Ups and Downs and Endings

Posted on March 26, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

This post is a continuation of a travelogue thread on the subject of Cape Verde. Track back to previous posts for the full account…

Our trip to Sal Island, Cape Verde is almost done and we’re undertaking an island tour, driven by our tour guide and driver, Elton. His guiding style consists of driving us somewhere, telling us where we are and opening the doors to let us out. En route, he is engaged with his phone or largely silent. We’ve no clue at all as to where we’ll go or what we’ll view.

Nevertheless we’re seeing places and having experiences, the last [detailed in last week’s post] somewhat unnerving and decidedly soggy.

I survive the incident in the shark-ridden waves, principally by being grabbed at the eleventh hour by the shark watch guide, Girondelo. I’ve been teetering as a large wave approached then he snatches my hand and holds me upright. My camera also survives, which is a stroke of luck; not so my shorts, which are sodden.

When Girondelo signals that we must return to the shore, I realise with dread that there’s another trek over the spiky coral in the thin, rubber shoes I’m wearing, a slog like stepping barefoot over a field of Lego bricks. He repeats his haul of me and my screeching self until we reach the sand- a relief! Husband, in sturdy crocs, has fared better and is only a little damp. Giro wants us to peruse his ‘shop’, to which we acquiesce, On viewing the assorted items on his tiny, wooden stall we select something to grace our naff shelves at home…[https://gracelessageing.com/2018/07/08/the-ghastly-gathering/ ], paying an inflated price, of course, but then I’m still not sure whether he almost drowned me or saved my life…

Elton is, as usual ensconced with his phone in the car, stirring only to open the doors to us and shrugging when I point out my wet shorts will be on his upholstery. We bump along the unmade road once more and off up into some hills where the dusty track is worse still, throwing us all over the place and winding up and up. At the top we draw up, get out and can peer down into a huge basin where there are salt flats. We’ve seen a lot of salt flats but this is quite a spectacle as it’s perfectly framed by the surrounding hills. Above us there is an ancient and decaying structure of wooden planks and beams with wheels and pulleys, presumably for processing and transporting the salt down the hill to the nearby bay. It’s bleak and more windy than ever up here but it’s atmospheric.

There’s not much more to the tour, except for a brief stop at an attractive bay where there’s a pirate-themed bar and restaurant based in an old shipwreck.

Then we’re off back to Santa Maria and our hotel.

With only a day or two left we decide we should find a restaurant in the town for our evening meal, rather than the more local ones we’ve come to know. After looking at Tripadvisor we choose ‘Ocean’, a large, busy place on the main square which gets rave reviews. One side of the establishment is given over to bar, the other to meals. We arrive about 7pm and are led to a table in a corner by the lavatories…hmm…

We order a starter and a main meal from a menu that’s burger and pizza heavy but offers enough choice, at least to cater for my dietary difficulties. After a time the starters come and they’re fine- even too much when we’ve a main meal to follow, so I wrap up my dim sum and stow them in my bag for next day’s lunch. Then we wait…and wait. A glance around at other tables shows that those who’ve come in after us are already on their next courses, also our waiter is entranced by the two diners who’ve just sat down at the table next to us, fist-bumping with them and asking where they’re from [they are French].

During our wait there’s a hiatus and the entire waiting staff do a dance routine to the guitar playing of the musician in the corner- all very slick, but we are definitely wanting our meal now.

It’s been 45 minutes and no sign. Husband collars a passing waiter [not ours] and asks where our meals are. The waiter goes to see. We wait again. I nab another waiter and ask where the food is. Suddenly there’s a flurry of activity and some panicked faces as they scurry in and out of the kitchen. By now we’re aggrieved. We opt to leave, standing up as a woman approaches with two plates. It’s too late and we’re annoyed. We leave the money on the table for our drinks and starter as three of them pursue us, protesting. But it isn’t nice to be neglected in a restaurant.

We start back towards our end of town and plump for a modest but popular place we’ve been to before, where we are served lovely food with a smile. I get my revenge on ‘Ocean’ with my own Tripadvisor review.

Our return flights are to be overnight. We’re lucky to be seated by the emergency exits for the flight to Lisbon- less lucky to be waiting on the tarmac for an hour and a half for the second leg of the journey, resulting in our missing our bus home from GW, London. C’est la vie…

Grace is the alter ego of novelist and short story writer, Jane Deans. To date I have two published novels to my name: The Conways at Earthsend [https://www.amazon.co.uk/Conways-at-Earthsend-Jane-Deans-ebook/dp/B08VNQT5YC/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2ZHXO7687MYXE&keywords=the+conways+at+earthsend&qid=1673350649&sprefix=the+conways+at+earthsend%2Caps%2C79&sr=8-1 and The Year of Familiar Strangers [https://www.amazon.co.uk/Year-Familiar-Strangers-Jane-Deans-ebook/dp/B00EWNXIFA/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2EQHJGCF8DSSL&keywords=The+year+of+familiar+strangers&qid=1673350789&sprefix=the+year+of+familiar+strangers%2Caps%2C82&sr=8-1 Visit my writer Facebook page [https://www.facebook.com/search/top?q=jane%20deans%2C%20novellist%2C%20short%20fiction%20and%20blog or my website: https://www.janedeans.com/

Whatever Have We Come to See in the Sea?

Posted on March 19, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

This week’s post is a continuation of a travel thread. For previous episodes, please track back to past weeks.

We’d booked an ‘island tour’ for one of our last days on Sal, Cape Verde. Our driver and supposed tour guide, Elton, is a man of few words, we’d discovered. Nevertheless, he is taking us around this tiny island and showing us what there is of note, even if he is a little short on imparting information.

