserted. It was great to go down to the shoreline where the waves roared and crashed onto the sand. Or else we went on cliff top walks with the rolling country on one side and a steep drop onto rocks on the other. All uphill and down; coastal footpaths are hard work, and you need a floppy hat under that blazing sun too, but it’s all worth it when you can collapse into the shade and polish off an ice cream. It’s my idea of heaven: a Cornish ice cream, the cry of the gulls and a view for miles out to sea.
I suppose that’s what summer holidays are for; to relax and forget about everything. Granddad would have loved it. Does everyone think their Granddad is special? I do. Granddad never used to fuss; he could take everything in his stride. I remember once when I was messing about with Jamie’s football and I broke a window. For some reason I just let fly, I suppose I was trying to prove to Jamie that girls can kick footballs as well as boys. Well this one flew alright, straight through Granddad’s window. I can remember the sickening thud, the split second shattering and the splintering of tiny fragments of glass.
There was no point in trying to deny it. When Granddad came out of his door, I was rooted to the spot. But he didn’t hesitate and in no time at all he had everything under control.
“Give me a hand with the brush and shovel and we’ll get this swept up. Then I’ll give Bob Davies a ring, he replaces glass.” I remember that look he gave me though; he must have known that I’d had the biggest shock of all.
“There’s two things I want from you young lady: a few bob from your pocket money to put this right and a hug for your granddad to show there’s no harm done.” A few bob, whatever that means. He could have had all my money if I’d known then what I know now.
It was the worst day of my life; a year ago now, standing in that windswept cemetery by a mound of muddy earth and heaps of freshly cut flowers, surrounded by suits and solemn faces. Mum and Dad were holding hands and Jamie and I were both trying and failing to look grown up. I was trying and failing to put on an act. All I could think of was myself; thirteen and I didn’t have a granddad. My tears were real but they weren’t for Granddad, they were for me: thirteen, stupid, clumsy and selfish.
Mum came and turned up my collar. It was cold; a sudden gust of wind blew a flurry of snowflakes onto the fresh soil of the plot. Commit yourself? Make it personal? I remember thinking: the first snow of winter.

THE END

A Thousand Tiny Shards

“Anyone could have done it. But only James had a crisp £5 note, a stepladder, a key to the chemistry cupboard marked “flammable” and a misdirected sense of curiosity.” Jimmy sat back and re-read his opening. He liked it. A mystery was going to build up, and James, the hero, was going to solve it. Jimmy loved writing stories, at least he used to before…well anyway, he loved writing stories.
“Right! Pens down.” Miss Wright shrilled from the front of the classroom. “Let’s hear some of these openings.” There was a shuffling as some pupils sat up straighter, wanting to be chosen to read. Others visibly shrank, shunning both attention and the possibility of reading their work aloud. “What have you written?” Jimmy was surprised by the voice beside him. Santosh hardly ever spoke and almost never to boys. He pushed across his paper to her to read and after a while she passed it back. “She won’t like it. She said you had to introduce the character and set the scene with some description.” Jimmy scowled at her and reclaimed his paper. “Jimmy!” announced Miss Wright. “Anyone talking must be volunteering to read.” She was looking for easy points to score. Jimmy picked up his paper and read out the opening two sentences. Afterwards, there was a short pause, the class knew what would happen next and silently relished the opportunity which was about to unfold before them.
“Well class, what do we think?”
To be too brutal in criticism would be a mistake. Miss would put a stop to it. But you could tear into the offering if you didn’t step too far over the line. “He hasn’t really used description, has he Miss?” “He hasn’t introduced the character, or the setting, and he hasn’t used the five senses, has he?”
Miss Wright conducted the class, taking responses from the pupils with upraised arms. But she was as surprised as anyone when Santosh raised her arm. “I like it Miss. He’s set us thinking and there’s a bit of mystery about it. Why does he need a crisp £5 note and a stepladder? And what’s in the chemistry cupboard?”
“Yes, Santosh, thank you, but I said write about what you know about. Can you see a chemistry cupboard in here?” The class sniggered and Miss continued, “Stories are about well drawn characters and convincing descriptions of places. Touch, taste, smell, sound and sight. Goodness knows, we have more than enough fantasy and mystery around at the moment.” Miss Wright always had the last word and she moved on to ask Sarah Jones to read. Sarah was the best writer in the class and sure enough she obliged. Miss held up one of her sentences for public acclaim, “Her heart was broken into a thousand tiny shards of glass.”
The school library was unusually quiet. In fact, it was deserted when Jimmy walked in, apart from Jackie, the librarian, bustling about behind her counter, piling up books and tidying promotional postcards. “Where is everyone, Miss?”
“I don’t know, Jimmy. The weather is too nice, I suppose. Who wants to come and read a book, play chess or do their homework when they can run about outside? What can I do for you? Fancy a game of chess?” Jimmy smiled. “No thanks, Miss. I’ve got a story to write.” “A man of letters eh? A man after my own heart. Well we’ve got plenty of tables spare, or you could use one of the computers. You get started and I’ll come along and see how you’re doing in a while.” The answer to the mystery lay in the chemistry cupboard. Going in was dangerous, no doubt: “Flammable.” The sign said it all. One wrong move and it could be disaster. But James, fired by his curiosity and now a deep determination, was intent upon exposing the evil and finding the treasure. James would be a hero and his mum would be so proud.
“Well, how are you getting along?” Jackie pulled up a seat alongside Jimmy. “Can I read what you’ve got?”
No problem. The story was finished. Who better to be the first person to read it than Jackie? Jimmy sat back anxious and hopeful while the story was scrolled up the screen.
“Oh Jimmy, that’s wonderful. I love stories where everything turns out right in the end. Who’d have thought a school caretaker could be such a villain? And to be caught out because he couldn’t resist a crisp £5 note. Well done! What will James do with all the money?”
Jimmy didn’t need to think. He blurted out his answer, “He and his mum go and live in a big house overlooking the sea. A house where no-one can find them.” “No-one at all?”
“Well, you could come Miss.”
Jackie paused at this merging of fantasy and reality. “That would be nice. I’ll bring a chess set and have a game.”
“You’d beat me easily, Miss.”
“Oh don’t be so modest.”
“Oh you would, I don’t know how to play.” Jackie laughed. “Pop in tomorrow after school and I’ll teach you to play. Now, run off a copy of that story and keep it somewhere safe. What’s it for anyway?” Jimmy explained about the story competition that Miss Wright was running, how they had to be handed in the following morning and the Headteacher was going to judge them. Jackie frowned.
“What’s the matter, Miss?”
“What a shame the stories can’t be enjoyed for just being stories. We have more than enough competition and judgements in school.” “Is that why there’s no rules in the library, Miss?” Jimmy looked around for the familiar notices on the wall, the laminated reminders about mobiles and chewing. “We have two very good rules in this library: respect the books and respect each other. And sometimes we replace the word respect with love.” Jackie smiled, “And now it’s closing time. Collect your stuff and get along home.” Sometimes, in fact almost every day now, a dark cloud hung over the house. And sometimes, like today when Jimmy lifted the snib on the back door, a terrible wave, as noxious as overflowing sewage, would sweep down the back yard towards him, swamping him in misery and dread. The eye contact he made with his mum on entering the kitchen was silent confirmation. “Is that him now?” Over the noise of the tv, a voice bellowed from the sitting room. “Where the hell have you been? There’s a load of work to be done before your mother goes out to work.”
“Hush, Reg. Don’t start. Let him have some tea.” His mum turned to Jimmy, “I’ve got burger and chips keeping warm for you. Come and sit down for them. What’s that you’re travelling with?”
Jimmy passed over the folded paper and explained about his story. “Very nice, dear.”
“Do you have to go to work tonight?” His mum sighed, “Of course I have to go. You know what would happen if I didn’t turn up.”
The chips were hard, the burger was unyielding. Jimmy stabbed it with a fork as the doorway to the kitchen darkened. “Well, what kept him?” “He stayed on at school. He’s been writing a story.” Reg lurched towards the table, picked up the paper, unfolded it and blurted out the title: “The Mystery of Chemistry Lab 2.” He swayed between the table and the sink before screwing up the paper into a tight ball and flinging it into the corner. “They only learn you rubbish at that school.” Then he careered towards the back door, yanked it open and slammed it shut behind him. As the shock wave buffeted across the kitchen, Jimmy took careful aim with his knife and thrust it into the solid heart of the burger.
Jimmy sat up in bed. He’d carefully washed and dried all of the dishes and put them away. He’d cleared all of the empty beer cans into the bin. His school bag and books were well out of the way. There was nothing, nothing that could cause an explosion of anger. Now he sat with his duvet around him in the dark listening and listening.
Listening to every creak of the empty house; listening for footsteps on the pavement outside, a slurred voice, muffled curses and swearwords. A clumsy attempt to force a key into the lock, the awkward barging into furniture, more swearing, the heavy tread on the stairs, the protesting groan of the floorboards on the landing, drunken entreaties and a shoulder barging onto the bedroom door. Listening for the black cloud that would crawl across and dirty the moon. First aid had been applied; he’d flattened out his story as best he could, smoothing the crumples and creases. But when Miss Wright asked for competition entries he’d handed over his story and she’d taken a quick glance at it and accepted it disdainfully. She’d thought about clearing her voice and making a loud sarcastic comment, but no, another time would do. She moved on while Santosh looked at Jimmy knowingly. Jimmy knew too. But he was resolved. It was his move now. After school tonight he would go to the library. Jackie had offered to teach him chess. Tonight he would go to the library and tell her. Tell her everything.

