A Brief Sunny Interval at Islares

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We’ve stayed here, at Islares, before, another occasion when we’d needed to get home earlier than planned. I recognise the site when we pull in; a green, daisy- strewn field next to the sea. There’s loads of space, and, best of all, the sun is out. The journey here has been pleasant and I remember how beautiful the north coast of Spain is- rugged and glorious.

There aren’t many places to walk here, but outside the camp site gates you can stroll up to the seaside bar and watch the waves crashing in against the rocks in fluffy plumes. When the sun comes out it actually feels hot, so having walked up and around the path a little we return, plonk down at a table and have beers in the sunshine. It feels, on this penultimate day, like a proper holiday at last- except we’ll be setting off home the day after tomorrow.

Back at the site, we scrutinise the bus timetable for tomorrow’s jaunt- a day’s sighseeing before we depart. We can get to Bilbao by bus from Islares, although it’s two buses.

The site here has its own, modest cafe/bar and we opt for this, rather than the posher place where we had our beers. It just has a few tables, formica topped and a small selection of meals, from burgers to paella. Since we can’t order until 8.00pm, we choose to prop up the bar with a beer. At 8 a few people drift in and sit and we decide on paella which, at 12 euros is a no-brainer, besides- a Dutch couple who’ve arrived to the site after us and parked nearby have ordered it and it’s looking delicious.

The paella arrives in a large, traditional dish. We dig into the fragrant rice and it’s full of wonderful, fresh seafood as well as topped off with giant langoustines. We’re happy.

Next morning we trudge up to the main road above our site and walk along but there’s no sign of a bus stop. We backtrack a little but by now the bus is due, which is worrying. I waylay a passer-by and launch into my woeful Spanish: ‘Senor- donde esta autobus?’ It will do! He gestures further along the main road, gabbling furiously, then gets into a car. He pulls alongside us and indicates that we should get in, then takes us up the road to the bus stop- a kind stranger!

After a while a few other passengers arrive to wait, then a small bus comes along and we’re off towards a town called Castro Urdiales, where we must change buses, ‘at the bull-ring’ as we’ve been advised.

The older I get, the more I enjoy bus rides and there are all kinds of reasons to use public transport, not least the convenience of not needing to find a parking place or worry about traffic, or the route. So we settle back to enjoy the ride and the scenery as the bus meanders in and out of villages and round the houses, until at last we’re in the outskirts of the town and we must pay attention in order to get off at the right place. Castro Urdiales is a sizeable town, with a seafront, all attractively landscaped and an obvious tourist destination.

We spot the bull-ring and get off, although there’s no obvious sign to where we catch the next bus. But there is a large coach parked in a space by the wall of the bull-ring and it’s complete with driver, who assures us that yes- it’s the bus for Bilbao. Hooray!

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Back and Back…

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It’s become clear, on this terraced camp site opposite an industrial estate in Caceres, Spain, that our electrics are not going to work in any of their sockets. Worse still, it seems that the problem is ours, not theirs. Everyone else’s van is plugged in and working fine. This is a major hitch to our plans. We can cope for two days on battery power before we need to move and charge up, but we’d planned to stay longer in some of the sites we’ve booked- one, on the coast, almost a week.

Husband goes down to reception and returns triumphant, bearing the name and address of someone in the industrial estate who could help. The man in reception had been kind and helpful. We pin our hopes on the name and address and settle in for the evening. I’m relieved to have had a shower in the cleaner bathroom, as although the ranting French lady and her husband have moved on, they’ve been replaced by a Dutch couple.

By morning the weather hasn’t improved and it’s colder, overcast and breezy. With the address of the electrician in the SATNAV, we plunge into the industrial estate, pulling in at a forecourt. The helpful campsite reception man has phoned ahead to alert him, explaining that we are English and a youngish man appears, brandishing a phone, on which he has downloaded the language app. It takes no more than 30 seconds for him to shrug and shake his head, once he’s seen the set-up. That’s a ‘no’ then.