On booking this tour, we’ve received no kind of itinerary and have no clue whatsoever as to what we might see or not see. We are entirely in the hands of Elton, which, as it transpires, is a mixed blessing.

After leaving Palmeira ‘fishing village’, we travel on towards the next destination, whatever it will be. During the very brief drive we’ve had in the streets of Espargos, the island’s capital I’ve been intrigued and would have liked to have had some time to explore properly. It’s a fascinating mixture of brightly painted homes and buildings and run-down, dilapidated structures or scruffy, ruined plots. It’s also hilly. Elton draws to a halt outside a large, corrugated building and lets us out. We enter and discover it’s a market, or rather it was a market earlier in the day. Now it boasts three stalls, two of them selling fruits and vegetables, although I’ve seen no evidence of crop growing on the island so presumably it has been imported from other, greener islands. There’s no way to find out as Elton has withdrawn to the car. We buy a couple of items and make use of the market’s bathroom facilities before rejoining our reluctant tour guide to continue the drive.

We go on quite a long way then turn off abruptly, off road and on to an unmade track. It winds about all over the place, dust billowing around us as we bump along. Ahead we can see the ocean and vehicles parked; then as we draw nearer we spot a gathering in the surf- many tourists standing in the waves to look at…what? We’ve no idea but must assume it’s what we’re here for, too- to look at something.

We stop at a haphazard collection of huts and stalls and are released from the car. Elton motions us to follow him and we’re taken to a hut with shelves outside housing a collection of rubber overshoes and croc-style footwear. Of course we’re to be joining the crowd in the waves to look at…something; clearly something worth looking at. In order to hire the rubber shoes we must, of course hand over cash, which we do. Husband gets a pair of sturdy crocs and I, I get a thin pair of rubber galoshes. A young man emerges and Elton gestures at him, ‘your guide’ he says, with no more of an explanation. The ‘guide’ [Girondelo, he tells me when I ask his name] moves off, beckoning us to follow, across the sand and then on to the rocky coral and volcanic stone beach, where I instantly discover that the flimsy soles of the rubber shoes offer no protection at all from the sharp, pointy rocks we are treading on. ‘OW!’, ‘OUCH!’ I yowl, falling behind as Husband and Girondelo as I stumble on. Giro turns to grab my hand very tight and pulls, and there’s no option but to press on, the soles of my feet feeling every step like walking across a watery football pitch covered in Lego bricks.

I should add that I’m further hampered by a small rucksack bag plus, in my right hand, my trusty camera which I must keep dry at all costs…

We’re getting nearer the crowd, but now we’re also getting into water, deeper and deeper. We’re wearing shorts, but as we progress I’ve no hope of staying dry, since shortness of stature and length of shorts preclude it and soon I’m wet up to crotch level, with the added instability of feisty waves buffeting. By now, aware of my inadequacies in the coral-walking field, Giro has tucked my hand under his arm as he continues to pull, simultaneously ordering me to ‘slow down’. Slow down? He’s dragging me along!

‘Would you bring your grandmother out here, Giro?’ I ask him, but I’ve discovered by now that his command of English is as minimal as my Portuguese…

By now we’re aware of what we’ve come to see, as, swimming around our legs there are dozens of sharks. ‘Look!’ yells Giro, ‘Baby shark!’ I’m far more terrified of the waves and the prospect of losing my camera to the frothy waves than I am of the sharks, which are smallish and unthreatening, but how on Earth am I to take photos with one hand? Then, without warning, Giro lets go of my left hand and I’m on my own, teetering in the rolling surf on an unsteady, coral strewn base. As a large wave approaches I feel myself wobble and my arms begin to flay in a desperate attempt to keep myself and the camera from submersion…

Sal- a Mysterious Tour Without Magic

Posted on March 12, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

At our small, relatively isolated hotel on Sal, Santa Maria, Cape Verde, fellow holiday makers come and go. At times, the breakfast community is full to bursting, with barely an empty chair. At other times it’s sparse, with no queues for the coffee machine or lengthy waits for omelettes. At the end of the room, the door is kept open and hoards of cheeky sparrows have learned that there is a feast to be had once the bread rolls, cakes and fruit are served, helping themselves at the tables if they can get away with it. Sometimes when the diners leave there’s a sparrow party as they dive in for the leftovers.

Our Island tour day comes around. The car is a sturdy, silver 4×4 and we are to learn why it’s essential later in the day! Our driver/tour guide, Elton introduces himself; we clamber in and buckle up and are soon bumping along the unmade road towards the edge of town. It soon becomes apparent that Elton is more driver and less tour guide, since his monosyllabic replies to questions give away minimal information and, in any case, whilst driving, he’s on his phone more often than off.

We travel out past a couple of service stations and on to the duel carriageway that leads to the airport. There is very little traffic and Elton takes advantage by driving in the outer lane where there are fewer ruts and holes. His driving style is gung-ho and often ‘hands-free’ [from the steering wheel], his approach to roundabouts is to pretend they don’t exist. It’s one of those times, like flights, when you just have to surrender yourself to the hands of the person in control- i.e. Elton.

Now that we’re in the interior [though seldom far from the coast] we can see how barren and dry the landscape is, with nothing grown in the windswept, sandy soil, nothing resembling a tree or shrub, only patches of scrubby grass.

During a lull between Elton’s calls I ask him where Sal’s water comes from and he grunts ‘de-salination’, pointing to the walled factory we’re just passing, on the outskirts of Espargos, Sal’s capital. It’s the only de-salination plant on the island. I think of all the hotels, swimming pools, showers and homes on the island and wonder how this one, seawater processing plant copes.

