Tag Archives: fiction

The Group

Posted on by
3

A brand new fiction short occupies today’s post.

Stella Tutton and her younger friend, Samantha are already seated at the table Beth reserved when she arrives. She sits opposite them in the circle, which still has room for four more members.

‘So how are you both?’ Beth begins and they respond with nods and ‘OKs’. Beth makes an internal sigh while maintaining her smile. Stella will have brought her customary, poetic offering, having made no attempt to act on any of her suggestions and Samantha will have written nothing, although ‘had some ideas’.

The library, contrary to traditional values and expectations, is not a quiet, contemplative haven. Across the large, open space, in the newspaper and magazine area, a large man with an exuberant beard is guffawing whilst patting a smaller, older man on the back. Meanwhile, away in a distant corner which houses the children’s books, toddlers and pre-schoolers are arriving for their ‘sing and play’ session with Tracey, the beleaguered librarian who runs it. They are running around the bookcases and squealing while Tracey tries to muster them and doll out instruments, before they sit down in their circle.

Beth turns back to her two companions. ‘It’s not the quietest day, is it? This is the most private table I could find.’ She’s aware then, of a figure standing at her shoulder,casting a shadow on to her laptop case. Without turning, she knows it’s Christopher. Christopher is unable to arrive and sit downwithout a rigmarole of some sort. He is ensuring he is seen and remarked upon before he settles, a strategy Beth has learnt to ignore, saying ‘Hello Christopher. Come and join us’, while opening her laptop.

He launches into a description of his jottings of the month. Beth halts him with her hand.

‘Christopher’, she interrupts, mustering a grin, ‘we haven’t quite started yet. Give it a couple of minutes. We’re expecting two new members today.’

This means, of course, that one new member may turn up, or that no one will turn up. Stella opens her folder at a page on which she has written her new poem. A quick glance assures Beth that it is the usual offering of four-line verses and she can predict with unwavering certainty that it will be in rhyming couplets. Stella will have bent over backwards so far that the back of her head touched her heels to make sure the lines rhyme. Should Beth ask Stella to begin today? And get it over with? Or should she give in to Christopher’s twitchy impatience and have him start? He is tapping his blue biro on the table now, a staccato morse code leaving circles of tiny blue dots on the formica top.

A portly, elderly man arrives at the table. wheezing. He places a clear zippy-bag down and pulls out a chair next to Samantha. Beth greets him.

‘Roger?’

‘Yes. Roger Pullen; or you can call me by my pen name: Hayden Chandler. You can call me Rog or Hayden. I don’t mind!’ He chuckles, thrusting out a hand, which Beth takes, glimpsing down at the zippy-bag, which contains a a paperback inside its clear plastic. Oh. Roger intends to treat everyone to an extract from what is, almost certainly, a self-published novel. Her heart sinks to an even lower part of her stomach.

‘Can I go first today? I’ve got to go in half an hour,’ Christopher always says this. Beth has explained many times that he needs to listen to others’ contributions to help with the critique and that he will benefit from this as much as he will from hearing other’s opinions on his own offering. But it is hopeless. He wants compliments, praise, a soothed, pampered ego. Then he will stand up and leave.

‘I’m going to ask Samantha to start us off today, if you would, please? What have you got for us?’ Beth knows the answer will be ‘nothing’ but asks her anyway. Samantha grins, unabashed.

‘I don’t have nothing on paper.’ She indicates the brown exercise book on the table in front of her. ‘But I got some ideas. I’m going to write about my cat, Cissy.’

Beth nods, trying to block out the furious biro tapping on her right. ‘Good- will it be like a kind of diary, then?’

‘Er…yeah. Yeah- like a diary.’ Samantha looks delighted.

‘So- Roger.’ Beth turns to the newcomer. ‘Have you brought something to read to us? Or would you prefer to sit out and listen today?’

He leans back, a smug smile on his face as he unzips the bag and withdraws his book. He clears his throat. ‘I can read you a passage from my latest novel, if you like.’ He holds it up so that everyone can see the book jacket. It bears a picture of a screaming woman’s head with a hand holding a knife at her throat. The book is entitled ‘Murder at the Office’ in blood, red letters. Beth attempts a faint smile. ‘Right. Can you give us a brief synopsis then, Roger?’ He obliges and as far as she can recall, the storyline owes much to the plot of a Philip Marlowe story she read as a teenager.

Roger turns to the middle of the book and begins to read:

‘Her soft, creamy skin split apart as the knife slid across her white throat and a river of blood gushed from the wound. The killer stepped back, smiling as he…’

Christopher leaps to his feet, purple faced. ‘I can’t listen to this!’ he yells. ‘It’ll start my turns again, bring back memories of my attack! I’ll have to go!’ and he snatches up his notebook and storms away across the library, leaving them all to stare after him.

‘Yes- well…thank you Roger. I think we’ve got the idea. ‘Stella- what did you think of Roger’s extract and his ideas?’

Stella looks up from her poem. ‘Yeah- um- good’, she mutters..

‘Samantha?’

‘Yeah. It’s quite good; not my kind of thing though.’ Beth pursues the remark. ‘What’s your kind of thing then?’

‘Well, you know, animals and stuff.’

Unable to put it off any longer, Beth looks at Stella and is about to ask her to read when Christopher reappears, plonking himself down and grunting. ‘It’s me now, isn’t it?’

‘I’m asking Stella to read next, Christopher. We thought you’d left.’

His face reddens to dark magenta but he says nothing, rather takes up his biro and resumes tapping. Stella begins.

‘Bells ring out this time of year

To bring us all some festive cheer

Carol singers at the door

With voices that we can’t ignore‘

The poem, two and a half pages of it, comes to an end. Stella has stopped and is looking expectant, though Beth’s mind has wandered and she’s taken nothing in since the first verse. She looks at Roger.

‘What do you think, Roger?’

He looks startled. ‘Er…of course I don’t know anything about poetry, but it all rhymed, didn’t it?’

‘Yes, yes, it does rhyme. Samantha,how do you feel about Stella’s poem?’

‘I loved it.’

‘What did you love about it?’