THE END

Peaches and Cream

When did we start to talk about girls? I mean girls as representatives of our daily desires and adolescent frustration? Was it when football began to lose its fascination? Was it when Robbie and I realised that although we were welcome to attend football practices it was only because we usefully made up the numbers? We would never be feted strikers or midfield generals. The best we could hope for was some enthusiastic running about at full back whilst it was left to others to strut their stuff, pose and preen, and receive due celebration. In short, we would never be alpha males.
This was precisely the problem which affected our deliberations over girls; the alpha males had their pick and the leftovers of both genders were left to sniff at each other with mutual disregard. And who did the alpha males pick? Well, let’s name some names: Stephanie Dutton, Charlotte Collins, Sophie Jones and the luscious in name and nature, Dawn Devine. In Premiership football terms they were the big four. Robbie, in his puerile manner, once said that surely I meant the big eight, a point I privately conceded but publicly dismissed as coarse; apt but coarse. The Big Eight were well out of our league and certainly out of our reach, not within touching distance, if I’m not labouring the point. So, what to do about the girls situation, or rather, the no girls situation? Stephanie, Charlotte, Sophie and Dawn were spoken for and wouldn’t look twice at the spare ball and bib collectors. To make an approach elsewhere would be to acknowledge our lower rank status and invite ridicule and humiliation. We knew perfectly who we were and where we stood. It seemed, in Robbie’s dramatic phrase, we would be “forever bound to the rock of virginity”. Not that we were entirely resigned to our fate. For we had a belief, that in the great scheme of things, everything takes place eventually: winter turns to summer, homework gets returned fully marked, and, somewhere along the line, each of us would “cop off with a girl.” An apology again for one of Robbie’s less elegant remarks.
In the meantime, we would get together and practise. No! Cut it out! That’s not where this story goes at all. No, we would practise the great opening lines and develop insouciant charm; the lines that would entice any unwary lovelies into our sticky webs.
“Excuse me; are you from Doncaster at all?” “No, why?”
“Because I thought I saw you in the three-thirty.” Robbie said these ice-breakers were infallible. His favourite was the one delivered with a fed up expression and an enormous sigh: “Oh, I’ll be glad when it’s over.” “When what’s over?”
“My leg.”
I looked at him doubtfully. In fact I looked at him quite frequently, but not too intently you understand. No, I looked at him objectively, made the sort of appraisal a member of the fairer sex might make. What might they look for in a man: tall, broad shouldered, easy smile, charm and a winning personality? Did Robbie tick all of these boxes? Did he? Well, does the Pope defecate in the woods?
And if that was how Robbie emerged from the appraisal then I had to accept that despite all of my clear advantages over him in all of the above departments, I would probably fare in a similar way. Get some more ropes and bind me a bit tighter to that rock.
Unless, that is, a golden opportunity should land in my lap, a kind of thick-sliced white loaf from the Gods. And it duly did. It was Mum who broke the news and she said she wouldn’t brook any argument from me. She was taking me out of school for a week and we were heading for the sun. I know there won’t be a lot for you to do, she’d told me, and you’ll just have to lounge by the pool at the hotel and like it; so not another word. I was not slow to spot the possibilities, nor was Robbie: swimming pools, bikinis, wet bikinis and lots of Mademoiselles looking for holiday romance. We were heading for Bulgaria or somewhere but nevertheless, I took his point. Out there you can go for a complete reinvention, his enthusiasm was running away with himself, you could be school football captain with a string of clubs looking to sign you up; Premiership clubs, there isn’t a day goes by without Arsene Wenger knocking at your door. You could be Beckham and Fabregas rolled into one; you could be the ultra, alpha male. This is your big chance; you have to score and when you come back to school, people will know; they will know. It wasn’t a bad picture, but I was working on something more on the lines of co-star with Daniel Craig in his next movie; three months of shooting in Hollywood, hanging out with Brad and George. Either way, it was opportunity, rather than Arsene about to knock on my door; it was opportunity knocking with giant hammer blows. On my return to school I will have sliced through those restraining ropes and leapt from that restrictive rock. Eat your heart out Stephanie, Charlotte, Sophie and Dawn.

Always, always there is some irritant. I was as warm and snug like a conker in its shell. I was comfortable, oh so comfortable, but there was an irritation and as much as I tried to ignore it, it wouldn’t go away: an insistent beeping, loud, loud, louder. The buzzer on my alarm clock, its metallic drone and its ugly sister, the flashing LCD figures, wanted the last word: get up, get up: today is the day for your triumphant return to school. But I couldn’t move a muscle, couldn’t raise the energy to shift the duvet and rise to face my glorious day. School, the realisation hit home like a blow to a boxer’s punch bag. School, the big black cloud hung over me with a constant threat of rain. School; my heart sank; the downpour was imminent so I summoned all of my strength, raised myself on one elbow and with one hefty strike, silenced the alarm.
Silence again. I lay back and gently closed my eyes, promising myself just one more minute and then I would get up and face the day… My eyes were closed but I wasn’t asleep. I was just resting my eyelids as the sun laid a warm glow around me. In the distance I could hear the young kids shouting and splashing in the pool. More yells as someone else was pushed in, and then an airbed was overturned for further excited shrieks. Closer to me, a palm tree grabbed at every slight breath of wind and gave a gentle flap of its elongated branches in appreciation. Life was good: warm, peaceful and good. A few more minutes I thought and then I would stir myself into going for an ice cream or a nice cold drink.
“Hi!”
Someone was standing between me and the sun. I was in their shadow. “Hi!” the voice said again. Someone was speaking to me. I struggled to sit up and squint at the dark figure silhouetted by the sun. I knew who it was, I’d seen her around the pool and down by the shops. I liked the way she moved. She was graceful like a cat, even when wearing flip flops. I liked her. I’d already decided I was going to tell Robbie about the hot girl I’d seen on holiday. Only she wasn’t hot, she was cool. She was a cool, hot girl, if you see what I mean. Anyway, I fancied her and she was speaking to me and I needed to find a good response, something witty perhaps, something with a bit of casual charm perhaps… “Hi,” I said.
“Hi,” she said again. “I’ve seen you around.” “Yes,” I said.
Hi and Yes, was that all I could say? If I didn’t string some words together soon, she would think I was a monosyllabic goon. Mum often said to me, “Is that all you can do, grunt? You could grunt for England.” Now the need to say something fluent in English was becoming urgent. Thankfully, she moved out of the sun and sat on the sun bed next to mine. Even though the sun was building up to its lunchtime peak, she seemed unaffected, sailing through the day like a serene swan. She wore cotton, knee-length culottes and a pink tee shirt with a picture of some fruit and the slogan: Peaches and Cream. “You don’t say a lot, do you?” She was smiling. “What’s your name?” “Dan. What’s yours?”
“Mel.”
Mel. This was my chance to say something to her which she would like. “That’s a nice name. Short for Melanie?” “No, it’s not a nice name. M.E.L. It’s just three letters and it’s short for Melody.”
I’d started now, there was no stopping me. “Well Melody’s a nice name. It’s like music in my ears.”
She gave me a funny look and in the pause I was able to hear my own stupid voice over and over again in my head. Melody, music. Oh my God! I’d moved straight to the top of Idiot Class in a few short seconds. Melody, music! Oh my God! She was looking as though she was about to move on and I knew now I had to say something to save myself from complete disaster. Sure enough, she was beginning to stand up. What to do? Robbie says you should always pay girls compliments. They love it, he says. Think of something nice and say it. Say something nice. Quickly, don’t panic; say something nice about her clothes. “Mel.”
“What?” She was just about to go. She looked at me expectantly. “I like your peaches.”
“You what?”
“I like your peaches.” I said and pointed to her chest. Sometimes when our cat brings in something smelly from the garden, my mum gives it a look of pure disgust, pretty much like the look Mel gave me now. “I think I preferred you when you didn’t talk much.” She turned on her elegant flip flops and marched off. Asking whether or not she came from Doncaster would not save me now. I slumped back onto my sun bed, closed my eyes and groaned.
And I groaned and groaned. Someone was prodding me. I tried to ignore it. I wanted to be swallowed up. I wanted to carry on groaning. “Leave me alone!” Then I got the biggest prod of all
“Never mind, leave me alone. Get yourself up. Your alarm went off ages ago.” Mum was irate, she was in her, “there’s only me who’s organised in this house” mode. “You haven’t forgotten it’s school today have you?” I groaned again.
“Right, that’s enough.” Mum took a firm hold of the corner of the duvet. “Unless you start to make a move now, this duvet is coming right off!” She wasn’t joking, she doesn’t joke about such things. “Okay, okay. I’m coming. Just leave me alone.” “I should think so too, you idle so and so. I thought you would be anxious to tell all your friends about your holiday.” She moved towards the door before she suddenly stopped and turned around with a quizzical look on her face. “Did you know you talk in your sleep? What do you mean, I like your peaches?” Time for one more groan.