We skirt the edge of Espargos and drive on to Palmeira, which is, apparently a ‘fishing village’. In the event it’s an area on the fringe of town with a few, colourful, picturesque cottages sporting murals, a church and a marina housing fishing boats. On the quayside there’s some fish preparation going on and up on the narrow road a stream of pickups and tour buses is lining up. Elton opens the doors for us but it takes next to no time to walk the two or three streets. He stays behind with the car and gestures feebly at the tiny harbour and I wonder if he’s disappointed we are not inclined to visit the gift shop or spend longer looking at the harbour. We climb back into the car.

The tour continues [in next week’s post!]…

Highs and Woes in Cape Verde

Posted on March 5, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

The first few days after arriving to a new destination are all about discovery and exploration. After our breakfast on the first full day on Sal, Cape Verde we divide our time into relaxation and walking, since walking is one of the best ways to get around. There is very little traffic around our area and what vehicles there are tend to be taxis or other tourist transport. Some are pickups in which tourists are required to sit at the back in the open air and we are not tempted by them since a] the winds are brisk and cool and b] there is nothing resembling any kind of seat belt.

I’ve woken with a sniffly, runny nose since our arrival. A child in the queue at the airport was stricken with a streaming cold, which has, presumably affected most of the passengers on the Lisbon plane.

Nevertheless we wander to Santa Maria, our nearby town and then further still, to beyond the town and along a decked walkway to a much more upmarket area of chain hotels- Radisson, Hilton etc. The beaches are vast and unsullied by sunbathers [it’s not warm enough!] but attended by windsurfers and kite surfers. There are many companies doing a roaring trade in board and sail hire, also tuition. There is an abundance of cafes and restaurants- as well as the ubiquitous ‘Irish pub’.

Along the walkway we spot horses, tattoo parlours [not too busy!], gift shops and hawkers of small items spread on sheets and we are waylaid countless times by sellers hoping to catch our attention. Many of the items for sale are made of recycled/upcycled materials and a huge amount of it is from shells. In fact I’m struck by the plethora of recycled and repurposed items around; planters from halved containers, beach shelters from tyres, bar furniture from old pallets and so on.

We’ve dined in the hotel on our first evening, which happened to be Valentines’ Day, an acceptable though not stupendous meal, accompanied by a lacklustre guitarist/singer warbling out ballads from the likes of Ed Sheeran. Now we’re up for a more adventurous evening and we opt for a busy restaurant on the way into town, Porto Antiguo, where there’s a jollier guitarist and a lively atmosphere. It is to become one of our preferred restaurants for its friendly service, good food and fun atmosphere.

Husband succumbs to the cold and has a much worse experience, streaming and sneezing for the next few days.

The hotel manager comes to the room to tell us ‘Your room is ready’, which is mystifying. Later, her colleague comes to explain that this is not our room and we must move, that the enormous room we’ve been occupying is a ‘suite’, that our booked room is a modest, balcony-free room somewhere else and that the night receptionist should have informed us upon check-in. Hm…

We move. We’re not too unhappy. We’ve a kettle and a better fridge and the shower is nicer. We still have an ocean view and can use the poolside loungers- except that the weather continues to be rampantly windy in between bouts of sun.

Husband’s cold gets better. I begin a UC flare [for more recent readers, here’s the link: https://gracelessageing.com/2014/12/07/journey-to-the-centre-of-the-colon-a-gastric-odyssey-with-apologies-to-jules-verne/] I’m well prepared with meds, although it sheds a blight over activities, dining and enjoying an occasional beer. Bleurgh!

But we’re aware we haven’t seen much of the island and will need to book a tour, which we do, with the hotel. It’s to be a ‘private’ tour in a 4X4 rather than a pickup and will also need to be an afternoon jaunt, owing to the flare [always worse in the mornings]. We settle on a day nearer to the end of our stay to allow some degree of recovery for both of us…

A Tiny Atlantic Island

Posted on February 26, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

We are escaping winter cold and a building project in our house as we wheel our suitcases around to the station to get a train, to catch a bus, to go to airport, to check into a hotel, to check out and into airport, to get a flight, to transit, to get another flight, to clamber into a taxi and to arrive, at last, to our hotel at Santa Maria, Cape Verde, at about 1.00am. It’s a caper, travelling this way and involves much planning and a great deal of waiting around. The bus to airport, alone takes three hours.

Far and away the fastest part of the travel is immigration at our tiny, destination airport on Sal Island, Cape Verde, where we walk into the arrivals building, place our passports on to a screen, collect our cases and walk out to our waiting cab. Astonishing! We are not expecting such a smooth arrival on our return to Gatwick, London [where in the past, I’ve waited more than an hour for luggage and expect a long, long queue to breach immigration on our return].

Sal is a tiny island, about 18 miles long and 7 miles wide. At the late arrival hour we can’t see much but it’s coolish and very windy. The hotel receptionist checks us in and takes us up some steps to a vast room with a huge balcony overlooking the ocean and leaves us to it. Neither of us sleeps well, having travelled into the night and being out of routine. But we know we can catch up, hopefully in some sunshine.

We’ve opted for breakfasts in this small, beachside hotel, not being fond of all-inclusive schemes. We prefer to get out and about, finding our own places to eat and get a drink. The hotel is well placed, a ten minute walk from Sal’s main community of Santa Maria.

We surface from fitful sleep to a magnificent view, though the palm trees are bending in a strong breeze which, we are to learn, is constant. We’re blessed with a coffee maker, which we just about manage to boil water in for tea, having brought tea bags with us. Then we go down, out and around to a sunlit dining room, where we’re offered fruit and a menu with a variety of ways to cook eggs plus a few accompaniments. It’s an ok breakfast, although at home we don’t do breakfast and would prefer to eat later.