‘The words. I loved the words.’

Beth stifles a yawn. ‘Christopher?’

‘Yeah?’

‘What did you think of Stella’s poem?’

He shrugs. ‘Dunno’,

Beth explains their next assignment, packs up her laptop and bids them goodbye. She goes to the reception desk, where Alex smiles and, as she does each month, tells her what a great job she’s doing for the community. Beth takes a breath- she’s been meaning to give up leading the group for the last six months.

‘Actually, Alex, I…’

‘I don’t know what we’d do without you, Beth!’

She steps outside into the cold, night air and walks home.

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

A Neighbourly Manner

Posted on by
Reply

So here’s another, ancient, long–short story– apologies to those who’ve read it before!

‘I wonder what she sees in him?’ I kept saying.

            ‘Leave it alone, can’t you?’ Richard grumbled, or he would shake out a new page of his newspaper in a crackling signal of finality. But one month on the events following that afternoon dogged me as I weeded the border or strolled along the lane to the farm for eggs.

After we’d received the invitation I’d been full of excited zeal, wanting to make a reciprocal gesture before we’d even taken a step along the wide sweep of their driveway, but Richard had curbed my ambitions by frowning,

‘Let’s wait and see how it goes. We haven’t met them yet. We are only neighbours, nothing more. By all accounts they are society people so I don’t suppose we will be of any interest to them except as a kind of ‘country bumpkin’ story for their London friends.’

Despite my husband’s dashing of cold water, I continued to harbour fanciful thoughts of what might transpire. I knew that the manor house next door received a constant flow of visitors despite the seedy state of its accommodation. Some were well known figures in publishing, the media or the arts, invoking thrilling fantasies of meeting someone famous. Who knew what might transpire? This could be the beginning of a series of gatherings to which we were part. I began to run a mental inventory of the contents of my wardrobe and concluded it was lacking in some areas.

The previous occupant’s attempt to run Chiddlehampton Manor as a hotel had failed in a gurgling whirlpool of bankruptcy, depression and alcohol dependency. Villagers who had worked there told of stained carpets and mouldy en suites in the twenty three bedrooms; slimy, brown grease covering kitchen surfaces, dwindling bottles in the wine cellar, failed initiatives such as ‘poker breaks’ or ‘murder mystery weekends’ attracting a desultory handful of revellers and resulting in increasing event cancellations.     

            The parlous nature of the building lent even more urgency to my desire to see it and to meet the latest occupants, who wanted it for a country retreat, no less. A country retreat! Twenty three bedrooms and bathrooms, a ballroom, eight acres of grounds containing stables and seven cottages for staff plus a vast, walled garden with endless greenhouses-all now fallen into disrepair; disintegrating into the chalky, Dorset soil from which it had risen.

            There was a blustery March wind gusting across the fields as we walked through the open gate into the driveway; gaps in the two rows of elegant beeches that bordered the sweeping drive, and fallen branches. Weeds punctuated the centre of the crumbling tarmac as it curled around to reveal the yellow stone manor house nestling in a dip below.

            I stopped for a moment to admire it, tucking the box of homemade shortbread under my arm. Richard had scoffed.

‘They won’t want that. Their sort is used to posh nosh; Fortnum and Mason, Harrods, all that sort of thing’. I’d ignored him of course, as only one who is shackled to a curmudgeon for thirty two years can.

            Even in a decadent state the manor is beautiful. A graceful old house whose romantic symmetry complements the rustic setting of rolling Dorset countryside. As we approached the columns of the grand portico I shivered, hanging back as Richard strode up to the vast, oak door and pressed the bell in his no-nonsense way.

            In the ensuing hiatus my misgivings expanded. ‘Do you think they’ve forgotten?’

            Richard snorted. ‘Let’s hope so! Then we can go home and have a cup of tea.’ But steps could be heard echoing inside.

            I’d heard plenty about him from villagers, in the pub or at the community shop but I was still unprepared for the experience of meeting Jackson Agnew. That he was ‘upper class’, ‘stinking rich’and ‘ponsy’ was circulating the public bar of The Cuckoo, with ‘a bleeding, towny nob’ thrown in by Noah Barnes, Bendick Farm’s cowman, who was not known for holding back on his opinions. Little had been expressed about Dr Agnew’s companion; whether she was partner or wife or daughter no one knew, only that she was ‘posh totty’ [Noah Barnes again] and thought by some to be a model or an actress.

            The door was not so much opened as flung wide and filled with him; with Jackson Agnew. His frame crammed the doorway, everything broad, everything extended, from his lengthy arm and thin fingers reaching out to shake Richard’s to his gaping grin and booming ‘Hello hello-Welcome to my humble abode!’

            Once I’d followed my husband into the hallway my own hand was enveloped and squeezed. ‘We meet at last!’ he said and his voice was like a deep, mellow gong echoing around the cavern of a hall with its bare walls and floorboards. After I’d glanced around the barren space I noticed he was scrutinising our faces, hungry for our reactions.

            ‘I expect you’ve been in here hundreds of times, haven’t you?’

            Richard was peering up at the ceiling, eager for a sign of damp, death watch or woodworm. He avoided Jackson’s gaze as he replied.

            ‘We haven’t lived in the village all that long ourselves; retired here from Bristol eighteen months ago. We had no cause to come to the hotel. If we want a drink we go to the pub.’

            ‘We met the Judds, of course, out and about, you know, when walking the dog,’ I added.

            Jackson grinned. ‘Yes. Pour souls. What a state they got into. Shall we move into the lounge and we can rustle up a cup of tea, or something stronger if you like?’ He looked beyond us to an open doorway, calling, ‘Darling, our neighbours are here.’

            We walked through into what had been the hotel bar but was now being used as a makeshift kitchen and dining room. Here, overhead the ceiling was adorned in an ornate series of murals decorated in gold leaf portraying rotund cherubs cavorting with plump maidens in diaphanous robes. Jackson caught me scrutinising it and barked in noisy mirth.

‘What do you think of that? Someone went to town, didn’t they? Are you familiar with the Baroque style at all? Ah, there she is! Darling! These are our nearest neighbours, Richard and er…’

I broke in. ‘Lena’

‘Lena, of course. Richard and Lena.’