We trundle round the roads of the industrial estate in the remote hope that there’s somewhere that might help and I try one or two likely places as well as some unlikely ones. Eventually we decide it’s no-go. I begin to feel that this lack of interest is more to do with the impending Easter holiday than anything else. Everywhere is winding down. Everyone is focused on their time off.

There’s nothing for it but to turn back, so we set the SAT back to Salamanca and get back on the motorway. At the whizzo services I go inside for over-the-top chocolatey pastries to revive our flagging spirits, then we’re on again, back to Salamanca, where, at least we know there’s plenty of space. The weather continues to get colder and there’s a nasty, biting edge to the wind.

When we turn into the entrance to ‘Don Quijote’, the lovely Salamanca site, I notice a building we hadn’t seen before- ‘Motorhome Services’. Motorhome Services! I experience a frisson of excitement. We’ll check in and investigate, though it has some hefty gates and they are closed. We check in and enquire at reception, where the man says they might help, although holidays are fast approaching and they’ll be wanting to get their existing work finished beforehand.

On the site, everyone is swathed in puffa jackets, hats and scarves. It is perishing cold now- 3 degrees! We won’t be getting chairs out for a bask in the sunshine. We wait until the motorhome place is open then take the van along there. A woman emerges from a large hanger and beckons us in. She looks. She has us plug in to their socket. It blows. She shrugs, shakes her head. I feel my shoulders sag.

In the morning we track back towards Burgos. It’s now Wednesday and we can’t get a ferry home until Saturday so we opt to spend two nights. We can hunker down with books and at least now we have internet. We check back in. The wind is blowing horizontally across the site and I’m hoping a tree doesn’t fall on anyone. In the evening we go to the restaurant for a change of scene.

The afternoon of the following day is brighter and we stretch our legs with a bracing walk around the extensive park by the site. It’s been landscaped with barbecues and footpaths, one of which follows the river. Along the way we encounter more pilgrims with their walking poles and large backpacks. Presumably they’ll be trekking to Burgos for the Easter shindig.

We leave next day and head to a site on the coast between Santander and Bilbao where we’ve stayed before. We’ll stay our final two nights there- and we have a plan for our final day…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

On to Salamanca

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So we leave Burgos and continue down towards our next stop, Salamanca. The Spanish motorways are excellent; toll-free, quiet and well served with service areas, although they do vary quite a bit, some being right by the roadside, others a detour into a village. Some of the roadside ones boast modest hotels, together with a host of facilities including cafes and shops. Others may just be a petrol station with a coffee machine.

We take a break, veering off to a village gas station where a man emerges and dolls out the diesel rather than it being self-service. This is endearing, a step back in time for us. There is a small parking area and three picnic tables beside the petrol station and as it’s fine enough to sit outside we have coffee at one of the tables, entertained by a stream of hikers, pilgrims making their way along the path towards Santiago de Compostela. At this stage, close to Easter, it seems unlikely that they’ll achieve Santiago, but perhaps they use a cheeky bit of public transport? Or is part of the way enough? At one point an entire family turns up in a 4×4, get out, smoke cigarettes, change their shoes and set off walking…

It’s not too far to Salamanca. For those who haven’t been to this most gorgeous of cities, it is well worth a visit- a historic centre of beautiful buildings of golden stone- best seen in sunshine, when the yellow stone zings. But again, we’ve been before and it’s not our destination this time so we check in for one night. I remember the site, tidy and tree strewn, by a river, with a cycle/footpath leading into the city. The sun has enough warmth for us to get chairs out for a bask, which we do. There’s also a tempting looking restaurant at which we just about manage to squeeze a booking by saying we’ll go at 9.30pm. It’s a wonderful meal, though and worth the wait, and while we feel it’s late for us to be eating there are many coming in later still on this Saturday night- some at 10.30pm! This is Spain, after all, with a culture of late evening dining that includes small children, too.