We loll around on our balcony, recovering from the rigours of travel, the sun becoming stronger as it rises, then decide to strike out along the unmade road outside and towards town, We’re looking for a supermarket to stock up on a few things and perhaps to look at the metropolis. The sandy road runs parallel to the beach, which offers an alternate route back.

Our hotel is placed in a residential area of pastel coloured homes with riotous, tropical gardens, although as we approach the first corner there’s a huge, litter strewn square where feral dogs roam, barking and chasing an occasional motor scooter for a lark. When we get to the town centre there’s a main street lined with bars, restaurants and shops, mainly selling gifts and T-shirts.

We’ve got the lie of the land so we stroll back, stopping at a small, local mini market for a few snacks and beers, then there’s time for a read in the sun before dinner- which is to be in the hotel dining room on this, our first night…

The Crackling Feast

Posted on February 19, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

So here’s a mystery thriller- a complete story A group comes together to celebrate a life…

Who are all these people? Alex squints into the still bright glare of the late afternoon sun as she tries to identify someone-anyone amongst the chattering guests. She watches them standing around on the paths and the lawn, glasses in hand, appearing and disappearing in the intermittent billowing smoke. This disconnect must come from living at the opposite end of the country and having become an infrequent visitor.

“He knew a lot of folks, your dad. He was involved in everything, you know; amateur dramatics, music society, history society, Scouts, gardening club, church council…”

“I know.” She cuts him off. It is Reg, her father’s old scouting friend. He is bent and frail, the hand enclosing his supporting cane wrinkled and liver spotted. His voice has grown tremulous.

“He was generous with his time and his money. Look at all this! Even at the end he made sure that everyone he knew could have a get together and have a good time. But Jacintha’s not here. I find that odd, don’t you? Do you know why she chose not to attend?”

Alex turns from the photos she’s been inspecting, the visual archive of her father’s life. She’s in some of them, a grinning toddler wielding a beach bucket or sitting squarely with a large dog. There’s one of them all together; she and Christina, their mother and father, posed against a backdrop of the Houses of Parliament.

“No. I’ve no idea why she isn’t here, Reg. Have you asked the solicitor?”

The old man shakes his head, shuffling away towards the bar and muttering. “It’s not my place to pry.”

Now her sister is making her way across the grass, clutching her wine glass, wrinkling her nose as a drift of smoke engulfs her. “Darling!” she drawls, kissing Alex on the cheek. “Good God-was that us?” She bends towards the photo, a slender vision of elegance in pale green shot silk. “Whose idea was it to have this ghastly hog thing? It’ll make everyone’s clothes smell like a bloody bonfire, not to mention greasy drips all over everything. I can’t believe Jacintha allowed it; she being such a rampant vegan and all that other hippy stuff.”

“Jacintha’s not here.”

“No, she isn’t, is she? There might be a God after all.”

Alex raises a brow at her sister. “She made Dad happy, Chrissie and looked after him when his health failed. You surely didn’t begrudge him some happiness in his last years.”

Christina straightens and takes a sip of dry, white wine. “I don’t begrudge him getting a wife younger than us. I do begrudge her taking our inheritance. I don’t know about you, darling but I could just do with a few grand at the moment.”

Alex sighs. “Divorce is expensive, you know that better than most.”

Her sister’s impudent grin is accentuated by the jaunty hat perched on the salon-perfect highlighted hair. “It is an essential, darling, not a luxury. Have you met Simon yet?”

Alex frowns. She must mean Simon Patterson, their father’s solicitor. How is Chrissie already on first name terms? Feeling an urge to escape the sibling she cannot relate to she leaves her with the photographs and wanders out towards the source of the smoke, where a rectangular metal box like a coffin revolves over a nest of coals. Here, intense heat has not deterred a throng of spectators all fascinated by the revolving steel casket. Upon each revolution an oblong window reveals a glimpse into the interior, where the russet skin has already wrinkled and cracked in glistening rivulets of fat, a plump carcass sizzling and spitting on its long skewer. The watchers murmur together in a shared commentary of greedy anticipation and disgust. “Mmm-smells wonderful, doesn’t it?” “How long until it’s ready?” “Not sure if I fancy it now”.

She leaves them to their ghoulish observations and returns to the house; the home that they grew up in, now customised by Jacintha’s enormous paintings, batiks, weavings, appliqués, pots, sculptures and installations. She’d been nothing if not prolific in her output, filling every wall, alcove, shelf, nook and cranny with her creations, eradicating every vestige of their mother in a sustained and vigorous onslaught; elimination by pottery. Alex climbs the stairs. From the landing window she can see the carvery taking place below on a trestle table which is also laden with bread rolls, paper plates, bowls of salad and plastic boxes of apple sauce

In their marital bedroom she opens the door to an immense old oak wardrobe in which the profusion of Jacintha’s hand-dyed flowing skirts, shawls and dresses is barely contained and wonders where her father kept his clothes? A musty scent emanates from the clothing-faded perfume overlaid with hints of her skin. She’d been into anything alternative and believed that a rigorous regime of personal hygiene destroyed the body’s natural oils. Alex can remember the shock she and Chrissie had experienced on meeting her, almost ten years ago now. They hadn’t been prepared for their father to begin a new relationship, still less with a pierced, tattooed, dreadlocked artist wearing rainbow harem pants.

She is startled by her sister’s voice calling upstairs and returns to the landing to look down.

“There she is! We were looking for you darling! Come down and meet Simon.”

Alex makes a slow descent to shake the hand of a tall, angular man standing by her sister. He is a man who is accustomed to a luxurious lifestyle, judging by the sweep of his grey hair and his casual but expensive clothes. A pale blue cotton sweater is slung around his shoulders and his feet are bare inside designer deck shoes. “I own a classy yacht” the clothes say and the deep, tanned skin is a clue to where he sails it.