She was standing behind the bar, motionless, an almost smile on her lips; eyes that had been fixed upon him moving in a slow turn towards Richard and myself. In that moment I understood why all of the descriptions of her had been correct and at the same time wrong, because while she was young and undeniably beautiful there was no element of Hollywood style; no trappings that could be considered cosmetic enhancement. And one thing was clear. She could not in any way be mistaken for his daughter, since no daughter in the world would ever look at her father like that.

She moved around to join us, extending a hand, first to me.

‘Imogen.’

Her voice was soft and low and her neat features dominated by intense, deep blue eyes that held mine; her short, glossy cap of black hair a stark contrast with the near translucent pallor of her skin. She took my proffered shortbread, murmuring ‘how kind’ before placing the plastic box on the bar.

While Richard’s responses are never obvious I noticed from the widening of his eyes and a slight flare of his nostrils when she took his hand that he was impressed.

‘Now’

We swung towards the master of the estate. He had a look of Christopher Plummer as Captain Von Trapp mustering his numerous children as he addressed us.

‘Shall I take you for a tour before we have tea?’

I nodded before catching my husband’s expression, which was set into ‘I don’t want to be here much longer’ mode. He glanced at his watch.

‘Perhaps just a short tour’ I suggested, and we followed Jackson through the connecting doors at the end of the bar into the adjoining drawing room; another vast, empty space with tall windows facing on to the grounds and adorned with only a huge, stone fireplace.

As we wandered through the network of rooms I hung back to allow Richard and Jackson to get beyond earshot and Imogen to draw level with me as I pretended to examine a carved mantel.

‘It’s all so big,’ I began, gesturing at the room. ‘Whatever will you do with it all? Do you have a large family to fill it up?’

‘Oh no,’ she shrugged. ‘I have one son and Jackson has a stepdaughter. But he loves large rooms and he wants a project now that he is semi retired.’

‘And how about you?’ I asked her.

‘I won’t be retiring any time soon.’ She gave that enigmatic half smile, yet I was undeterred.

‘And do you work in the same field, in art dealing?’

            She smiled a little wider then, as if enjoying a private joke. ‘Oh no, no-nothing so glamorous; I am a nurse.’ Though my surprise must have registered on my face she was disinclined to elaborate. I pressed on. ‘It will be difficult for you to spend so much time here then.’

She began to walk in the direction of the men’s voices, speaking swiftly, clandestine-voiced, over her shoulder.

‘We don’t live together, Jackson and I. He lives in Kensington and I am not so far from here, in Dorchester. We meet at weekends.’

            I caught her up, wanting to know more but she was intent on reuniting our group.

Jackson was explaining his plans to Richard, his long arms waving about and his cultured vowels bouncing around the bare walls. When we approached my husband gave me a meaningful stare, which I chose to disregard.

‘We thought we’d make this our kitchen as it’s so sunny. Imo would like to turn it into a monument to Monet-all yellow walls and blue tiles, but I like a bit of sexy steel and glass myself.’ He beamed at us, ruffling Imogen’s glossy hair and she closed her eyes, liquefying under his touch. Throughout the remainder of the tour she stayed close to her man as if every moment without him was wasted.

All attempts to engage Richard in feedback regarding the visit were quashed, his only remark being ‘bought himself a trophy wife.’ I knew better than to argue, but it was obvious to me that beautiful Imogen was infatuated with her distinguished, older lover, wealthy or not. 

We saw nothing of our new neighbours in the ensuing two weeks, but before we’d left that afternoon I’d elicited permission from Jackson to walk our dog, Molly, in the grounds of the manor and for Richard and me to continue to walk across them as a short cut to the pub.

‘Do as you like, my dear!’ he’d roared, throwing a gangly arm around my shoulders, ‘It’s Liberty Hall!’

And so it was the next weekend, while walking with Molly down the driveway, pausing to admire the view of the house with infinite swathes of daffodils surrounding it that I spotted a figure striding along ahead of me, dressed in a voluminous raincoat, wellington boots and a sou’wester hat; a vigorous, purposeful gait, head erect, hands in pockets.

‘Not Jackson Agnew’, I surmised, since he was taller and I’d the distinct impression that it was a woman; yet the figure lacked Imogen’s neat style, from the rear at least.

Our gregarious Jack Russell terrier had rushed ahead to greet the walker, who stopped and bent to the little dog. I could see from the profile it was indeed female and not Imogen. As I drew close the woman grinned as she made a fuss of Molly.

‘Good Morning! Friendly dog! I am Kristina and I guess you must be our neighbour-Lena, perhaps?’

I may have looked as confused as I felt, for she waited for my response, continuing to grin in an abstract, good natured way. Since she appeared older than Imogen I assumed she must be a relative, possibly a sister of Jackson’s, except that she spoke in a heavy enough accent to demonstrate that she was not of British origin, perhaps Scandinavian. She had a flamboyant, Bohemian look; red curls escaping from the sou’wester, bare legs between the Mac and the boots.

We strolled on together. A scud of spring rain began to sprinkle us. ‘Are you here for long?’ I asked her. She tilted her head to the sky, allowing drops of rain to fall on to her face and into her open mouth.

‘Isn’t this wonderful?’ she laughed. ‘I love English weather! We are just here for the weekend. My daughter must not be left alone for too long. She is supposed to study for her exams but without supervision, well I guess you know what teenagers are like. But these builders, they must also be supervised.’

We were almost at the house, which was encased in the cage of scaffolding that had arrived and been erected during the week in readiness for the replacement of the roof, a renovation that had prompted Richard to describe Jackson Agnew as having money to burn.

I remained silent, absorbing the ‘we’. Imogen had also used ‘we’. Was she here at the manor too? Who was Kristina? She was surely too old to be the stepdaughter Imogen had mentioned.

            We parted company with a ‘see you again’ from Kristina as I made my way around to the rear of the manor, where Jackson’s BMW was parked, though not Imogen’s Fiesta. ‘She could be out’, I thought, ‘she could be shopping or running an errand’ but I felt this couldn’t be true. The most likely thing was that she was working.