THE END

On the Trail of the Phoenix

In the cause of lively presentation, and in order to keep his examination groups awake and alert, Tom Morris was quite prepared to abuse the language he professed to love.
“Sorry kiddies, trip’s off. School mini-bus double booked. Pilgrimage kaput.” There was a token effort to raise a groan of disappointment but for the most part the response was one of resignation. “What I suggest you do though is organise your own trips. It can’t be more than twenty miles away. Hop on a bus and visit the place where D.H. Lawrence was brought kicking and squealing into existence.” There was a slight murmuring among the group but no outward sign of over-enthusiasm. It was the signal to press on. “Anyway, down to business; what’s on the agenda today?” This was a rhetorical question as they were sitting and waiting to be fed like battery hens and as always, Morris plunged into over-emphasis. “Poetry appreciation: I’ve brought a poem here which will distort your whole view of life; you’ll find everything turned on its head and you’ll never feel the same way again about the important features of life like love, hate, death or the latest episode of Triangle…” He glanced up at his class and allowed himself a satisfied half-smile. Good, they were hooked, if only to see by how far the poem would fail to meet the opening hype.
The lesson closed on the bell. Papers were collected, pens put away and files neatly re-assembled. Steve stood by Jan as she organised her possessions waiting to walk to the coffee machine together. “Why don’t we go?”
“Where?”
“Eastwood, this Saturday. Do what Morris says and organise our own literary pilgrimage.”
Was this another of his mad, spontaneous ideas? She wasn’t keen and tried to delay.
“I did have something planned for this Saturday.” “Not washing your hair,” he jibed. “No, I was going to go shopping.”
“Argh! Not the dreaded shopping. That can wait can’t it?” They had reached the throng around the coffee machine and stood patiently until reaching the front of the queue.
“What are you having?” he asked.
“Are you treating me?”
“Could be, if you submit to my persistent demands.” He spoke loud enough to turn one or two interested heads in the near vicinity. “Go on then,” she consented.
“Right you are. Two coffees, white, no sugar and two tickets to Eastwood this Saturday.”
He plied the machine with coins and jabbed the function button triumphantly. For the remainder of the week, Steve was sure that Jan would cry off. Even as they sat on the bus, he was still filled with doubts. Reaching the sixth form had demanded a pairing off; social acceptability demanded coupledom and Jan had been an obvious choice. Without ever being childhood sweethearts, they had known each other since primary school and she was presentable, sufficiently trendy at Sixth Form functions and safely demure when meeting Mum and Dad. There had been a little hesitation there at first but now his parents loved to welcome her in, and, with a cup and saucer on her knee, Jan was more capable of holding her own in the swapping of gossip than Steve ever was. Where it was all leading to, Steve didn’t like to think, nor did pause very often to consider the trappings of conventionality which were wrapping around him like a suffocating cloak. “Have you done that essay?” He broached the silence between them. “Yes, I finished it last night.” As always she had been soundly efficient. “What did you write about? What’s the title again?” She rattled out the title verbatim: “Sons and Lovers portrays a conflict of adolescence and social expectation. Discuss.” “What kind of title is that? What on earth did you write? “Oh the usual stuff,” she replied without feeling, “Regurgitate his notes and he’s happy enough.”
“I’d better make another note of the title,” Steve said, fumbling with a biro and a tourist board pamphlet for Eastwood. “I thought I would wait until after today. That way I will benefit from deeper, more profound insights.” Talking tongue in cheek was a habitual occupation for him. “Just think how impressed old Morris will be at this show of initiative and enthusiasm.” Her lips betrayed just the merest of a smile and encouraged he continued. “After today, when old D.H.L. writes about being consumed by a “hot flame of passion,” I’ll know exactly what he means.”
“How will you?” She demanded, taking the bait. “That woke you up didn’t it?” He laughed, “I just thought that the heady excitement of a visit to Lawrence’s birthplace and the near proximity of my “upright maleness” would be too much for you. You’ll be drowned in a wave of lost innocence and subsequent gratitude.” “Not likely. You’re as daft as he is.” “Who? Lawrence or Morris?”
“Both of them. All of you. Blokes talk a load of rubbish sometimes.” Eastwood was busy with traffic and pavements were thronged with shoppers. Mums with pushchairs negotiated crossing the main road whilst delivery vans, indicators flashing, held the traffic up further as they unloaded at shops, branches of which could be found in most towns in the country. Steve took in the scene, surprised at the sameness of it all; he could be in any small town in the country. What had he expected: miners’ young sons queuing for wages; distracted mothers hauling drunken husbands out of pubs? The lunchtime trade in the pubs appeared to be healthy but none of the customers were blackened with coal dust from an early shift.
They missed the signpost for the D.H. Lawrence museum and instead found themselves by the video hire shop.
“Look at that.” Steve pointed out the posters in the window. “Sex, horror and degradation for a pound a night. I wonder what he’d think if he saw that.” “If he was alive today, he’d be making them mucky videos. Hot Flame of Passion, the new video film from your favourite banned author.” Steve had no time to respond as a gap in the traffic allowed them to skip across the road towards the library which advertised a Lawrence exhibition. They held the door open for a mother and toddler and then followed them in. The library was attractively modern in design; large format books, records and toys all entertained young customers while the exhibition was isolated at the end of the building. It was a series of displays with informative notes alongside. First editions, most of which were signed in the great author’s own hand, lay open in glass cases. A librarian interrupted their careful scrutiny. “Excuse me, if you’re interested in Lawrence, we do have a video presentation upstairs. Would you like to see it?”
“Yes please.”
They were led up to a room which was featureless apart from a screen and a dozen chairs scattered around the edges where they sat through the presentation: a collection of stills from a bygone age where Lawrence’s father and working colleagues all sported long bushy beards, tram cars ran the streets of Eastwood and school pupils were scrubbed, brushed and suppressed into restrictive uniforms. One or two photographs, eloquent in monochrome, showed pit-face workers crawling into claustrophobic gaps to extract coal. And some twenty minutes later, the two teenagers emerged into the street, blinking and squinting in the bright sunlight.
“Well, fancy that!”
“What?”
“Everyone called him Bert.” She sniggered. “It doesn’t have the same ring somehow. Bert Lawrence. And he looked so skinny! I couldn’t ever imagine him shuddering in response to raging passion.” Steve was in no mood to reply beyond muttering, “Chapel morality stated Thou Shalt Not, but I’m interested in Thou Shalt.” The words highlighted in the video. He marched intently, following the directions they had been given for the Lawrence museum on a pilgrimage which had begun in such a light-hearted fashion but now felt, for him at least, more like a crusade with social revolution at its core.