“I’m delighted to meet you”, he tells her, his voice deep, rich and aristocratic. Chrissie is wearing an expression Alex has seen before on too many occasions, like a child with the run of a sweet shop. “Come on Alex. Let’s all go and get some food. We should sit down or we won’t get a table. The firm that supplies these hog roasts is something else, you know. All their carcasses bear a trade mark. I saw it come in on the truck, proudly displaying a shield in blue ink on its rear end.”

She follows the two of them outside and over to the counter, where a queue has formed for rolls stuffed with hot, greasy pork, crisp crackling and sweet apple sauce. Next to them in the line a woman is also explaining to her companion that each hog carcass is etched with a code in some kind of hieroglyphics detailing the heritage of the pig, its lineage and place of birth. “It seems almost indecent, doesn’t it?” she laughs. “As if we were eating someone we’ve been introduced to!” Her friend is chuckling and Alex feels a slight nausea at the idea of the greasy meat topped with crisp, bubbly crackling. Ahead of her she can see Chrissie and Simon sharing a joke or an intimacy, her head tilted up towards his, her lips parted in a smile. The familiarity of this scene makes her weary. She breaks free of the queue and walks down to the end of the lawn to sit on a bench in the shade.

Their father had been unusual in leaving express instructions that he didn’t want a funeral. He’d wanted this; a celebration, party, get together-call it what you like. He’d left it to Jacintha to issue invitations so she’d been surprised to have received the card-an elaborate, hand-painted creation on Jacintha’s own, customised, recycled paper. The woman had not been immune to the sisters’ antipathy, since they’d been at best luke-warm when they’d greeted her at their infrequent meetings with their father. She must have realised she was the reason their visits had dwindled to annually, duty stops while en route somewhere. ‘Just a cup of tea, don’t want to put you to any trouble’. Jacintha would produce some herbal infusion picked from the hedgerows and proffer something inedible like nettle scones with tofu. It occurs to Alex now that these efforts may have been attempts to buy their approval, though in her own unorthodox way. Their father never commented on their lack of warmth towards his new wife, nor did he complain at the sporadic nature of their visits. Perhaps he felt it was the price he’d paid for her, for Jacintha; to lose the affections of his daughters.

Chrissie and Simon have settled at a table with their plates of hog roast. Chrissie appears to have overcome her repugnance and is tucking into a pork roll with gusto in between slugs of wine and peals of laughter at whatever Simon Patterson is saying. She glances at Alex then says something to him before getting up and approaching her, stumbling a little on her spindly heels. She sits down and drapes an arm around her younger sister, close enough for Alex to smell her hot, grease and wine laden breath.

“You should get something to eat, Alex. It’s really very good.”

“In a minute.” Alex stares at her lap. She and Chrissie have grown apart, their mother having been the glue that cemented their closeness as sisters. Now they rarely see each other and on the occasions when they do they’ve only had the one same conversation, one shared dislike of Jacintha. After a few minutes she allows Christina to pull her up and tow her to the table where Simon still sits and accept the glass of wine her gets for her. The plate she is handed is loaded with a pork roll, cole-slaw, apple sauce and a heap of greasy crackling, brown scored skin with a few blackened hairs still clinging. She nibbles at the roll and salad.

“So you’ve left the family at home then, Alex?” Simon Patterson is making an attempt at small talk. She shrugs. “It didn’t seem fair to drag them up here.”

Chrissie makes a face. “I’d have got to see my nephews! You’ve deprived me of the pleasure!” Alex looks sideways at her sister, who has never been shy about expressing her dislike of children.

The solicitor continues “She is quite a character though, Jacintha-a strange choice for your father to have made, don’t you think? All those odd tattoos in Greek letters and the dreadlocks?”

Alex puts her plastic fork down. “I suppose she made him feel younger-and I expect he got lonely. You must know where she is now though, don’t you? You must have been acting for them both-for Jacintha and our father?”

Chrissie is watching them, her small, white teeth nibbling on a piece of pork scratching. There are faint vestiges of blue ink near her fingers, indicating that this must be from the etched area of pig. Simon laughs. “All will be revealed” he tells her as the distant ringing of a spoon against a glass signals silence among the revellers.

The vicar asks for their indulgence, rising from his seat, paper in hand. He has a message for all of them, from Jacintha:

Dear Friends,

I hope you are all having a wonderful afternoon in the sunshine enjoying the good company, the delicious food and wine and the memories.

Edgar and I were only together for a short time before he was cruelly taken but for me it was the happiest time of my whole life…

Alex glances at her sister, who raises her eyes to heaven.

I ask you to understand that I am not able to be with you today to celebrate Edgar’s life as it is too soon for me to face people who knew us as a couple. In order to grieve I am leaving for pastures new and will be settling in Lesbos where I am setting up a studio in order that my emotions can find an outlet in my work.

So it’s ‘Goodbye’. Bless you all and enjoy the remainder of the party.

In Edgar’s memory

Jacintha.

There is a pause before the guests begin to murmur again. Chrissie is still clutching the spear of pig skin marked in blue ink. Alex sees her peer at it, then across at Simon Patterson who returns her look with an almost imperceptible wink.

Jez and Badger

Posted on February 12, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

This week you have an entire, brand new short story; a tale of two old mates meeting and reliving their past together…

It’s almost midday in Benidorm, the sun approaching peak heat as two old friends share a bench on the prom. One pulls his T-shirt up and over his head.

‘Christ, man! You shouldn’t be exposing yourself like that! Think of the public!’

Badger chuckles, casting a rueful glance down at his pasty, bulbous belly. ‘Ah Jez, you’re not seriously expecting anyone to recognise us, are you? They’d hardly have known us then, let alone now.’