            Richard, when I described the events of my walk declared that he was neither surprised nor interested in ‘that man’s affairs’, but I was disappointed not to have seen Imogen, who I’d hoped to involve in village life. I’d saved some literature for her about parish activities and was hoping to have a conversation with her about the village History Society. I couldn’t help wondering if she knew Kristina was there, or even if she knew of the other woman’s existence.

            We left Chiddlehampton and the UK a few days later to spend April in Marbella with our son, who works there as an architect. We prefer to visit in spring or autumn when the Spanish temperatures are less sweltering than in summer.

            On the day following our return I collected Molly from some friends in the village who look after her when we are away and decided from her disgruntled expression and affronted manner that I should offer a brisk walk as a placatory gesture, so I combined this with a route through the estate. I was keen to learn what changes had occurred and who might be in residence.

            In our absence the mature trees in the grounds had taken advantage of the balmy May sunshine to burst into blossom so that intermittent drifts of white or pink petals showered across in a light breeze. Scaffolding was still in place around the creamy walls, although the roof replacement looked to be almost complete.

            Around the back in the car park area I noticed that an unsightly, corrugated pergola had been removed to reveal a semi-circle of elegant columns, a stunning feature. Jackson then had not been idle. His car was parked next to one of the sets of French windows facing the lawns. I loitered for a few minutes in hopes of spotting him or Imogen, or even Kristina, but with no obvious signs of human activity I continued through to the meadows with Molly.

            That evening, when Richard suggested we stroll down to the pub and catch up with some village news, I needed no persuasion. Since the evenings had drawn out and drawn the locals out, the garden of the Cuckoo was as busy as the two bars, making it tricky work getting to buy a drink. I noticed that most of the tables were occupied with diners, too.

             We’d just managed to gain access to the counter and the attention of the bar staff when I felt a rangy arm clamp around my neck and winced as a deafening voice boomed in my ear.

            ‘Well, well! The wanderers have returned! Welcome back you two. Did you have a good time? You must come down and see all the changes we’ve made. You won’t recognise the place! We have a table over in the alcove. Come and join us. You will let me get those, won’t you, old chap?’

            This was addressed to Richard, who’d not turned his head during the greeting, but responded while taking a note from his wallet and handing it across the counter.

            ‘We only came in for a quick one.’

            I could have predicted my husband’s reply, however I was not about to allow an opportunity to talk with one of the two women pass me by.

            ‘But we’ll come and say Hello. Where are you sitting?’ A quick scan of the tables revealed no one resembling either of them.

            We picked up our drinks and followed Jackson through the throng to the alcove. A woman was seated there, not Imogen, not Kristina; a young woman with a mane of dark curls and a heavy pasting of make-up, dark, sooty eyelids and a scarlet gash of lips. Jackson introduced us. When she stood she revealed a swell of cleavage above the line of her blouse.

            ‘This is my friend Liliana. She is an architect and has come to help with the interior design plans.’

            The woman placed her hands on Richard’s shoulders and kissed his cheek, one side followed by the other, continental style. Her fingers, resting on my husband’s upper arms were long and tapered, nails topped with the same livid red as her mouth; as she leaned to offer the same treatment to me I caught a whiff of sweet, pungent perfume.

            ‘I am happy to meet you’ she breathed; her speech coloured with a strong Latin accent which was confirmed by Jackson’s adjunct.

            ‘Liliana is Italian.’

            Beside me on the bench, Richard was silent, concentrating his attention on his pint of Best as Jackson continued.

            ‘She is also a terrific artist. We’ve brought some of her canvases down to see where they’ll hang. You must come and take a look.’

            As he spoke the woman’s lips smiled in their red slash, her eyes narrowing until I thought she might purr like a pampered cat stretched on a hearthrug. To fill the conversational void I murmured something non-committal and took a sip of my wine.       Richard lifted his glass and tipped it back it in uncharacteristic gulps before turning to me.

            ‘We can’t be too long, Lena. Don’t forget Bob is coming round this evening.’

As we walked back along the lane I asked him, ‘Who on Earth is Bob?’

            ‘No one. Anyone. What does it matter?’ he replied, ‘I just couldn’t spend any more of my time with that insufferable man.’

            The May weather turned unsettled as some gusty showers blew over in the middle of the next week and it was during a heavy downpour on Wednesday evening that the bell rang. I’d been clearing up the kitchen and Richard was upstairs in the study editing his latest batch of Spanish photographs. I hadn’t heard a car pull up so I assumed it was someone from the village as I opened the door.

            It was Imogen, though barely recognisable as the radiant girl of six weeks ago. With her hair plastered to her head and her thin shirt stuck to her, soaking, she looked bedraggled. She also appeared to be in some distress, from her red-rimmed eyes and stricken expression. I reached out and all but tugged her inside the hallway, where she stood dripping, her thin shoulders shuddering. I wasted no time.

            ‘Whatever has happened?’ I asked her. ‘Come into the lounge. I’ll put the fire on!’

             Her mouth opened to speak and produced only a shivering sob as she allowed me to tow her into the living room.

            ‘Wait here,’ I told her, ‘I’ll get you something dry to wear.’

            I went upstairs and hissed at Richard’s enquiring face as I grabbed a towelling robe then I dashed back and pulled it around her before sitting her down in an armchair like a child. ‘I’m going to put the kettle on,’ I said, and by the time I’d returned my husband had seated himself in the chair next to her. He glanced at me.

            ‘Let’s all have a cup of tea,’ he suggested.

            As I left the room she began to mumble in halting sentences dotted with ‘sorrys’ and ‘thank yous’ until Richard leaned forward, put his fingers together and asked her, ‘Can you tell us what is wrong?’

            By the time I’d set the tray down she was into her dismal story, which was no less depressing for being predictable; a whirlwind, fairy tale romance rising from a chance meeting with a charming, wealthy, practised, older suitor who’d promised the world before exposing her fully to the circles in which he moved. Circles which included a whole host of other women; ex-wives, of which Kristina was one, ex-partners, ex-girlfriends, ‘friends’ who would like to be girlfriends, ‘friends’ who were ‘helping with the designs’ like Liliana, married women, single women and all with one purpose-to be Jackson’s wife.