They found the house, one of a sloping terrace, down a side street; a humble beginning for someone destined for greatness. Opposite the house stood the White Peacock café, giving rise to speculation between the pair on why there wasn’t a Rainbow corner shop or a Kangaroo filling station. “Why not a Lady Chatterley Sex Aid shop?” Jan suggested finally. Steve knocked on the small green door and they were shown in by a friendly assistant.
“Hello, have you come far?”
“Not really, about twenty miles.”
“Oh, we’ve had people in from Germany this morning.” “I bet they got here quicker than us.” Jan muttered darkly about public transport.
They were shown around the downstairs of two basic rooms and the explanation was offered that the front room would have been used rarely with most of the living taking place in the back room where a fire blazed in the old-fashioned black range and dowdy peg mats covered the floor. The whole place had a familiar feel to it for Steve, reminding him strongly of his Great Aunt’s house, but he was disappointed to learn that only two articles of furniture were genuine pieces from the Lawrence household. What was more, Lawrence himself only lived there for the first two years of his life, so the house didn’t feature in any of his fictional descriptions.
“Go on upstairs,” they were urged. “We’ve got a video up there, some copies of his paintings and some other bits and pieces.” They did as they were asked and sat through a second short video, then examined the paintings on the wall.
“Horrid.” Pronounced Jan instantly. “Look at that one,” she pointed towards a picture titled, A Holy Family. “There’s no grace or beauty there; it’s horrid. I certainly wouldn’t want it hanging in my living room.” Steve looked carefully at the three figures depicted; at the strangeness, the isolation and, bearing in mind its title, its subversive quality. He was at once attracted and repulsed by the picture. A Holy Family: the nucleus of society was under attack.
Downstairs the assistant was keen to talk but Jan said she would wait outside. Steve suggested that the museum was quite a low-key affair. “Well try to bear in mind that Lawrence wasn’t very popular in these parts.” “A prophet in his own country?”
“Quite. This was a mining area, strong on non-conformist religion whereas Lawrence wrote dirty books and ran off with another man’s wife. The locals would disapprove.”
He could have stayed to talk much longer but he was aware of more disapproval outside and the imminent departure of their bus. Jan was restlessly shifting from foot to foot.
“Your friend doesn’t seem so keen.” “No, I rather pressured her to come along today.” Outside, Jan’s impatient glance at her watch was sufficient comment. They hurried back towards the bus station and an equally tedious journey home. The autumn light was fading as, bus journey over, they walked towards Jan’s home. Her mood had recovered and she appeared to be ready to forget about losing an afternoon’s shopping. She was chatting quite freely about her mum’s birthday and what she was going to buy her, how much Linda Jackson had spent on her new hair-do and how it was always the Upper Sixth who left the common room in such a mess at school. Steve joined in for as long as possible but he kept drifting back to the day’s events.
“Jan, do you believe old Morris when he talks about poetry? You know, about how it can get inside you and play havoc? Printed words on a page?” “He goes over the top.”
“Oh I know that. But do you think he’s right when he talks about it altering your whole perception of life?”
“I wish it would alter his perception.” An unexpected venomousness had been aroused. “If he would get his job done and give us plenty of notes, Morris would be alright.”
“But what about that Phoenix poem: about everything being burnt to ashes and then reborn; all that searching for spontaneity and the rejection of ugliness?” They’d arrived at her front door and she was doing a search of her own for house keys.
“You know very well what I think about that. Lawrence must have been off his rocker a lot of the time and Morris is too when he witters on about him. Aren’t you coming in?” It was an invitation which suggested that the opposite might be in order.
“No, I think I’ll get straight off and make a start on that essay.” He made a move to kiss her but she pulled away.
“No. Not here.”
He took a last look at her dark curly hair and the look in her eyes; the vague, undefinable distance.”
“Okay. I’ll go. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
He turned to make the short walk down the hill to his own home. He knew he was heading for a barrage of questions; the energy of his parents was now channelled entirely into his activities and it was an ordeal. The wind had developed a colder edge and he pulled his jacket tighter around himself. From his elevated position he could see the twinkling lights of Shirebrook pit and across the horizon from right to left he knew the railway line ran. Not for sleek passenger trains but for squat, ugly coal trucks. Could he hear one now clanking through the night? Further south and closer to home the slag heaps of Sherwood Colliery dominated the middle distance and above them, a cloud, blacker than pit waste advanced threateningly. The claustrophobia which had oppressed him all day rose again. England, my England.
“I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their day.” A quotation Morris had used. Where did he get it from? Was it one of Lawrence’s? A renewed gust of wind drove him further into the upturned collar of his jacket and he tightened his grip around his various pamphlets. One of them, he knew, bore the title of the impending essay…”a conflict of adolescence and social expectation…” He knew now what he was going to write, and he knew with equal certainty that he needed to escape. Like the click of fingers the knowledge came to him that he would have to get out – anywhere – so long as he got away. Bert hadn’t hung about, had he? Cornwall, Mexico, Sardinia, Australia and then finally a grave in France. He would escape through his studies; not for the outward symbols of academic success, not for the certificates and presentations and not to satisfy the lingering demands of any protestant work ethic. He would study and work because that’s where the tantalising key to freedom dangled; freedom from the dread which cast a giant shadow over him.
He strode towards the expanded huddle of houses with a new purpose; a drive and a determination, but also, he recognised, with a feeling of abject loneliness.

THE END

Skinny Dipping

She had left the runabout sports car by the side of the deserted B road and now they were trekking up a narrow path, carrying bags and towels, stepping over tree roots by the river that roared on their left. “Jenny! How much further?”
She turned to him, laughing. “Not far now, City Wimp. Don’t start moaning.” He wasn’t moaning; he was content to follow in her footsteps, eyes fixed on her bare ankles scratched by the undergrowth, the tight knot bulge of her calves, her strong, sinuous thighs and the tantalising jiggle of her arse. He thought of her in a lustful way, yes, but he also thought of her in a way which would remain unspoken for now. She had exploded into his life from nowhere, added a dramatic fizz to everything that he did, everything that they did, and already after a few short weeks he already knew that… well, that would remain unspoken for now.
A soaring saxophone solo from a current hit was ever-present in his head. Yeah, he too was prepared to give up his dissolute life-style; he would settle down and forget about everything. Well, maybe make sure he got his degree first, return after this long, hot summer and hack through his final year. But for now, life was good.
“This is it!” She plonked down her bag on the bank alongside the torrent of water surging between giant rock stepping stones. “I haven’t been here for years.”
“I’m not surprised.” Jim looked doubtfully at the crashing water. “It’s deep, it looks dangerous.”
“It’s not dangerous. Swim in the middle there against the current if you want a real test, or just mess about in these side pools.” “It’s deep and brown.”
“These are sandstone rocks. What did you expect, chlorinated blue?” “It looks like a run-off from a brewery.” “You won’t mind drowning then. Come on! Last one in is a sissy.” A sissy. He was quite prepared to be a sissy. He watched her kick off her trainers and slip her shirt over her head before she stepped out of her shorts. Her bikini, he couldn’t help feeling, was designed more for Mediterranean posing than wild river swimming in the Borders but he didn’t have too much time for speculation as she folded her arms across her chest and stepped off the rock to drop into the water like a paratrooper with an unopened chute. She disappeared below the surface and then re-emerged shouting, “It’s gorgeous. Come on!” He too, stripped down to his trunks and made the get-it-over leap into the dark, foaming water for a split second of blurred silence. He broke the surface and yelled, "It's fantastic!" And it was: the billowing river, the trees on either side, the hills up in the distance, the deep blue sky, all for them and them alone.
They laughed and splashed and she drew towards him. “I told you it was great, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, I’ll give you that. This is great.” He couldn’t help smiling. “So what are you waiting for, Slowcoach?” He looked at her blankly. “We’re supposed to be skinny dipping. Take off my top.”