His companion grins. ‘I wasn’t thinking of recognition-who is ever going to recognise a drummer and a base player? I’m just trying to save innocent holiday makers from unpleasant sights.’

Jez is tanned, wiry. He pulls a tobacco pouch from a pocket of his leather waistcoat and begins to roll a cigarette. ‘Want one?’

Badger shoves his sunglasses up and rubs his eyes. ‘Gave up fifteen years ago. One less vice! Still have a couple though’

‘Let me guess’ ventures Jez, blowing out a plume of smoke, ‘Beer and women’.

Out on the beach a group of scantily clad teenagers is arranged on towels, listening to hip-hop, exclaiming over their phone messages, snapping selfies.

Badger tugs at his once luxuriant pony tail and grunts. ‘Probably not women so much these days. So how does it feel to be back in blighty? Like you’ve never been away?’

The base player sighs and flicks his cigarette end to the sand. ‘To be honest I’m thinking of giving up the bar, selling up and coming back, except I don’t know if we’ll get a buyer. Trade isn’t so good. Nobody’s heard of ‘Satan’s Spawn’ these days, let alone Jez Jarwood. People in Spain don’t have the money to spend boozing like they did. They’ll come in, buy one beer, nurse it for the whole of a sports fixture then go and drink at home.’ He coughs then begins pulling more tobacco from the pouch, yellowing fingers still string-hardened. ‘Then me and Paulette haven’t been getting along that well since the profits dropped. How about you? Still enjoying marital bliss?’

Badger’s face is turned up to the sun, his rounded belly glistening under it’s heat like a tight, sweating marrow. ‘We broke up. The lifestyle of a session musician doesn’t lend itself to family life. I see the kid sometimes-not as often as I should. Do you ever hear from her, from Jillie?’

Jez has his elbows on his knees, squinting, smoking like he’s facing the firing squad. ‘No. You?’

‘No. I thought she might turn up though. First gig for twenty years.’

‘We don’t know if she’s even alive, Badge; or where she lives, or if she knows about the gig or cares! She might be married, have kids- grandkids, even!’

Over on the sand two of the teenagers have returned from swimming and are chasing each other with handfuls of wet sand, screeching with laughter.

‘Did you-?’

‘No. Did you?’

‘No. I wanted to. We all wanted her, didn’t we? The other two.’

‘Yes. They did. Christ, it was messy, wasn’t it?’ He launches into a throaty coughing fit, bony shoulders shaking then he spits on to the sand between his boots.

Badger sits up and begins to struggle into his T-shirt. ‘They were good times, Jez, back then; even the fights. I’d go back and do it all again, wouldn’t you?’

Jez straightens up and flicks a few specks of ash from the faded denim covering his skinny knees. Who were they trying to fool with a ‘comeback’ gig? There was no trace, now of the taught body and blond curls he flaunted as a twenty something. Badger’s trademark white streak of hair amongst the black was lost in a mangy, grey comb-over. And Jillie, their brilliant, beautiful constant, their shared muse, she’d have aged, gathered weight, be mired in domestic life.

‘I don’t know, mate. We’ll see how tonight goes.’

Jez takes his case from the boot as Badger heaves his bulk from behind the wheel of his battered Audi and lumbers, wheezing, around to make his farewells. He takes Jez’s yellowed fingers in his huge grasp and pumps. ‘It was a gas wasn’t it?’

There is only a slight nod in answer and a small smile. ‘Come over, Badge when you get a break. Bring the boy! Constant sunshine and all the paella you can eat!’

Badger grins. ‘Yeah. I might do that. Keep in touch, brother. See you at the next gig!’

He watches as Jez trundles the battered case into the gloom of the arrivals hall, where he turns one last time and raises a hand before joining the queue, then he squeezes back behind the wheel, selects Iron Maiden’s ‘Run to the Hills’, turns up the volume and drives away.

Many thanks for visiting Anecdotage. Please stop by again!

The Subway. [Episode 2]

Posted on February 5, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

This is the second and concluding part of the new, short fiction, The Subway, which began in last week’s post. Our narrator discovers something about her friendship with Cindy and about herself as the subway drama plays out.

‘I don’t have my phone’ I stammered. What an idiot I was! One or two of the bystanders trotted past me, back up the steps, phone in hand and I gazed after them, feeling like the last runner in a marathon to arrive at the finish line.

The heroic coffee shop woman had the homeless person on their back now, covers off and she was pumping away on his chest as she knelt there amidst the grime and filth.

‘What can I do?’ I asked her and she told me to go and look out for the ambulance. The subway was becoming crowded now as more spectators gathered to watch the spectacle of fragile life hanging by a desperate, dangling thread. As I climbed back up, I could hear her scalding the rubber-neckers as she pumped away, telling them to keep out of the way.

It seemed like a whole day of waiting, standing in the rain, straining for a sight or sound of the ambulance and it was a long time, too; but at last, the vehicle came careering around the roundabout, sirens wailing, pulled up and issued two paramedics. I led them down the steps and the hoard of onlookers parted like The Red Sea. The heroic coffee shop lady was still doing press ups on the man’s chest, which was astonishing given that the ambulance had taken so long. They did their stuff, the paramedics, checking the man over, giving him oxygen then manoeuvring him into a wheelchair before lifting the chair up the steps and into the ambulance. They closed the doors and one had a word with the woman who’d helped him. We watched the vehicle depart.

‘He’ll be alright, I think’ she said. The onlookers had dispersed and the rain was ebbing.

‘You were amazing,’ I told her.