            Having swapped a ward shift and wangled a couple of days off Imogen had planned to turn up without warning and give her intended a surprise, but when she left the car and approached the house she looked in at the un-curtained window and saw him with Liliana; the two of them dancing in the stark emptiness of the drawing room, one of his long arms around her waist, another with a glass of wine in hand. She’d stood in the rain and watched them, watched as they laughed together at the intimacies he whispered in the woman’s ears making her throw her head back in delight. She didn’t know how long she stood in the rain watching. She’d felt panic rising, welling up, threatening to overflow into a scream and then she’d run, back along the curving drive and through the gateway up the lane to our front door. The girl’s breathless narrative ground to a halt as she sniffed; taking another tissue from the box I’d placed beside her.

            Richard sat back in his chair, crossing one of his legs over the other and turning his head a little in Imogen’s direction without looking at her face. He began to speak in a quiet monotone. He told her that she may feel distraught now, but that she would recover. He reminded her that she was a strong, independent woman and had proved it by raising a child on her own and following a responsible, highly valued career. He said she must remember that she’d led a good, happy life before Jackson and would do so again; that she must never allow any man to control and manipulate her feelings or treat her as an object to be owned and cast aside like a painting or a house; that a relationship should be based on mutual love and respect and she should look at me, Lena for an example of a resilient, capable woman; that our marriage might not look glamorous but he’d never been in any doubt that he’d chosen the right person. Throughout this monologue she sat motionless, her shuddering sobs subsiding, her narrow shoulders lowering, her eyes fixed hard upon Richard as if he were dragging her from a swamp.

‘Right,’ he concluded, ‘it’s far too late for you to be driving back tonight. You can stay in our guest room, which is always ready’. He looked up at me. ‘My wife can lend you anything you need. Shall we open that bottle of brandy we brought back with us? This would seem to be a suitable occasion to try it.’ He winked. I have a feeling my mouth was hanging open.

He asked Imogen for her car keys, declaring that he would fetch her car from the Manor.

Later on, I ran a hot bath for our guest, after which she was subdued enough to submit to being tucked up in bed.

I extracted a promise from Imogen as she left next morning that she would under no circumstances email, ring or visit Jackson Agnew, neither should she respond to invitations from him, all of which she agreed to with a solemn nod. Her puffy face and red eyes showed that she’d wept the night away, but as she drove off Richard assured me it would pass.

‘Let’s go out for lunch,’ he said and I knew the subject was closed.

            Some unspoken agreement kept us from cutting through Chiddlehampton Manor’s grounds for a couple of weeks and we were relieved to see no sign of Jackson or any of his paramours in the pub, or anywhere else in the vicinity.

            It was June when we returned from a week in Torquay and saw the sign on the gate at the end of their drive. ‘For Sale- Grade Two listed Manor House with OPP for eight apartments’, it read. It was to be sold by the agent ‘Knight and Rutter’ who are known for their upmarket properties.

            Doctor Jackson Agnew and his entourage, it seemed, had moved on.

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Meet Polly

Posted on by
2

In a post two weeks ago you met Ray, a lonely, lost soul who hung on to the sudden lifeline of a stranger like a drowning man. [ https://gracelessageing.com/2024/12/22/new-fiction-for-christmas/].Now you can meet the stranger, ‘Polly’..

I’ll tell you a secret. My name’s not Polly, actually. I invented Polly just for a new campsite. . It’s a name I haven’t used before and won’t use again, which is a shame because it’s one of my favourites. At the last place I was Edwina, or ‘Eddie’ to anyone I shared time with.

There’s only one person who knows my name and that’s my friend-with-benefits, Viv. Incognito, that’s me; like MaCavity the Mystery Cat, although I don’t come across as mysterious. I appear more of a jolly, cosy kind of person, which is the persona I adopt when meeting anyone. I like T S Elliot and I like cats. I’d have one if my lifestyle permitted it.

Another thing is I don’t like returning anywhere, which starts to get tricky when you’ve lived this life for a few years. I like to get to pastures new, see new faces and have conversations without getting involved and bored witless.

Don’t get me wrong; I wasn’t always a wanderer. I did start adult life like most people: job, home, friends, night at the pub, gym session, visiting family. I was even married once, briefly- to a man, too!

I meet a lot of people in my nomadic existence, many of them solo travellers, many of them lone men. From experience, I know better than to spend more than a few hours with anyone.

Thing is, folks always want more. You meet, you spend an hour or so and it’s pleasant enough, but then they clamour for another bit of you. They want to cook you something. They want a day out. They want sex. They want to stay over. They want to go on holiday. No thanks. In the beginning, I used to try and explain. ‘Enough is enough’, I’d say, ‘I’m moving on’. And they’d get upset, affronted, take it personally. I began to find it easier to slip away without saying a word, so that’s what I do now.

I can live like this because I work from home- from Daisy, my van, that is. I write travel articles for a number of publications. I’m quite good at it, having developed a reputation for impartiality. I don’t have a lot of overheads. Sometimes, in the winter, when the weather’s bad, I park up at Viv’s for a week or two, then off I go again.

It’s getting towards the end of summer now, which means a lot of sites will close, limiting my options for places to stay, but I can always cross the channel and head south. Sometimes you can almost smell the end of season in a place. Take the site I was at last night. There were dozens of ‘regulars’ there, retired, people who’d been there months. Some were starting to pack up, some leaving with their caravans, others leaving in cars. I met one long-termer- Ray. He was parked up next to me. I watched him returning from the showers then I made out I’d forgotten to bring a tin opener [I hadn’t] to see what he was like. I could see he was a lone man as there was no evidence of a woman- especially seeing the state of his caravan!

I asked him if he fancied going to the bar later on. This is what I tend to do- hook up with someone for a meal so I don’t have to sit on my own like a pariah. When I called for him I could see he’d made a bit of effort with his appearance, tidied himself up a bit. Ominous.