“The sun’s past the yard arm. What do you say to a snifter, young James?” This was Jenny’s father who was well aware of his own worth, his own place in the great scheme of things, his patriarchal position. “Sounds like a splendid idea. Yes please. Oh, and most people call me Jim.” “Snifter it is then. Dinner in half an hour, I’m told.” He carried on obliviously. “James Bell.” It sounded like he was trying out the name to see how it sounded. “Not related to any of the Hawick Bells, are you?” “Shouldn’t think so,” said Jim, “Some of the Salford Bells, yes, the Hell’s Bells; almost certainly.” It was a weak joke and no-one laughed. Places were pre-ordained. Jenny’s father, Mr Knox, sat at the head of the table, ready to carve a mountain of roast beef. Jenny’s mum, keeping a proprietary eye on all domestic and family affairs, sat at the bottom end while Jim was placed diagonally opposite Jenny. Alongside each of them sat one of Jenny’s younger brothers; raw-boned rugby players who had cockily dismissed Jim’s attempt to talk football. He had been left in no doubt that football was a game for ruffians.
Mr Knox cleared his throat. “So, what is it you are reading at University, James?”
“Er, literature, English Literature.” Mr Knox snorted and cut into his beef. “This country is in a mess,” he said, “do you think we could be led out of it by poets?” The two brothers looked at each other and smirked. “No, I don’t think so,” Jim looked across at Jenny who was intent on her meat, “but I don’t think poets led us into the mess in the first place, either.” The boys continued to smirk, delighted that their father’s dangling of the fly was resulting in a bite.
“So what’s the point of poetry? Sounds rather ineffectual to me.” “Oh, I don’t know.” Jim was settling into his theme. “Poets are pretty good at pointing out what a mess we make of things. We could do with a Shelley around now, actually.”
“A Shelley?” The younger of the two brothers asked. “Yes, Percy Bysshe Shelley.”
And by now it was too much, both boys snorted out loud, trying and failing to suppress laughter.
“Boys! Behave yourselves or leave the table.” Their mother’s tone was peremptory and, as leaving the table wasn’t really an option, they composed themselves. “And what would Mr Shelley do for us?” Mr Knox again. Before answering, Jim looked again at Jenny. These conversational jousts weren’t for her but she looked up with a detached curiosity. “Shelley had no truck with authority, or the corrupt use of power. He would have held the police to account for their use of violence in the Anti-Nazi protests. That was only one step from Peterloo.” He wasn’t looking for approbation; he was just defending his position, that’s all, his degree study. Why not be passionate about his subject? It wasn’t just something to do for three years like Jenny’s Business Studies. “Mmm… Mr Knox wasn’t finished. “Strikes me that if you hang around trouble and mix with trouble makers, then trouble is what you’ll get.” “You mean they shouldn’t have been protesting?” Jim jumped in even though he was vaguely aware that they were no longer discussing the validity of poetry. The over-earnest warrior was sometimes hard to deny. “Sure, just ignore fascism and it’ll go away. That’s been tried before and it failed.” A look like a live electric wire charged itself up and down the table between Mr and Mrs Knox. Jenny regarded Jim sorrowfully as the meal continued in awkward silence. Coffee was taken in the lounge. “A strong pair of arms needed.” It was Mrs Knox standing at the lounge doorway appealing for help. Neither of the two brothers, slouching in armchairs made a move, so Jim, feeling somehow that he needed to make amends, jumped to his feet. “This is Mrs Steele’s job really.” She was piling laundered linen on to his outstretched arms and they were transferring it to a cupboard. “She’s in Edinburgh, she’s having trouble with her plumbing.” “She’s gone all the way to Edinburgh to find a plumber?” “Don’t be obtuse, young man. She’s in hospital. She’s had an operation and she won’t be working around here for a few weeks. Can you manage a few more sheets?” She balanced more folded linen onto the pile in his arms and he found himself balancing it all under his chin. “My! I can see why Jenny brought you up for the summer.” Mrs Knox squeezed her finger and thumb around his bicep. “Find a diversion, I said, and she’s done that all right.” She smiled sweetly at Jim, “But that’s all you are, a diversion, don’t be getting any ideas.” In the space of a couple of hours that evening, Jim had learned the benefits of keeping his mouth shut. What was between him and Jenny was their business and this old woman could bury herself in her own linen cupboard as far as he was concerned.
“Within a couple of years of graduating, Jenny’s father will retire.” She was off again, in full flow. “It will be up to Jenny then, the business will be hers. It’ll be a tricky few years, wool isn’t the most exciting of industries but Jenny will do well. And if she’s got any sense she’ll make a profitable marriage match with one of the local families.” Her words fell like a crashing silver salver. Jim thought of the strong-minded Jenny, the one he’d played at tennis, blasting base-line shots like a series of tracer bullets at him. She wouldn’t settle for this neat little plan like mummy’s goody two shoes. She had far too much fire and independence. He’d never really thought this one through fully, but he’d half imagined her going to work for a big multi-national while he was beside her studying for a PhD somewhere, maybe.
“There, all done.” Mrs Knox smiled again. “Thank you for your muscle. And don’t forget what I said.”
It was a whole day later before he got to speak to Jenny alone. They were walking through the cool of a summer’s evening picking at chips from the papers in their hands.
“Why on earth do you call fish and chips a fish supper?” he asked. “Because we do. Okay?” Now find something else to talk about.” “Okay, what about the future?”
Her speed of response was breathtaking. “I’m going to graduate. I’m going to spend two years in the business, different placements learning how everything works and then when Daddy retires, I’m going to expand it all, the whole lot of it: wool, fashion design, knitwear, retail and leisure tourism, I’ll diversify into whisky probably and the name of Knox and the Knox golden eagle will fly all over Scotland, Canada, New Zealand, the whole world.” “I was thinking about our future.” Jenny stopped and looked up at him. “How sweet!” She popped a chip into his mouth. “Here, have a chip.”
After thirty-five years it should have been easy to forget her. Easy except that there was hardly a month went by without a celebrity magazine or business pages carrying some sort of article about her: A Successful Career and Raise a Family? Jennifer Knox-Forrester Shows How It Can Be Done. And the golden eagle logo was everywhere, denoting high aspirations and fashion success. He couldn’t forget her, whenever the sun shone and his kids, and then his grandkids too, had clamoured to go swimming. That’s when he remembered: “We’re supposed to be skinny dipping. Take off my top.” He’d untied the bow behind her neck, unclipped the clasp behind her back and as he ran his hands down her silky wet body she had stopped him. “Ah, ah! Wait a minute, my turn.” And in a super-charged moment when he thought he was going to explode from the depths of that cool river, she grasped the top of his trunks and began to force them down. “They seem to be snagged on something.” She gave a dirty laugh and wrestled some more. “They’re snagged on something massive!” She laughed again and kissed him. He eased her bikini bottoms smoothly over her buttocks and she pushed away and swam a few easy strokes, “I’m free!”
He remembered all of that of course: the strawberry pink nipples and her white bottom breaking the surface as she swam like a river sprite. But it was the moment later on the river bank which he remembered much more clearly, when she’d stood shivering in a giant white towel. Remembered how he’d wanted to wrap her in his arms and keep her there forever.

THE END

Dear Anne

Method and organisation I will shore against my ruins. A couple of hours will see me through these exercise books, a bit of flick and tick while Eric is preparing the dinner. Eric? Oh he’s quite the New Man, prepared to do his bit and a dab hand in the kitchen. Plus, he has all the benefits of being a deputy head. A deputy head’s salary for starters, then there’s the swanning around in a suit all day, or else diving back into his bolt hole of an office. A life, it seems, totally devoid of the curse of marking, so he does right to assume kitchen duties. I won’t mention, of course, how having moved in with him my own career might benefit. Nor will I mention the sotto voiced staffroom scandal. Of course there’s a bit of an age difference, of course his school persona is quite strict, but I’m going into this with my eyes open and I know what’s in it for me. It’s a masculine flat granted; all browns and straight lines but I’ve already brought in the wind chime and a sun-catcher and a few soft furnishings will be next. And deep down, when you get to really know him, he’s a bit of a pussy cat. So, I’ll just crack on with the finest outpourings of the estimable 8CC English class and then the evening will be mine, or ours. This work will set me free.
She recoiled momentarily from the direction in which her own motivational mind games had taken her. Nevertheless, procrastination must be fought against. Dear Anne,
I hope this letter doesn’t take you too much by surprise but I’ve read about some of the things you had to live through and I know you led a very different life to the one I lead, but, because of the way I’m feeling, you were the person I wanted to write to. I know you will understand. It was a genius of a lesson idea. Write a letter to a historical figure and then tell them about your world and how it differs from theirs. And now she was faced with a mountain of exercise books. Not the three score of several insults, blotted pages and scrawl of legend, but a varied mix of the earnest, sometimes sanctimonious, sometimes illegible epistles to a diverse range of figures: Martin Luther King, Churchill, Ghandi (in history they had just finished a unit on Indian Independence) and Harry Potter. She made a mental note to revise her definition of historical figure. But for now, the clock was ticking and she had deadlines to meet.Next exercise book and that dark-haired, quiet girl in the class had written to Anne Frank.
What is it about boys? Why do they act the way they do? Why are they sometimes so weird? I don’t understand them at all. I know you sometimes found it difficult with Peter and it must have been really awkward for you when you were cooped up like that. When I see boys, particularly ones I fancy, I like to feel in control, to feel as though I’m on top of my game. I hate it when my hair is a mess or when I’m looking sleepy. How on earth did you cope? There’s a boy at school I like. He lives quite close to me too and I think he likes me. Sometimes we walk up my avenue from the bus stop and he’s really nice. We talk about everything, well nearly everything, and we tend to agree on most things: teachers, homework, films and t.v. But he’s two years above me at school and sometimes he just completely ignores me, preferring to mess about with his mates. My friends say I should forget him, but he is nice, honest. But maybe I should forget him because if my parents knew how I felt about him, they might freak out. Thirteen isn’t too young to have a boyfriend, is it? “Annie! Annie!” Eric in his Masterchef mode: apron professionally tied around his waist, tea towel flung over his shoulder. “Dinner will be served in half an hour. How are you doing?”
“Fine, thank-you. Six more books to mark and then the evening will be ours. What’s for dinner? It smells lovely.” “Oh a spot of French cuisine tonight. A little bit of je ne sais pas.” He bent down and kissed the back of her neck.
“Could it be your signature dish? Is it the fromage sur pain flambé?” “You’ll see, won’t you?” He smiled and kissed her again. “Finish those books. I must go. I’m a slave to the hot stove.” She returned to the books and then paused to look out of the window at the gathering gloom over the small garden. A pair of magpies hopped along the rickety panel fence spraying machine gun chatter and casting predatory eyes over the crudely topped leylandii hedging. Their staccato crackling was on repeat: what have we missed? What have we missed? Your parents were strict weren’t they? I read your diary and the way you express yourself is brilliant. It’s like you had such a great understanding of your own feelings and of the world about you. A world that was completely at war: destruction, death and the horror of concentration camps. It’s been sixty six years since the end of the Second World War and I often thank God that I didn’t live in your time. But then I hear the news, think about things and I have to wonder.
It seems as though every night there are details of soldiers, not much older than Peter and the lad I fancy, dying in Afghanistan. Just the other night, there was a news item about a young girl in Libya dying in an air raid. Those were NATO bombers: American, French, Italian and British. Yes, our side, responsible for killing three year old girls. In Libya though, miles away from here. I should care. I should care a lot more. I hate myself for not caring about her.
I can’t understand it. There’s a lot of things I don’t understand and that’s why I am writing to you; you’ll know where I’m coming from. Obviously we have never met, and I think you would be stunned if you could see my world and the vast amount of technological change which has taken place over the last half century. Nearly every house in the country has at least one television with a massive amount of channels to choose from. Hardly anyone uses a typewriter any more, we have computers allowing us to produce typed text very quickly, altering any mistakes in a moment, but best of all we have little telephones which we can carry around with us. Not only can we speak to people on these phones but we can find out almost any information we need, we can play our own selection of music on them and we can take photographs and see them immediately. You would definitely be stunned.
Eric bustled back into the room. “Right! Dinner is served.” But then he halted abruptly, held by the aftermath of the spectre which had passed through the room. One sonorous note tolled on the wind chime, the table had not yet been set and six exercise books still stood in a pile waiting to be marked. Annie, hollow-eyed and expressionless, sat staring straight through him. “Annie? What is it, Annie?” She didn’t focus or respond. Are we better off these days? I doubt it. You shouldn’t have to live feeling dirty, should you? Like every time I have to go into his office. I hate him, I hate him. He’s a deputy head. He’ll stand up in the hall and tell us how we should behave, then in his office he leaves you feeling like shit. Yesterday, he told me to take off my jumper and I did. He told me I was a mess but he could fix it. He tugged off my tie to tie it properly and stuff. Lots of stuff he shouldn’t do. Stuff that makes me feel ashamed, but stuff I have to tell someone about. So there, Anne, I’ve done it. I’ve done what I know I have to do: I’ve told you.