We’re off again in the morning, the weather having turned more gloomy, but we strike out on the road to Caceres- another city we’ve visited in the past, memorable for its nesting storks on every lofty perch, its wacky Easter parades of floats and pointy-hat adorned bearers and its huge plates of beef. En route we stop at a wonderful service area with a fruit and veg stall, shop and cafe, where coaches are pulling in, presumably carrying Easter travellers. Easter is a big holiday for the Spanish and everyone, it seems, is on the move.

By the time we get to Caceres there’s a strong breeze blowing. We locate the camp site but it’s not one we recognise and I’m at a loss to recall where we staryed last time. This site is opposite and industrial estate and is terraced, with pitches housing individual bathrooms, according to our ACSI book. We check in and find our pitch, which is under a large tree. When I take a look at the bathroom I’m less than impressed. It’s grubby, with leaves blown inside and furniture piled up in the shower cubicle.

I go in to put the kettle on while Husband grabs the cable to plug the van in. But there’s no power. He tries the socket in the neighbouring [empty] pitch. No power. He goes to reception, where he’s told it’s ok to use next-door’s socket, although it’s becoming clear that something is badly amiss. Next door’s bathroom, however, is altogether cleaner, so I get a shower in there before anyone else turns up- which they do- a massive motorhome and a woman gabbling a tirade of French at us with no thought that we might not be compatriots on this Spanish site…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Caught without a Web

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We arrive to the camp site at Burgos. We’ve been here before, years ago [and a similar time of year] when the weather was bitter cold and miserable and everyone was wrapped up in thick coats and woolly hats. Today, though, it’s warm and sunny, and since we didn’t get to look at Burgos last time it seems like we can now.

But there’s trouble ahead. Having parked up, plugged in and put the kettle on it looks like the swanky, new Avtex internet device Husband got installed into the van isn’t working, although it certainly did work at home in the UK. We try various options, type in assorted numbers on devices, turn off and on [as one does]. On my laptop, a page prompts me to type in a phone number and all numbers are rejected. I begin to feel frustrated. I call ‘3’, the provider whose page comes up. I have an increasingly stressful conversation with a distant, heavily accented ‘3’ assistant. I feel hot and irritated and am told to stop by Husband, which I do. Worse still, the site has no wifi.

In reception, Husband is given directions to a shopping centre which we can visit tomorrow to seek out, perhaps, a solution.

Next morning is sunny again and after coffee we set off to ‘Al Campo’ in the town, which turns out to be a large shopping complex with plenty of parking opposite. Inside, the first sighting is a small booth of a phone shop. The assistant shrugs when we ask for help and shrugs again when we ask if there’s somewhere else. Upstairs it’s the same story. Defeated, we descend to the ground floor again and there!, there is a Vodaphone shop next door to an Orange shop, almost opposite the small phone shop. In France we get Orange sim cards for our mobile wifi device, so it’s clear we’ll have to ditch the wondrous Avtex and return to our tried and tested method. We enter the shop. An able and amiable assistant tells us ‘yes- sure we can do it’, speaking near-perfect English, too. I feel my shoulders relax. There’s the usual wait for paperwork then we’re set. Hooray! We go across the road and have a tapas lunch to celebrate.

Of course, we survived years of tent camping trips before the internet was conceived of…

Back on site, we allow ourselves a short bask in the sunshine before getting a late afternoon bus into Burgos centre. It’s still hot and walking round feels like hard work, but we find our way to the cathedral, which is the city’s main attraction, the Catedral de Santa Maria. It’s a UNESCO site and well deserved. While the outer parts of Burgos are modern and high-rise, the old centre is beautiful and characterful.

At last we give up sightseeing in the heat, get an early evening beer and people watch. We’ll be off again in the morning, heading ever southwards…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

A Toe in the Water

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It’s a return to travel writing in this week’s post…

Not literally- at least I hope not!