They did an ok pint in the bar and the menu was adequate, if not gourmet. Ray, though, it was as if he’d been storing up all his misery, waiting for me, ‘Polly’ to sit and listen to it. Yes, I know his wife died. Yes. I know he’s lonely. There are organisations and clubs that exist for people like Ray. Not me, though. He wanted to hear about me, too, but I managed to steer him off life histories by asking him about the local walks- a common ploy for me. I’d no intention of walking anywhere, mind and not with Ray, who seemed to think we were going out along the coast path in the morning. Oh no, nooo, not me. I’d be far, far away by the time he surfaced. And I was…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Happy New Year, Brian Meadon

Posted on by
1

This is an old story, but I make no apologies for publishing it once more as, after all, New Year is almost upon us. Wishing all my readers a much happier New Year than Brian is about to have!

Brian Meadon peers out into the darkness and is forced to admit a grudging fascination for the way the snowflakes are looming out of the sky and settling in an ominous and ever growing heap on his car’s windscreen. His initial feelings of hot anger and frustration with the car’s failings have ebbed away to be replaced with somewhat colder resignation. There is still just enough light outside to make out the writing on a road sign beyond his lay-by. ‘Stoodley Interchange’, it asserts, taunting Brian with confident superiority, even though accumulations of snow are creeping up its legs.

Settling back into his driving seat once more, Brian decides to give his phone another go. He is pleased with the way he’d remembered to charge up the battery, a task he’d frequently been accused of neglecting by his ex-wife. This small celebration of competence affords him a slight, smug smile until yet again ‘no signal’ appears on the screen in an impudent gesture almost as if it were conspiring with the road sign to gang up on him. At least the phone’s tiny screen casts a little light.

Brian shivers. He attempts to recall the advice being provided by experts on this morning’s Beeb’s news programme but it had been burbling away as a background to packing. If he’d not been carried away with optimistic anticipation of the evening revelries to come he might have paid more close attention to the weather warnings and in particular to dire predictions concerning road travel. What was one meant to do? Firstly, you should not travel at all unless your journey is absolutely vital. ‘Well’, thinks Brian, ‘It is vital to my wellbeing to have a bit of fun, so I’ve covered that one’. Secondly, you should ensure that loved ones know your whereabouts and your travel plans. Brian feels uneasy about this one, since although he has made Jackie, his ex, aware that he has been invited to a ‘country house New Year festivity’ somewhere in Berkshire he had not been motivated so much by a need for self preservation, more a desire to demonstrate what a popular, well-connected and upwardly mobile fellow he has become since they split up. ‘Neither is she a loved one!’ he speaks aloud into the silent phone. He has not brought a shovel or a torch, but these would be of no assistance as the car is going nowhere, snow or not. A flask of coffee, however and a warm blanket, he has to admit, would have been very welcome by now.

An exploratory foray into his overnight bag yields little of any use to Brian except for a towel, which he drapes around his shoulders like a cape. He has also brought some pajamas which, whilst the additional layer would be beneficial he feels reluctant to don in case of rescue. After deliberating he decides to bear them in mind as emergency clothing supplies. His feet are by far the most pressing problem, having become totally numb inside his shoes so that he is compelled to scrunch his toes up periodically in attempt to regain some feeling. Should he, perhaps break into the bottle of wine he brought along as a contribution to the New Year do? He thinks not, for now; best to keep something in reserve in case, Heaven forbid, the situation worsens.

Another glance at the phone reveals the time to be 8.57pm, and forty five minutes since the last vehicle passed by. Brian realizes with a grimace that his careful calculation of timing in order to arrive not too early and not too late will now be academic. His arrival will now be, at best, late. What will the reception be like if, and when, he arrives? Misgivings flutter through his digestive system like tipsy hens and peck away at his confidence. Rob and Shelley are people he met almost a year ago and spent one week with, when comradeship was enhanced by the thrills and spills of the ski slopes. But they were charming, friendly and fun, seemed to really like having him around, have kept up with emails. The invitation had been issued with genuine warmth and re-issued as a result of his last email enquiry as to whether the party was going ahead.

Brian decides that he can utilize more of his clothing resources if he curls up on the rear seat. The time has come to employ the services of his pajamas-which he acknowledges he only brought as an afterthought, thus freeing up his towel as a foot-wrapping. The achievement of all this takes some time and energy, resulting in the opening of the wine, thankfully of the screw topped variety. He lifts his head up enough to swallow a mouthful and then shudders as a yawn escapes him. He wonders what is happening at the party now and imagines he is there, glass in hand, chatting up a woman, asking her to dance, getting close, feeling the rhythm, moving his feet, becoming warm, hot, sweating, thumping.

Thumping! Brian starts awake, wild eyed, dropping the wine bottle into his overnight bag, an intense, dazzling light in his face and an urgent thumping on the window. ‘Just a minute!’ he tries to shout, managing a feeble croak. He fumbles with frozen fingers to open the rear door which eventually opens with a gasping crack, having been yanked from the outside. A large, unearthly figure swathed in black is bending in to scrutinize him, playing a flashlight over the interior of the car. For a fleeting, delirious moment Brian believes he has expired; that this horrific apparition has materialized in the afterlife to exact retribution for his earthly sins.

“Good evening sir. Are you alright?”

Speechless, Brian feels an ignominious, hot welling of tears behind his eyes as he struggles to get a grip on his emotions at being found. Minutes later he is sitting in the police land rover clutching a hot cup of tea while the officer calls the AA number he has given him.

“Rescue vehicle is on its way sir,” the policeman tells him. The dashboard clock is showing 10.48pm. Flooded with a surge of optimism, Brian grasps that he has not missed the entire party, because it is a New Year’s celebration, and the nature of New Year’s parties is to extend up to, and indeed well beyond midnight. He pictures himself arriving at Rob and Shelley’s, hearing raucous laughter and the thudding beat of loud music, windows all lit and pulsating figures gyrating within. He will apologize for his lateness, explain his predicament, present the remnants of the wine, be hailed as a hero, exclaimed over, pressed with drinks and nibbles, surrounded by sympathetic, admiring women.