THE END

Put Your Feet Up

“We’ll stay at home and take it easy. We’ll avoid the half-term crowds. Unwind a bit. You can put your feet up and relax.” It had been agreed then – no week in the Lakes after all. But both of them knew he was more concerned with not missing a football match than missing the half term crowds. He called out as he began to delve in amongst his kit bag, “Besides, what has Ullswater got that Pugney’s reservoir hasn’t?” There was an answering call from the front room, “Yeah, and why look up at the Langdale Pikes when you can gaze across countryside to see the Emley Moor television mast?”
He paused in his rummaging, stung by the tone of sarcasm before deciding against a reply, resuming his search where he came across his still muddy from last Saturday boots. In all his years of playing he’d never quite got into the habit of emptying his bag promptly after a match. His younger team mates would regard his muddy boots as a chink in his punctilious armour, whilst his wife had often threatened to cite the boots in the divorce court. However, it was his trainers rather than his boots for which he was searching. He pushed a couple of carrier bags to the side, opened a cupboard door and then slammed it shut again. “What are you looking for?” Again, the call came from the front room. “My trainers. Where are they? I only had them yesterday.” “They’re where you left them.”
He began to grumble about things being tidied away where they couldn’t be found when he moved an old tracksuit top to one side and discovered his trainers underneath – where in fact he’d left them. His indignation assuaged, he knelt to put them on and fasten them.
His trainers were his one concession to designer jogging, otherwise his kit was strictly functional: cotton socks, an old tracksuit bottom which was either roomy or baggy depending on your point of view, and an old rugby shirt. Oh and this time of year he always wore his luminous arm bands to placate the owner of the voice in the front room.
“I’ll be off then,” he called.
No immediate answer but the kitchen door slid open and his wife stood before him.
“Ready for action?”
“Yes, I shouldn’t be too long; an intermediate run tonight. Not too far. Two hill climbs, up to the old castle and back by the new road.” “Good,” she smiled. “Don’t use up all of your energy though will you? There’s a big pile of ironing to do here.” He limbered up uncomfortably, not wanting to extend the conversation. “Because I can’t do it, can I? She was on the attack, holding all the aces, “Because I’m taking it easy, unwinding a bit and putting my feet up.” Only her smile gave the game away while he coughed nervously wanting to be gone. “Have you got everything?” “Yes.”
“Watch?” He checked his watch display which stood with five noughts indicated – ready for action. “And have you taken your steroids?” she asked. “Very funny; a healthy mind and a healthy body and the dedication to succeed, that’s all you need.”
He repeated the dictum as though giving evidence. Privately, she doubted his word as the panting, heaving wreck which returned from these runs didn’t look to her like the evidence of a healthy body. She often doubted the soundness of the mind too. What a way to spend a holiday. “Well, if you’re going,” she said, “I’ll have the oxygen tent ready for when you come back.”
“You do that, but it won’t be necessary. No, a shower and a brisk rub down after a run is my recipe for good health for years.” Again, she listened to his words and smiled. She knew that every Saturday members of the team, and opposition too, were getting younger and younger and a good deal faster too, and she’d confronted him with the evidence of her own eyes. But, as usual, he’d played it down. “Nonsense; speed is no match for tactical positioning and experience. Years of getting on the blind side of referees stands me in good stead.” And he’d winked. But in his more pedantic moods he referred to them as “the boys of summer.” At first she hadn’t understood and he relished the explanation: “Those boys, the pints of lager the night before a match boys, are abusing their bodies. They’re the boys of Summer; Dylan Thomas: I see the boys of Summer in their ruin.” She began to pick up odds and ends of discarded kit. She noted the muddy boots in the corner and the sight gave emphasis to her next remark. “You can’t fight it love. You can’t hold back time. It’s like killing wasps. You might hit one or two with a lucky swipe but before long you’ll be surrounded by an angry swarm buzzing around your head.” At this she started buzzing, her clicking fingers were wasps pestering him; a dirty sock was the biggest wasp of all. She chased him to the kitchen door where he turned and with a sudden counter attack grabbed her and held her close. “And I suppose you’ve got a nasty sting?” “Wicked; just try me.”
“Don’t temp fate.” He was laughing. “You’re a distraction you are. I’m supposed to be doing five miles tonight and all of a sudden it looks very cold and damp out there. Especially when there are home comforts to hand.” She struggled to get free. “I think you’d better get away and get some exercise; run off this excess energy.” She finally broke away and resumed her tidying, picking up a neglected teddy bear and assorted building bricks. “Okay,” he said, “Have everything ready for when I get back: bath salts, wheelchair and a heavy blanket to fold over my legs.” “You can laugh,” she responded, “but I’m serious:” It was her big moment, “Time’s got you in chains.” And it was his turn to look puzzled. “Dylan Thomas, Fern Hill,” she said smugly enjoying her revenge: “Time held me green and dying.”
“Touché,” he laughed. He was still laughing as he closed the kitchen door behind him.
“Though I sang in my chains like the sea.” She finished the quotation to herself as she began separating toys into a box and muddy kit into the wash bin. “Relax!” she snorted, “Unwind. Put your feet up.” A sweaty pair of shorts was emphatically deposited. “What a way to spend a holiday.” He was well rehearsed in the run. He knew it was vital to begin at a steady speed. He’d exhort the lads at training: “Pace yourselves. No point in killing yourselves early on.” So the first mile was little more than a slow jog. He resisted the childish impulse to run faster past the houses of friends and neighbours in case they were looking out. He knew that there were two long inclines in front of him which would need a steady rhythmic plod. Only when he passed the entrance to the bus depot would he know that he could begin to stretch out and pick up the pace for a strong finish to the second half of the run. He recreated the noisy excitement of a race commentator in a shouted interior monologue. Who knows, given the stillness of the evening, he could maybe shave a few seconds off his record. A lifetime best! But still he had to ignore the impulse to build up speed. The particular section he was approaching was badly lit; the pavement was narrow and the uneven flagstones, he knew, could be deadly. His running though was deceptively free and his breath was coming easily. Keep it in store, he was telling himself, keep something back for the final push.
He picked out the faces in the car with surprising ease although the concentration on his running left him unable to react; three young lads whose faces registered adolescent pleasure in their joy-ride. The expressions changed from shouted bravado to horror in a grotesque slow motion as through a fog of alcohol the realisation dawned that the saloon car was taking the bend too fast. It mounted the pavement and ground into the stone frontage of the shop with a smash of twisting metal and glass before silence. The scene was soon lit by the blue pulse of an ambulance. The gouging in the stonework and the car paint scraped onto the wall would remain as a timeless testimony to the incident. And as the jogger was loaded on a stretcher through the back doors, the leading paramedic pronounced with professional detachment, “He’ll be D.O.A.”