The ferry from Portsmouth, UK to Santander in northern Spain leaves sometime after 11pm; after the last, remaining motorhomes, lorries, cars and motorbikes have been fitted into the jigsaw slots in the ferry’s capacious hold. This boat is one of Brittany Ferries’ newest, boasting ingenious ramps and contraptions in order to accomodate as many vehicles as possible. Similarly, there is more cabin capacity than public area, although the bar/lounge, once we’ve managed to get loaded on, found our cabin and got there, is bursting with life, a roaring trade, with drinks and platters of charcuterie and cheese flying out like the end of the world is at hand. Once we’ve sat down with a drink ourselves, all the dreary waiting in queues, yawning, is forgotten.

I don’t sleep well on ferries. In fact, I don’t sleep well at all, these days, but after this first cabin night there’s no rush to get up. It’s a dinky 4-berth, which is lucky because neither of us is cabable of clambering up and down off a high bunk, especiallly in the dark. Next morning there’s a cafe queue for huge breakfasts, and since we’re not huge breakfasters we grab coffee and a pastry, then…what? We can walk around the boat for a look, which we do. We can look at the one, modest shop, which we do. We can go to the ‘reading room’, which we also do, although it isn’t as comfortable as it looks and not as warm as the other areas. We spend an hour or so then get another coffee.

We have lunch. We read, We take another tour. We resist the urge to drink the day away as some are doing. The views in the Bay of Biscay become, briefly interesting as we glide past Brittany, with the lighthouse at Finistere a feature. The afternoon becomes bright with sunlight and the skies clear, until the sun is a tangerine orb that sinks into the sea. We go to shower in the tiny ensuite inside our cabin then go for dinner.

I’m awake before the tannoy announces our imminent arrival to Santander. It’s 7.00am, so 1 hour before we must disembark, but there’s very little to do except wash, dress and pack. In the cafe some are scoffing down ‘full English’ breakfasts as if they’ll never eat an edible morsel again. Santander port begins to slide past then the boat slows and we’re docking. We’re called to the car decks and descend through the hoards to ours- which we’ve taken care to remember! [I’ve described in a long ago post how we failed to locate our van on the Sardinia ferry and were mortified to be the last remaining vehicle as well as confronted by scowling ferrymen].

It takes an age to unload everyone and we’re one of the last to trundle off the boat and on to Spanish shores, then out into the outskirts of town, driving south and west. This first part of our journey is mountainous [the Cantabrian Mountains] and it’s exciting to see snow caps. We stop at a convenient supermarket for supplies and the bright sun feels warm. The autovia is easy and quiet and we’re on our way to Burgos…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend and The Year of Familiar Strangers. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Visiting Steven [Part 3]

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Molly and Ed have been paying a visit to lugubrious Steven as a favour to a neighbour, but the visit is not easy or enjoyable. Now they on their way back home…

‘You’re surely not going, are you?’ Ed exhales an irritated huff as I begin to reverse out of the driveway.

‘I feel I should. I need to be Elspeth’s representative. And If I don’t go, who on earth else will?’

‘It doesn’t matter,does it? Who cares? It’s not our problem. I suppose at least we’ve got a cake out of it.’

Next morning I go next door to Elspeth’s to tell her when the funeral is, playing down the negative reception we had from Stevenand probing a little into the strange, mother-son relationship of Steven and Bet. My elderly, infirm neighbour is sitting in her usual spot by the bay window, where she likes to watch the world go by. I tap the window to let her know I’m coming in, then use my key.

Elspeth was here when we moved here, seven years ago. She made us feel welcome straight away, going on to become a close friend and confidante. Over the years she’s become disabled, lost confidence and rarely leaves the house, even though she knows we’d take her anywhere she’d like to go. I pop in most days, unless we’re on holiday, just to check if she’s alright and see if she needs any shopping.

I make us both tea and settle into a chair opposite her. She’s looking expectant, wanting to know how we got on yesterday at Steven’s house.