Whilst it takes longer than Brian has anticipated for the AA man to attach the defective car to the breakdown truck he calculates that he will still get to the party in plenty of time.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go home sir? You won’t be the only person not attending, I’m sure, then there’s the car. You’ll have that to deal with. How will you get it back?”

“No! These friends of mine, they’re almost family! They’ll be disappointed if I don’t turn up, and Rob’ll help with the car tomorrow. He knows loads about electrics.”

“How about calling them, though, sir? Just to be sure?”

“I doubt if they’d hear it!” Brian chuckles. “No, let’s just carry on and get there. It’ll be fine.”

They lapse into a silence burdened with the AA man’s skepticism.

It is 11.52pm when they pull in to the entrance to the lane leading to ‘The Orchard’.

“I’m going to have to leave the car here, sir. I don’t want to be going up there and not be able to manoeuvre or turn the rig round.”

“No problem! We can sort it out tomorrow. As I said, Rob will know what to do.”

Once the offending car has been detached from the truck the AA man is as eager for departure as Brian is for merriment. Brian pumps his hand, more in a desire for him to disappear than in gratitude, staying only briefly to wave as the truck rumbles away. Having stuffed his pajamas back into the overnight bag he sets off round the bend towards ‘The Orchard’.

It has stopped snowing. Against the inky sky there is the silhouette of a house, but as yet no sound or hint of light. He walks on to find a gate, more easily visible now that his eyes are accustomed to darkness, unlatches it and continues up a path to the front door. He stops to listen, straining to hear a hint of music or a voice, gazing at the windows for some chink of light, any sign of activity or, as a frisson of anxiety begins to insinuate itself, an indication of occupation. There is a small click. Brian is instantly illuminated by the security light, setting off a tirade of furious yapping from the bowels of the house. ‘Strange’, he muses ‘that they never mentioned owning a dog’. He procrastinates on the doorstep in a doldrum of indecision. It is clear even to him that there is no party taking place. The unnerving idea that this may be the wrong house fills him with dread, since he has waved off the kindly AA man to whom he’d exaggerated the description of his acquaintances as ‘almost family’. It is now twelve twenty one am and he is freezing.

Faced with the choice of once more donning his pajamas and towel and sleeping on the back seat of his car or rousing the inhabitants of this house, whoever they may be, Brian opts for throwing himself on the mercy of the householders even if they are strangers. At the sound of the doorbell, the yapping acquires new vigor and he feels both anxious and relieved as an interior light is switched on and he hears a muffled voice. There is a momentary hiatus while locks and chain are undone then the door is opened a little to reveal part of a pajama-clad body topped by a pale, wary face. The face speaks.

“Yes?”

Brian feels weak with gratitude to some unformulated source that it is Rob who has answered the door, albeit not the party-animal Rob he’d envisioned; the ‘life-and-soul’ Rob of the pistes. Nevertheless this suspicious, guarded individual is recognizable as Rob.

“Hello Rob. Happy New Year!”

He proffers the half bottle of wine, affecting a merry grin in the hope that his teeth are not chattering too much. The distrustful figure in the doorway peers further out at him, blinking until recognition dawns.

“Oh it’s um..”

“Brian. From skiing! You know. Last February”

“Brian. Yes. Brian. From skiing.”

There is an interval during which Brian lowers the wine bottle to his side and Rob continues to stand in the small gap he has allowed between the door and the frame and contemplate the visitor. Somewhere in the background the yapping continues apace.

“What did you want Brian?”

Brian swallows. His lips have become dry and numb, his voice a timorous squeak.

“The party. The New Year’s do.”

“Party?” Rob’s eyes widen as he stares at him. The moment is interrupted by a woman’s voice.

“What’s going on? Who is it Rob?” and Shelley appears, swathed in a white towelling bathrobe and a bewildered expression. Rob half turns to speak over his shoulder.

“It’s Brian. From skiing. He’s come for a party, apparently.”

It is Shelley’s turn to squint at him, looking closely from behind Rob’s shoulder. Brian dangles the wine bottle, nervous snicker hovering on his lips. Shelley appears to rally, declaring,

“Well we can’t all stand here letting cold into the house. You’d better come in, er, Brian.”

He steps over the threshold, still clutching the wine bottle and continuing to sport what he hopes is his most affable and charming smile despite the ambiguous welcome.

“I seem to have got you up, don’t I? Was the party cancelled at the last minute? Only I’ve got a slight problem with my car. The recovery vehicle has had to leave it at the end of your driveway. I can probably get it moved tomorrow. Do you think there’ll be any taxis tonight?”

Their confused frowns lead him to pause as he glances from one to the other.

Fifteen minutes later he is plumping up a cushion on the sofa in their lounge and unzipping the side of a threadbare sleeping bag that is most likely a relic of Rob’s past travels. At last the dog has lapsed into merciful silence. He takes a sip of the tea he’s been given and moves stealthily to the living room door, the better to hear what is being shouted in the kitchen.

“What the Hell were you playing at, inviting that bloke here?” Rob’s anger has broken out now that he is no longer in the room with Brian.

“We were all pissed, Rob, if you recall and we came up with the idea of getting together at New Year. He wasn’t asked specifically. He was just there. He was always hanging around. Don’t you remember? We couldn’t shake him off; odious little man! We must have overlooked him when we decided to cancel.”

Brian listens in for a few more minutes until the recriminations and accusations begin to be repeated, then he pads quietly back to the sofa to insinuate himself into the moth-eaten sleeping bag. He lifts the remnants of the wine to his lips, whispering ‘Happy New Year’ before knocking it back in two mouthfuls. In the morning he will have to phone up and get his car taken home and with luck, scrounge a lift for himself. Once he is home he will ring Jackie. If she is feeling magnanimous he might get invited round there, especially if he says he’d like to see the kids on New Year’s Day. She might ask about the party. He will tell her all the details. How the champagne flowed like water, the house was a mansion lavishly decked out, the women gorgeous. He will name drop a few minor celebrities and hints about not sleeping alone. Yes. She will be impressed. The bickering voices seem further away now. Brian sighs. The bottle slips from his hand on to the carpet where it leaves a blood red dribble. A gentle snore escapes him. ‘Happy New Year’. Well it didn’t turn out so bad.