She laughed. ‘Tell you what- my coffee will be cold by now, so why don’t you come and join me in the café.’ I looked at her then. I hadn’t had a chance to before. She was about my age, I judged, but with grey hair and no make-up, not glamorous, just a pleasant smile. I was soaked and she had grubby stains on her jeans but I followed her back inside the café, which was now almost empty of customers, as most had been outside spectating. The café staff were kind enough to offer us towels to blot the worst of the wet from ourselves.

We settled at a table and introduced ourselves. Greta, she was called. I asked her where she’d learned about first aid.

‘I used to work for the Red Cross before I retired,’ she said. ‘That was a while ago but every few years I get myself on a refresher course. It comes in handy sometimes. There’s nothing to prevent anyone from learning a few basic life-saving skills. You could do it, too, if you wanted.’

I shook my head. ‘I’m hopeless in emergencies. I can organise things ahead of time but when I’m faced with a crisis, I’m no good at all.’

She leaned across the table. ‘That’s not true, though, is it? You took control out there. You did what you could then went for help. It’s much more than most people would do. All those gawpers just stood there.’

We talked. I discovered that she also lived alone and that she loved to visit new places, although sometimes found it difficult to find companions to travel with. We had a lot in common, Greta and I, including walking, theatre, cinema, cooking and literature. Before we left the café, we exchanged phone numbers and email addresses and made tentative arrangements to visit the cinema in the following week.

My head was full of the mornings events and it was only as I turned into my street that I remembered Cindy. Not only was I now impossibly late but I was without biscuits. As there was no sign of her pink Fiat in the road, I had to assume she’d given up waiting and left. She’d be angry, I thought.

I could hear my phone screeching as soon as I opened the front door and as I picked it up, I counted the text messages- eleven. Eleven! And five missed calls. I turned the phone off and went to change my clothes, then sat at my laptop and Googled ‘first aid courses’, of which there were several I could sign up for.

Later in the evening I read a few of the messages, the first couple concerned then morphing through irritation and on to anger at being left waiting. When I rang her, she said she’d been worried about me, that I’d been in an accident. I explained everything but it was a mistake to mention Greta. She became very cold when I described our conversation over coffee.

‘You went for coffee with this…this stranger, when I was waiting outside your house?’

‘I’m sorry, Cindy. A lot happened. I just forgot.’

‘You forgot? What about our holiday planning?’

There was a pause while I thought of what to say. I felt calm, detached. ‘Cindy,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I’ll be coming on holiday now. I’ve just signed up to go on a first aid course. I won’t mind if you want to take someone else though.’

There was a further pause. ‘Oh, don’t you worry,’ she spat. ‘I’ll be taking someone else for sure.’ And with that, she hung up.

That was the last I saw of Cindy, except from afar when she was browsing the make-up counter in Boots and I was searching for crepe bandages. I went to see a film with Greta and we’ve been on a few walks since. Now we’re talking about doing a weekend in Devon with a walking group. I’ll take my first aid kit, of course- you never know what’s around the corner!

Many thanks for visiting and taking the time to read my fiction. For the next couple of weeks Anecdotage will feature more short stories, then will return to travel tales.

The Subway. Episode 1.

Posted on January 29, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

So here begins a brand new, two part story in which the intricacies of female friendship are explored…

It would take eight minutes, I figured, to walk to the bank and return. I could be back in time for Cindy’s visit; even a short diversion to the shop for milk and a packet of biscuits wouldn’t add much more.

Grabbing my purse and keys I stepped out into the overcast street and set off, brisk, mindful of the time.

I walked fast, overtaking the stymied snake of traffic that choked the High Street most days and reaching the underpass just as the first, fat drops of rain began to spot the pavement. I descended the slope, feeling the usual frisson of tension at the mouth of the subway, an apprehension I fought each time I crossed under the busy road despite there being a steady flow of pedestrians in both directions.

As I entered a thunderous deluge fell outside, a roar magnified by the dark echo inside the rounded tunnel and glancing behind me I glimpsed the flicker the lightning made while a rivulet formed to pool at the base of the slope. I had a fleeting vision of how my hair was going to look after it had been plastered to my scalp and my heart sank at what Cindy would say, given that she is inclined to criticise my hair care and indeed, all aspects of my appearance. Still, I pressed on.

He was there, towards the end of the subway, about two thirds along, propped up and swaddled in a bulky sleeping bag. The homeless man; head slumped. There was no one else, no other pedestrians in the tunnel. They must all be sheltering in shops and doorways. I dropped my chin and walked, tormented by the usual questions. Should I look? Should I speak? Should I donate? Most days I’d stare straight ahead, fumble in my bag or look away at others but today there was no one, no solidarity in ignorance.

I was almost level now. With nobody else to pass the buck to I paused to glance sideways, just a quick shifty to make sure he was alive. I wouldn’t want to pass by a corpse, or almost a corpse. That would make me heedless, callous. On the other hand, I didn’t have long. Cindy would be round soon, wanting her coffee. We needed to get together to plan our holiday which would require booking soon before the prices went up.

His head hung over his chest but I could see enough face to note that the skin had an unhealthy, greyish pallor and a thin string of saliva hung from the corner of his mouth, dribbling on to a dark, spreading patch on the blue nylon of the sleeping bag. I stepped nearer and caught the dry, musty smell of him in the damp air of the tunnel.

Normally he’s sitting in the bag, surrounded by empty styro-foam cups and dog-ends, gazing at passers-by and wishing them the time of day in the interests of his income. Normally he follows my progress through the tunnel with patient optimism and a murmured ‘Morning’. Normally his head is tilted upwards to engage pedestrians, eye-to-eye. It’s harder to ignore someone when they’re looking into your eyes.