‘Did he like the flowers?’ she asks. I smile.

‘Oh yes- I think he liked them. I found a vase to put them in for him.’

She nods. ‘How does he seem, Molly?’

I chew my lip, thinking. ‘He’s…he’s sad, of course.’

She waits for more. She hasn’t seen Steven or his mother for more than twenty years. since they moved to the coast, to Eastbourne and I wonder why they made the choice to move away from anyone they knew, given that neither of them had left the bungalow or the TV screen to stroll by the sea and enjoy the benefits of coastal living.

‘Elspeth, why do you think Steven stayed with his mum and never left the family home? He seems to have become dependent on her right into adulthood.’

She gazes out of the window, where a hungry blue tit is tearing away at her bird feeder.

‘Well, they were always close,’ she tells me, ‘more so when his dad left them. I think Steven felt protective towards her then I suppose it became a mutual thing.’ she turns back to me.

I ask her how she and Bet had met and she describes how they’d both started in the same accountancy firm on the same day, how they’d gone out dancing, met men, had boyfriends who’d become husbands, had a baby within a year of each other. They’d been bridesmaids for each other, supported each other and laughed together for years, shared secrets and helped out whenever it was needed, until Bet’s husband left her and she wanted a new start, wanted to be near the sea. She chose Eastbourne, many miles away.

Elspeth’s happy marriage came to an end when she was widowed but she no longer had the immediate support of her best friend. Contact had been reduced to letters, fewer and fewer of them as time went by, then only birthdays and Christmas cards. Elspeth had received an impersonal, typed, round-robin letter informing her of Bet’s death.When she asks me about the funeral arrangements I feel so sorry for her I tell her I will deputise for her and attend.

Then I realise I will have to tell Ed.

Back at our house, Ed is busy pottering in the garage. I open the door and he looks up.

‘How was Elspeth?’ he asks me.

‘She’s ok. I know you won’t like this idea much,’ I venture, ‘but…

Check in next Sunday for the fourth and final instalment of Visiting Steven. For more fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend and The Year of Familiar Strangers. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Visiting Steven [part 2]

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Molly and husband, Ed have driven a longway to visit Steven, a man they don’t know but are beginning to wish they still didn’t…Track back to last week’s post to begin at the beginning…

He stares down. ‘I cared for her for a year. She likes to be in here, with me. We like to be together. We like the same TV programmes. Emmerdale, that’s one of her favourites; all the soaps. We love them.

I’m noting the use of present tense, nodding at him. Is he confused, part of him believing her to still be alive?

‘Did you have help with her care? Did anyone come in?’

‘They come three times a week; not always the same ones. Some of them are alright. I like it when they’re gone and it’s just Mum and me again. I can do anything they do, anyway. We don’t need anyone else.’

Ed coughs. I ignore him.

‘I tell you what, Steven. How about me making us all a cup of tea. Shall I do that? I expect I can find everything in the kitchen. Is it through there?’ I wave my hand at the hallway. Ed leaps up, springing into action.

‘I’ll do it! he blurts and strides from the room.

I plunder my thoughts for conciliatory phrases. ‘Was it peaceful? I expect she was comforted to have you by her side, wasn’t she?’

There is a painful silence, during which I notice his face is glistening with tears. I rifle in my bag for a clean tissue and place it in his lap before escaping to the kitchen, where Ed is opening and closing cupboards in a hunt for mugs. He turns when I enter.

‘For God’s sake! How much longer do we need to be here? The man’s clearly deluded and clinically depressed. There’s nothing we can do for him, is there?’

I refrain from questioning Ed’s psychiatric, diagnostic skills. ‘I promised Elspeth! I can’t just throw the flowers at him and run off!’

‘Well, we’re leaving as soon as we’ve done the tea- that’s if I can find anything to put it in. It’s a hell of a way to come for this kind of welcome. We’ll need to get back on the road soon.’