THE END

An Honourable Man

Footsore and weary, the Historic Tour of the City group completed their trip as Ed made his final pitch for big juicy tips. “Well here you are folks, back to the Minster. Keep safe and enjoy the rest of your visit.” During warm applause an old guy discreetly passed on a five pound note. “Well done, young fella; very entertaining.” “Thank you very much, especially for the young fella.” “Have a drink on me.”
Ed smiled gratefully, “A drink? I don’t drink…” “…Only to excess!” He was beaten to the punch-line by a woman who had held back for most of the tour but who, having removed her wide-brimmed straw hat, now stood in front of him smiling leaving Ed momentarily lost for words. That smile, those eyes.
“Liz…Liz Jackson.”
The nearest café was the starting point. “No sugar and just a touch of milk. In fact, you can just wave the milk jug over the tea.”
“My God!” She laughed. “You haven’t forgotten a thing, have you?” “Sharing tea with Liz Jackson? Unforgettable.” “Okay,” more serious now, “You’ve got two minutes on the last thirty years of Ed Bracewell.”
“Easy. Finished my degree, moved away, climbed up the slippery pole of ambition, fell with a bump; decided to return here where I once felt happy.” “Significant others?”
“Yes, and plenty of bruises from them too. At the moment? No ties, just a few loose connections.”
He stirred his tea. “Now your turn Miss Jackson who became Mrs Popplewell.” “Yes, and who returned to Jackson after two kids arrived on the scene and the blonde poppet in the office had more appeal to Mr Popplewell.” “Idiot!”
“Who? Me or him?”
“You, him, both of you. You for marrying him, him for ever letting you go.” “Ah, Ed. Always bold in words…”
“And..?”
“And timid in action.”

Simon Popplewell was in full flow. “Ed, you’re a mate, Mate.” He flourished two tickets in the air. “Summoned home by parents but filial duty and a beady eye on my allowance insist I should comply. And you, my dear Ed, will be a mate and escort the beautiful Liz. Cinderella, you shall go to the Ball.” “Have you been drinking?”
“My dear boy, I never drink…only to excess! Sign here and the belle of the Christmas Ball, 1981 will be in your honourable charge.” He flattened out a piece of paper.
“I agree to act at all times as a gentle, perfect knight! You’re an idiot, but if it makes you happy, pass me that pen.” He told Liz about it on the night in question, not expecting her response, “Promise me one thing: tonight we eat, drink, dance and you walk me home without once ever mentioning the name of Simon Popplewell.” You’re the one who’s agreed to marry him thought Ed, but he’d caught a trace of her scent, he was entranced by her low-cut ball gown and of course there was the eyes and the smile. Don’t mention Simon? Yes, that was a promise he could keep. They spent the evening clinking glasses, laughing, dancing, fully aware of the glances they were attracting. Let them look. She held him close, resting her head on his shoulder, and in the early hours of the morning they remained just as close as he walked her home through the quiet streets past the imposing Minster as thick flakes of snow fell.
“Beautiful, so indescribably beautiful.” “Absolutely, and I’m not talking about the snow.” She laughed then she reached her arms around his neck and gave him a long, slow kiss of intent at the front door to her student flat. “Ed, come in with me.”
“Coffee?”
“You know what I’m talking about. Come in with me.” Ed hesitated, “I know we are not supposed to be talking about him tonight, but he is my friend.”
She tightened in his arms. “There’s always been something between us, hasn’t there? One night Ed. He’s with Mummy and Daddy, he needn’t ever know.” “I can’t, Liz.” He tried to make a joke which only made things worse, “I’ve signed his bit of paper, it’s in my pocket.”

Timid in action? Now they were walking through those same streets almost on the same route they’d taken after the Christmas Ball. The low sun caught her almost side on highlighting wrinkles and creases. Her hair, he saw, had not defied time. So what? He too carried thirty years of lines and grey. “You’re heading back to London tonight? Do you think you’ll come back? Make another visit sometime? I mean, we’ve still got a lot of catching up to do.” “Oh Ed, I’d love to, but I can’t just come bouncing back into your life like this. It would just complicate things. You’ve got your “loose connections” and you haven’t changed at all. It may be thirty years on but you’re still the gentle, perfect knight. You’re an honourable man.” Half way across the Lendal Bridge he stopped her. “You think I’m still governed by that stupid pledge?” He reached inside his jacket pocket for a wallet then pulled out a folded sheet as she looked at him astonished.
“Oh my God! You’ve kept it!”
“Goodbye gentle knight.” He tore the paper into fragments and tossed them over the wall to flutter down towards the swirling depths of the Ouse. “We were halfway through a conversation at Christmas 1981. You should come back and we’ll finish it off.”
She leaned her head towards his chest and wrapped her arms around him. “I’ll do that. I’ll come back to York.”
As the crowds flowed over the bridge, the open top buses plied their trade and cyclists wove in and out of traffic, they stood holding each other determined this time not to let anything slip. And the meaningless restaurant bill which he’d kept in his wallet for no good reason, met its end in tiny, soggy pieces.