I looked both ways again in vain hopes of a passing Samaritan, only to see the stair-rod rain step up a level, a thunderous, roaring wall of rain. I bent slightly towards the inert body and cleared my throat. “Are you ok?” I croaked, unheard above the crashing rain. In a moment I realised that I would have to be the Samaritan and in a simultaneous recognition understood that I was ill-equipped for the task, having no medical experience or expertise and being an impractical nincompoop. I experienced a hot flush as I remembered Cindy’s biscuits. There was nothing I could do about them now. I extended a tentative finger towards his forehead, which felt cold and clammy, like a newly caught mackerel from the fish counter. His eyelids were translucent and papery, trembling with each quick, shallow breath. When his lips parted to mumble an incoherent utterance, I jumped back as if stung.

It had taken me a long time to get friendly with Cindy. I’d been a member of the singles club for more than five years when she joined. I was never after romance after Brian went, more that I needed to make new friends but I’d tended to be on the fringe of the group. I don’t have the gift of the gab-not like Brian had and like Cindy. As soon as she joined, she was the centre of the crowd like a bullseye in a darts board with everyone radiating around her. Then one club night they’d organised a board games session and I was sitting it out because Monopoly isn’t my thing and she came and sat with me, said she wasn’t keen either. We talked about what we did like and it turned out we both love holidays and sunny destinations but find it hard to travel alone. We’ve been away a few times since then. Cindy’s the gregarious type, starting up conversations with strangers, chatting up waiters. But she’s an air-head. She can’t get organised and she’s hopeless with money. I used to work in management so I’m used to dealing with money, timetables and plans, so I suppose we’re the perfect travel companions. I don’t mind that she’s so glamorous and a man magnet because I’d be hopeless on my own. But I often worry that she’ll meet someone, remarry and I’ll be back to how I was, back to being lonely.

I took off my coat and draped it over the man the best I could, thinking perhaps he was cold. I don’t know a lot about first aid but it’s what people do in accidents, isn’t it? For shock or heart attack? Now I’d have to get to someone with a phone. I’d have to go out into the storm without a coat, find a stranger and accost them. Cindy would have no trouble with this but Cindy is not a mouse.

I took the town side steps, reasoning it was more likely there’d be passers-by that side. I was soaked in seconds and once I gained the top, I scanned the precinct for someone. An individual rushed by, head down, ignoring my approach. Spotting a couple sheltering in the jeweller’s doorway I ran to them, gasping. They shook their heads, assuming, I imagine, that I was asking for money. I suppose by now I had the look of a vagrant myself with hair plastered to my face and clothes sticking to my skin. Desperate, I pushed open the door to the coffee shop next door and stood, dripping on the doormat.

The entire clientele and all of the counter staff froze in a collective stare, which was mortifying in itself. I must have looked wild, as if I was about to draw a gun and shoot the lot of them where they sat hobnobbing over their cappuccinos and lattes and toasted tea cakes, but I took a deep breath and blurted, ‘Can someone ring for an ambulance? There’s a sick guy down in the subway!’ There was a short pause then a lone figure rose from the corner.

‘Show me’ was all she said. I led her to the steps and stood aside while she galloped down and was swallowed up by the tunnel. I began to follow, as did a number of café patrons, intrigued by the prospect of some pavement entertainment on a rainy afternoon. The café woman was kneeling over the recumbent man talking to him but with no response. She shouted. ‘Ring an ambulance. Do it now!’

Episode 2 of The Subway can be read in next week’s post. Thanks for visiting!

Winter Water Wonderland

Posted on January 22, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

Here in the UK, January is a dismal month; to my mind, the most dreary month of the year. And this, 2023’s January is worst than most, because added to the woes of the relentless wet or freezing weather are sky-high fuel prices, rampant inflation, impossible grocery price hikes, frightening scenes in our health service and a whole raft of strikes driven by working peoples’ rightful indignation at their inadequate salaries. Oh, and on top of it all, brutal war rages in Europe, where Ukraine slogs it out with Russia on our behalf.

Outside the rear boundary of our house lies a footpath and beyond that, water meadows. They are aptly named, currently under water from the seasonal flooding. In the early days of our occupancy I was anxious over the proximity of the freshwater sea which seems perilously close, but after six years have grown used to our watery outlook during the winter, which is partially tidal due to our nearness to the estuary where the river ends its journey. The views were a useful stimulus for writing The Conways at Earthsend [see footnote].

To drag ourselves from the trough of gloom we’ve cast around for some cultural distractions, last week to a meal, an evening of Cream and Hendrix music, a night away and a British breakfast [an indulgence seldom taken]. In my late teens I was very familiar with Cream’s music, as I was with so many bands of the late 60s, so to hear classics like ‘White Room’, ‘Badge’ and the iconic version of ‘Crossroads’ played [in whatever fashion] was a transport to my youth- a tiny [and loud] morsel of escapism alongside the excellent braised beef and creme brulee of the meal.

On an occasional day when it hasn’t rained I’ve ventured into the garden to make some sense of the ravages of winter. We’ve also walked when the weather allowed, rewarding ourselves with scooting into cafes on the return.

I’ve reserved seats at our local, regional theatre to see a couple of things, including pantomime, to which I’m dragging Offspring and Grandoffspring and to a broadcast screening of the National Theatre’s offering of The Crucible.

And then, having dithered and procrastinated our way through the last few weeks we did, at last get around to seeking some winter sun and booking it [about which- more later].

It’s tempting during these winter months to climb under a thick blanket and hunker down with all manner of TV offerings [which, let’s face it are not universally of top quality] but while the occasional session of television is fine, catching up on anything worth watching, constant binging becomes mind-numbing.

Winter, then is a time for cultural visits and pursuits, of which there are more than in the summer, which is full of festivals. Hooray for the arts!

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