He’s right, of course. It’s a two and a half hour drive for us.

I find a glass jug in a cupboard and put the flowers into it as Ed withdraws some petite, flowery cups from a high shelf. He’s made tea in a brown, tannin-stained teapot, using leaves he’s found in an ancient, tin caddy. There’s some milk in the fridge which smells alright. I carry two cups back into the living room, where Steven hasn’t budged, and place one beside him on a side table. We resume our respective positions. I lean forward.

‘When’s the funeral, Steven?’ I ask him and he flinches as though he’d forgotten we were there.

‘Monday. Willdown Cemetery. Eleven o’clock.’ He sniffs.

‘Who’ll be there- apart from yourself, I mean?’

He shrugs…

Check in next Sunday for the third and final instalment of Visiting Steven. For more fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend and The Year of Familiar Strangers. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Visiting Steven

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It’s a squat, ugly bungalow on a corner between two busy roads. a short driveway bordered with scruffy weeds leads to the front door, paint peeling, neglected terracotta planters. I press the bell, peering through the wobbly glass until a blurred figure is visible and approaching. I clear my throat as the door opens just a bit, a narrow sliver of face in the gap, the rest shielded behind.

‘Steven?’ I say, summoning what I hope is a cheerful smile. He looks from me to Ed, his long , pale face guarded, his eyes hooded. He opens the door a fraction more. He’s a tall man, thin, a little stooped. He’s wearing a hand-knitted, navy cardigan over a grey shirt.

Ed’s lurking behind me on the step, semi-concealed as though he needs me to protect him. I take a breath and extend my free hand towards Steven.

‘My name’s Molly,’ I tell him, ‘and this is my husband, Ed’. I half turn to Ed, who appears to be what I term ‘skulking’ whenever he is engaged in a task he is reluctant to undertake. Steven glances down at my hand but doesn’t take it, preferring to move the door back until he’s narrowed the gap once more. I shift the bouquet of flowers I’m holding and plough on.

‘Steven, we’ve come to see you at the request of our neighbour, Elspeth. I believe you know her?’ A flicker of acknowledgement passes across his face. I continue. ‘I think your mum was a close friend of Elspeth’s. Am I right?’

He steps out from behind the door, nodding. I proffer the flowers.

‘Elspeth wanted you to have these. And she’s written you a note. Her writing’s a bit shaky these days but you should be able to decipher it.’ I do my utmost to fix an encouraging smile on my lips. There’s a pause while he stares at the flowers then back at us then he seems to rally, pulling the door wider and mumbling ‘come’, as he turns and lopes away into the hallway and turns left into a room. We follow, Ed trying to hisss something from behind me. I can guess what it is but ignore him. I know he’s even more averse to running this errand than I am myself. He wants to leave the flowers and the cake and go home.

I follow Steven into a living room furnished with two, faded, Dralon armchairs- ‘wingbacks’ I believe they’re called, in beige. There’s a worn, beige carpet, an old-fashioned gas fire opposite the door and a small dining table against one wall. The bay window has lattice panes, floral curtains on either side. It’s a bland, joyless room, unremarkable except for a large, metal-framed hospital bed, stripped down to its plastic-covered mattress. It faces the television, dominating the space like a huge, silent reproach. Steven, who has dropped into one of the wingbacks, must have noticed me staring.

‘It’s Mum’s’ he says, as if she’s still lying in it, frail and needing attention. I nod, aware that my smile must look grafted on my face.

‘You can sit’ announces, sweeping an arm at the other wingback. He pays no attention to Ed. There’s no other seating except for a dining chair, which Ed, still holding the cake, plumps for, giving me one of his hard frowns. I lean towards Steven.

‘We’ve brought you a cake’.

‘I don’t eat cake. I can’t eat gluten.’ I risk a glance at my husband, who rolls his eyes. Steven hasn’t made eye contact with either of us, rather keeping his face downcast, currently at carpet level as he sits, motionless except for the slightest twitch in his left foot, the one that’s resting on his right knee.