THE END

I Was Ready to Fall in Love

I recognised her immediately. The pert mouth had not changed, although the eyes seemed to have lost some of their sparkle. Her hair was stylish, bordering on the severe, but the business suit fitted her well and the intervening ten years hadn’t added any weight. The overall effect was impressive. I looked at her and saw achievement, career-progression and maybe, only maybe, a faint air of disillusionment.
She stood up to greet me. “Mr Jacks, thank you so much for coming. Please take a seat.” Ignoring the easy chairs, I was gestured towards a place and we sat and faced each other across a well-ordered desk. Steam rose promisingly from a coffee machine on a table behind her but she got straight down to business. “As I said in my letter, the committee was greatly impressed with your work but felt unable, at this moment in time, to offer you a bursary.” She picked up a bundle of papers and I recognised my application on top. “Michael Jacks. Your real name?”
“No,” I said, “It’s Michael Jackson actually. I dropped the last two letters as I didn’t feel that Michael Jackson was earning me much credibility as a writer.” I looked at her for a smile or a flicker of recognition. Nothing. “Well, whatever it takes,” she muttered almost inaudibly. “Yes.” I nodded although I wasn’t quite sure what it was I was agreeing with. Why had she called me back in like this? I was keen to find out. But something held me back. She quite obviously wanted to remain in control. “This is slightly irregular,” she continued. “We don’t normally enter into correspondence and certainly not any kind of meeting unless the candidate is actually shortlisted.” She looked at me directly as she paused. There was no indication whether or not she had also recognised me. “This is more of a personal initiative. I think your work has great merit and I did wonder, even if you are not to receive a bursary, about the possibility of using some of my contacts to further your career.” Again a pause, and I allowed it to develop. I liked the sound of what I had just heard but I didn’t want to rush in like an eager young hound. “If you are agreeable, Mr Jacks…” “Please, couldn’t you use Michael or Mike?” “I think so, Mike, particularly as I’m going to suggest a meeting in surroundings a little more congenial than these. I’m Lit, by the way.” “Yes.” What did I mean by yes? To all intents and purposes, this was our first meeting. Or was it?
She chose the Fox and Grapes because, she said, it was comfortable, the beer was good, and in the early evening it was quiet enough to allow us to spread out a few manuscripts. But the coincidence was almost too great. She placed a couple of glasses down on the table. “There,” she said, “a living symbol of Britain’s greatness. Warm amber body with a creamy head flowing over the rim. Original gravity 1.046.”
“You’re a connoisseur?”
“Not really. Spirits and wine don’t agree with me – so when it comes to drinking with men, I find that if you can’t beat them, join them.” I sipped appreciatively. Out of the office, she had loosened up. She wore a high-necked, green jumper and a pair of faded jeans. Warm, comfortable and relaxed.
“Not been to work today?”
“I changed at the office. I can’t go around power suiting all day.” I was glad. It was a change for the better. Slowly, as the evening progressed, the old enthusiasm began to emerge. She was much more confident than I remembered and she spoke warmly and engagingly over a range of subjects. And she listened. She has that knack of making you feel that what you had to say was important. Time flew by, a cliché I know, but it did. Before I knew it, we were standing on the pavement pulling on our coats. “Well, thank you for a lovely evening.” “And you,” I told her, “It certainly beats an evening at the word processor.” “Oh Mike, I’m sorry. We’ve hardly talked about your work.” “Don’t worry,” I could afford to be generous. “Perhaps we could give it another try. Say next week?”
“Same time, same place. And we must be more disciplined in our approach instead of chatting like old friends.”
I gave her a look but she remained completely nonchalant. We began to meet every week and slowly an action plan developed: hit the local small magazines, develop a track record of publication and then go national. She said she could miss out the preliminary readers and get my work directly to editors. Energy and enthusiasm oozed from her and I did wonder if she was angling for commission or a percentage. But it was an unworthy thought because I trusted her and, anyway, I had my own plans developing as well. I couldn’t believe it when she made her next proposition. “Mike, I’d like you to know about all of my accomplishments.” At moments like that you are very careful about what you say. I let her carry on. “I make the best chillis outside of Mexico. I’d like to make you one, only I need a kitchen. Mine’s being ripped out at the moment. Solid wood units, a third of their normal price. I couldn’t miss a chance like that.” “No problem. Use mine. I’ll be grateful for the excuse to do a bit of tidying.” So that was it, trap carefully baited, set and snapped. I sipped contentedly at my beer. Whoever said that history repeats itself certainly knew what they were talking about.
She was right about the chilli. It was delicious, even though she’d insisted on an obscure Californian red to go with it. She wouldn’t drink any herself and it wasn’t particularly to my taste – but with a whole bottle to go at, you can’t waste it, can you?
I suppose if I’m honest, she seemed a little distracted that evening but she herself said that it was the pressure of working in an unfamiliar kitchen and cooking a first meal for someone. Yes, I thought, a first but hopefully not a last meal.
For I was jumping fences far ahead of myself now. What a difference Lit made about the place. How nice it was to bump into someone accidentally, to fumble over minor domestic chores together and to catch a whiff of perfume in passing. There was more than idle speculation on my part. Could it be that there was a future with Lit which extended beyond professional considerations? After a disastrous first attempt at marriage, an estranged wife and two kids somewhere, I was more than willing to think yes. As for our first meeting all those years ago, it was probably best kept secret and whatever vault the memory lay buried in should be kept firmly locked.
However, it was with some alarm that I realised I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. Was it the meal? The intimacy? Her very presence in my flat? Whatever, I kept pushing at the barriers of good sense, sticking my neck out, dicing with death. “We must have been contemporaries if you graduated at the University. It’s a wonder we didn’t bump into each other if we both read English.” “Yes; odd isn’t it?” She’d insisted on making a start with the clearing up and not leaving dirty dishes lying about. “It’s like unfinished business. I can’t stand it.” She’d said. I’d volunteered to help but found myself standing unsteadily in the kitchen. Disorientated by her presence, I think, I desperately held onto a chair back as the kitchen floor appeared to roll in a slow-motion parody of an earthquake.
“Are you sure we’ve never met?” I continued to push. For no matter how sluggish my own thought processes were becoming, I couldn’t rid myself of the details of that meeting.
When I first met her, she seemed young even for a fresher. This was emphasised by her tendency towards giggling. I’d had one or two things in the University magazine and she sought me out with a view to submitting some more work. She was painfully enthusiastic, appearing to hang on to my every word. “Elizabeth. No, Lit! I’m dropping the Elizabeth now that I’m at Uni,” she’d said by way of a giggled introduction. She looked as though she had studied for the part with her jeans and trainers. Her hair was wild and fell over her face, causing her to keep brushing it out of her eyes. Pretty though. “Listen,” I said, “I hate talking in this coffee bar. Why don’t we meet for a drink and talk in more detail? Do you know the Fox and Grapes?” She was only too keen and we met two or three times before I decided on the next stage. “Look, I’ve got a lot of material back at my flat. Why don’t we go there and sift through it? See if there’s anything you can use?” She agreed without any persuasion but I had to warn her: “It’s no palace even by student standards. It’s a bit damp and cold. We’ll need a warmer before we go.” I went to the bar and ordered a couple of scotches – doubles. She eyed hers hesitantly before giggling and taking her first sip.
“I don’t usually…” she said, “Shandy’s about my limit.” Back at the flat I turned on both bars of the fire thinking: what the hell, and I gave her a sheaf of poems to look through. “Do you write yourself?” I asked.
“No, I don’t. Daddy says I’m much more keen than capable. That’s why I stood for the editorial committee.”
I offered a silent prayer of thanks. The last thing I wanted was an evening of mutual literary congratulation. I went to fetch an open bottle of wine from the kitchen. Knowing I couldn’t present it in that state, I dug out an old glass decanter, gave it a quick wash and wipe, and poured the wine into it. Then on impulse, I emptied in the remains from a gin bottle as well. The last party at the flat had been a sordid drinking affair but now it seemed as if there would be a pay-off after all.
When I returned with the decanter and a couple of glasses, she seemed enthralled by the bohemian gesture. “Your poetry,” she said as I sat beside her on the creaky old sofa, “It’s so worldly, so knowing.” She began to take long pulls from her glass, hiding a grimace and drinking the wine as if it was shandy. The best laid plans…I hadn’t expected such a rapid result. There were a few more coherent statements from her. Intoxicated laughter, then general babbling and finally stupor subsumed everything. I had my arm around her but she lay slumped inertly against me. What to do? She was incapable; out for the count. It would have been impossible to get her back to where she lived, wherever that was. I had little choice but to make arrangements for her in the flat. She was surprisingly heavy, but after a struggle and then some fumbling with buttons, zips and catches, I let her flop onto the bed. I looked at her lying like a beautiful, broken marionette before covering her with the bedspread. I went around the flat locking up and turning off the fire before standing at the light switch and weighing up the options. They were few: an Eskimo wouldn’t survive a night on that sofa. It wasn’t the way I wanted it, but I quickly undressed, switched off the light and slipped in beside her. Even by the standards of that winter, the morning was cold. I hadn’t slept well and I was woken by the deep-throated rattle beside me. I climbed stiffly out of bed and reached for my pants and tee shirt. Switching on the fire, I held my jeans over the single bar, letting the steam rise from them for as long as I could bear the cold. Then I quickly finished dressing and went to boil the kettle. A glance out of the small kitchen window was the confirmation I didn’t really need. Snow had fallen overnight. As I looked towards the cathedral, I could see the series of rooftops and chimney pots had the look of a Victorian Christmas card, but closer to home any semblance of purity was lost as early traffic churned slush into kerbsides. The side streets hadn’t been gritted; cars slithered around with their back wheels spinning and a black pall rose from each exhaust pipe. I shuddered and poured boiling water from the kettle. When I returned with a mug in each hand, I was surprised to find the eiderdown lying in an untidy heap in the middle of an empty bed. A desperate retching from the bathroom answered my question and it wasn’t long before she returned to the room looking like hell. Splashes of vomit flecked the front of a shirt of mine she’d borrowed. Saying good morning seemed inappropriate, as she barely made eye contact with me anyway.
“I’ve made you a coffee,” I said. No answer. Swamped by my shirt, she looked oddly vulnerable as she moved gingerly around the room collecting her things. She dressed with surprising immodesty and my volunteering to leave the room wasn’t acknowledged. It was clear that she was preparing to leave. “Don’t you want this coffee?” The door slammed. Obviously not. That was a long time ago and we were both a lot younger. Since then I’d graduated, gathered together a lot of rejection slips and settled for the tedium of teaching. At least now I had a warmer flat, even if I was still waiting for the big break. This could be it – Lit was speaking to me now. If only I could get her in focus and concentrate on what she was saying. “Of course we’ve met before. I knew from the moment I read that cliché-ridden, pretentious pap you call poetry. You don’t think I’d ever forget, do you? I may have been a fool then, but not now.”
I tried again to get a firm grip on the chair back. What was the matter with me? In a moment of clarity, I saw her turn towards me with the vegetable knife, and although I knew what was coming next, I couldn’t move. This may sound stupid but it doesn’t hurt, not at first, at any rate. A friend of mine plays first-class cricket and he says the same thing. It’s not the ball that hits you that causes problems but the one that misses you by a whisker, the one that fizzes past the end of your nose coupled with the reactions of those nearby. It’s the same when someone slides a knife into your gut. I was more frightened by her calmness. Her face was totally impassive and her voice controlled.
“I was probably one in millions. One of the countless number of girls who’ve suffered because a bloke wanted to get his leg over.” By now, it was beginning to hurt. I had two hands clutched to my stomach and I knew I needed to get to the phone. I needed an ambulance and fast – but she hadn’t finished yet. With deliberate care, she crossed the kitchen floor and put her face close to mine.
“It’s no more than you deserve, you bastard. You had no right.” I sank to my knees and doubled up while she delivered her final stroke: “I was ready to fall in love.”

THE END