‘So, Steven’, I venture, ‘Your mum lived here in this room, did she?’…

The next part of ‘Visiting Steven’ will be in next Sunday’s Post. To read more by Jane Deans: novels, The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend are available. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Heart of Oak

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A new, flash fiction story in this week’s Anecdotage post. A young girl finds comfort in the empowering branches of an ancient tree…

It’s the top of the world, a pinnacle where the landscape lays beneath like a map studded with vehicles and figures, or at least that’s how it seems to Ada, who has never climbed to this position before.

At this height, the branches become spindly and precarious, susceptible to the slightest breath of breeze, but the girl enjoys the thrill of the swaying limbs, the danger they promise. She also understands that the tree is her protector, will never let her fall and has her best interests at heart. She’s confessed to it, held fast to it, spoken her fears to its sturdy trunk while her arms stretched around to encircled it.

She feels empowered in this lofty perch where nothing can touch her. Below, on the scruffy patch of grass they call a lawn her little sister, Jessie is talking to her doll, Clarissa and although Ada can’t make out the words, Jessie’s hectoring tone indicates that Clarissa is in trouble. She watches as Jessie shakes a warning finger at the doll, where it lays in the battered pram.

In the field next door to their garden, the Baildons’ shire horse, Toby is cutting a diligent swathe through the grass, his nimble teeth tugging the stalks as he steps. Ada loves Toby and dreams of straddling his broad back to roam the lanes, perhaps to school where she would be the envy of all the others.

An insistent buzz comes fromthe opposite side of the garden, where the churchyard paths are being mown. From this high, the ebb and flow of her father and stepmother’s current row is little more than a blurred grumble, alternate high-pitched whine and low growl. If there was more height, more branches to climb she’d continue the ascent until the voices disappeared altogether.

Jessie’s taken Clarissa out of the pram now and is giving the doll a hard smacking. She must have done something very wrong- failed to eat her dinner, perhaps, or left her room untidy? Maybe she’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time?

Wood smoke drifts across Ada in the breeze and she inhales as it passes, relishing the sweet, earthy aroma. A long time ago, when they used to visit their grandparents, she’d been allowed to help out when they had a bonfire in their garden and needed to clear unwanted growth and prunings, raking up twigs and leaves and tossing them on to the flames. She’d loved doing it; loved watching the flames spring into action, licking up around the bundle of trimmings as if accepting an offering. They never visited their grandparents now, since Mum went.

She looks downthrough the leafy boughs to the washing line and tries to conjure the figure of her mother, working her way along the line, a peg in her mouth as she hung items there. If she caught sight of Ada in the tree she’d wave before returning inside or she would bring biscuits and milk out for her and Jessie, placing the cups on the picnic table and fetching her coffee so they could all sit together in the sunshine. They’re not allowed to snack between meals now.

There’s a bang from somewhere inside the house, a door slamming then rapid footsteps. A moment later her stepmother emerges, stomping to her car, wrenching the door open and driving away. Dad comes out and she can see the round, thinning circle on the top of his head as he stands gazing at where the car was, before taking a long drag of a cigarette and blowing the smoke out in a long, irritated plume. Ada can smell the smoke, the dry, acrid wisp making her nose wrinkle. Dad murmurs something to Jessie, who’s engaged in tucking the blankets round Clarissa, who must have been forgiven her misdemeanours. Jessie shrugs without looking up. Dad glances around before returning indoors but doesn’t raise his eyes skyward, doesn’t imagine for a moment that Ada is right here above his balding head where she can peer down on it.

She closes her eyes, resing her cheek against the knobbly bark and inhaling its wholesome, mossy scent. Suppose she could live up here?She could bring some planks from the shed, rig up a shelter from old, plastic sheeting, add cushions and the sleeping bag she used to use when Mum and Dad took them camping. It’s still in the house somewhere, she’s certain. She’d only need to climb down for food and water, which she could collect at night, although the house might be locked up of course. But she knows there’s a spare key under the flower pot by the back door. Ada drifts into a semi-doze where she sits leaning on the oak’s solid, reassuring trunk.

A shout jerks her from her everie. Jessie is directly underneath her, squinting up. ‘Dad says do we want to go out for pizza?’ her sister asks, peering up into the branches. Ada sighs, nods.

‘Yeah. Yeah, alright’

and she drops one foot down to a lower branch, then another until she’s back on the ground. Back to Earth.

Read these 2 novels by Jane Deans: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Love in a Cold Carriage [part 2]

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Love in a Cold Carriage concludes today. Search Anecdotage for Part 1 [published last week].

As the doors groan open, she takes her bag from the seat next to her. Perhaps if it is occupied. Love-spoon man will desist. New passengers shuffle in, filling the aisle, their big coats brushing the seats, their bags jostling. They bring in the scent of the platform- doughnuts, diesel fumes and night air. A teenager in a puffa jacket drops down beside her, headphones on and wastes no time in withdrawing a phone from her pocket and scrolling, engrossed. Alex expresses an inward curse. Why hadn’t she done this? The teenager has insulated herself from interactions. A book is inadequate for this purpose.

Throughout the disgorging and boarding, Love-spoon man has continued to talk in spite of Alex’s hostile lack of interest. Now he pauses, renews his pose across the table and thrusts a long, rangy arm and knobbly hand into her space until she must withdraw her head to avoid contact.

‘My name’s Ellory’ he beams. Alex drops her eyes to her book. ‘And yours is?’ She pretends not to hear.

‘What’s your name?’

She coughs then sighs, frowning. ‘Alex’

‘Pleased to meet you’. His white, lumpy hand looks indecent as it’s dangled under her nose to be shaken. Alex lays her book down and turns to the teenager.

‘Excuse me’ she hisses, then has to nudge the oblivious girl, who makes a reluctant exit from her seat to allow her to pass. Alex makes her way to the end of the carriage and out of the door, where she leans against the wall, swaying with the rumbling, rolling train. It’s at the suburbs now and will be sliding into Waterloo in a few minutes. She could stay here, out in the door area until it stops, except that her handbag is on the seat and her weekend case above on the rack. She’ll need to return to her seat- and the odious Love-spoon man, before she can leave. She steels herself; better sooner than later.

Returning to the seat, she ignores the delighted grin of the man and the disgruntled scowl of the teenager, who must get out again, and leans in to take her handbag before reaching up to pull her case down.

‘Thanks’ she tells the girl. She’s aware that the man is speaking, that he may be about to follow her, so she heads out and along the train towards the nearest toilet, where she enters, locks the door and sinks down on the seat, hoping that nobody will need the facilities before the train stops.

At last the train slows to a halt and the doors open. Alex emerges, peering along each way before trundling her case to the next door along, stepping down on to the platform. She takes advantage of the crowd, dashing towards the barrier, inserting her ticket and bursting through to the other side. She stares wildly around at the milling throng in the station concourse until she spots the man she’s looking for and makes for him, feeling the smile build inside her, thumping, surging elation replacing anxiety and irritation. The joy of the weekend is upon her.

He sweeps her into a hug and they kiss. When she lifts her face he’s looking over the top of her head at something approaching. Someone. He’s smiling. She turns to see as the person arrives next to them. She feels the blood drain to her feet and her stomach lurch.

‘Alex’, says Jared, swivelling her to face the newcomer. ‘There’ll be three of us this weekend. This is my Dad, Ellory. I didn’t say before because I wanted to surprise you.’

She swallows, words failing her. Ellory’s frog eyes are wide with mirth.

‘I suppose a hug is out of the question? Although we have already met, haven’t we?’ …

To unlock more fiction by Jane Deans, search novels: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com