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

New Fiction for Christmas…

Posted on by
1

End of Season

You could tell what kind of day it would be without sitting up to pull the blind. This morning was gloomy, overcast and reflective of the mood that clouded Raymond when he woke. Today there was no need to throw off the duvet, stand up and stretch, take a chair and his morning tea outside to survey the world. No, no, today was a day to lie still and wallow in the dingy light and the sporadic smatter of drops on the windows. Just to check, he raised a finger to a corner of the blind. Grey clouds were racing across the hill opposite and rain spattering the glass. He sighed, let the blind drop, sank back on the pillow.

Mary would have said, ‘we should count our blessings, Ray.’ Mary had been fond of her homespun epithets. ‘Look on the bright side’, ‘time will tell’, ‘it’ll all come out in the wash’,were some of her favourites. She’d told him he must get out and about, have adventures while he still could. Now look at him- incarcerated in the self-same caravan they’d bought to share adventures in.

He stared ahead at the wall opposite, not much further than his feet, cream coloured, plastic and dimpled, a few scuff marks. He’d lost the urge to keep the van spanking clean and spruced, couldn’t remember when he’d last cleaned the shower cubicle and loo or the fridge and last night’s dishes were still lingering in a reproachful heap in the sink.

He sat up, scratched his chin where a couple of days’ stubble had accumulated then edged his way around the bed and through to the dining/kitchen area where he shrugged on his default navy cardigan over vest and shorts before collecting his threadbare towel and his washbag from the tiny shower. As he stepped out and down on to the grass a cheerful voice called ‘Morning Raymond! You’re late this morning. Heavy night, was it?’. Ray scowled at the retreating backs of his neighbours, Geoff and Julie, as they walked their terrier up the drive towards the dog-walking field. He trudged down towards the shower block, clutching his cardigan together as a stiff breeze blew droplets of rain across the site.

A hot shower and a shave in one of the site’s pristine cubicles partly restored his mood to neutral, although he could think of nothing to plan today, other than a cup of tea with the day’s news. But as he exited the block and headed back to his pitch, he noticed he had a new neighbour on the other side to Geoff and Julie; a two-tone, green and cream VW had pulled in next to his van. There was no sign of a driver, which was lucky because Raymond, attired as he was in sleep shorts, greyish vest and disreputable cardigan, was able to scuttle back inside before anyone emerged. He changed into cleaner shorts and a T-shirt, filled the kettle and waited at the window to see who the new arrival might be.

When the kettle whistled he turned towards the hob and was surprised by a knock on his door, opening it to see a middle-aged woman, large, colourful and grinning up at him. She wore a hand-knitted poncho and a jaunty, crocheted bucket hat with a yellow flower on the brim. Unruly curls of red hair were escaping from beneath the hat.

‘Hello! I’m Polly. I’ve just arrived and I realise I’ve forgotten to bring a tin opener. You wouldn’t happen to have one, would you?’

Raymond spluttered then came to his senses. ‘Uh- yes of course. Hold on and I’ll get it.’ He rifled through his cutlery drawer, managing to find one, hoping it was clean, then handed it down to Polly, who, much to his shame, was peering into the gloom of his van. He felt his face heat up, aware of the bedding piled high on his caravan bed and the unwashed crockery in the sink.

It was early evening and he was slumped on the bench seat watching TV when the knock came again. He jumped up, straightened his cardigan and opened up to see Polly smiling and proffering the tin opener.

‘Thanks,,,er,,,’

‘Raymond- Ray. You’re welcome.’ He cast around for something else to say, something to keep her there a little longer. He couldn’t invite her in- not with the state the van was in. She gestured rowards the hillside, towards the bar/cafe.

‘Is the bar open every night, Ray? I thought I might give it a go and have a night off cooking. Are the meals any good?’

He swallowed. ‘It’s not bad. Depends what you like. It’s just pub grub- pies, scampi and stuff.’

She nodded. ‘Fancy joining me, then? Later? I’ve got to get a shower and everything first, of course.’

He blinked, blushing again. ‘I…’

She laughed, a big, hearty guffaw that warmed his heart, ‘I’m not asking you to marry me, Ray. I just fancied a bit of company while I eat a pie and have a pint’.

Raymond exhaled, unaware he’d been holding his breath. ‘Yes of course’, he blurted. ‘I’d like to’. He felt his shoulders relax.

‘See you about seven, then? I’ll knock when I’m ready.’

He managed to nod and waited until she’d climbed back into her VW before closing his door, experiencing a tremor of panic at the idea that he’d be going on a date. What could he wear? He rummaged in his clothes locker in the vain hope of finding something presentable, throwing garments out on to the bench, mostly unwashed and all creased and scruffy. With no time to wash anything he delved into the heap, coming up with a purple, 2003, Iron Maiden T-shirt and his least filthy pair of jeans. Remembering there was an iron in the laundry, he took the items down there and preyed that nobody he knew entered. At least he’d showered and shaved that morning, which gave him more time.

Back in the van, he studied as much as he could see of his outfit in the mirror inside the cupboard and sighed. It would have to do.

She was prompt; seven o’clock sharp she knocked. He grabbed his jacket and stepped out, noting that polly still wore the poncho but had ditched the hat.

‘Um…what would you like to drink?’ he asked her, as they stood studying the beer taps.

‘I’ll have a pint of best, Ray, if you’re offering. Thanks!’

He ordered two pints and followed her to a table, bemused. Mary never drank beer and would have a small glass of white wine, or if it was a special occasion a gin and tonic and if it was Christmas, a modest glass of sherry.

At the table, Polly was studying the menu, frowning. ‘Have you had a pie here, Ray? I’m thinking I might try one.’

‘Yeah- I’ve had all the varieties of pie,’ he said. She looked up from the menu.

‘Because you don’t cook much? Or because you’ve been here a long time…?’

There was a pause. ‘I suppose it is a long time, compared to most people. I come every year and I stay all season. We always come…came…’ He petered out.

‘When you were married, you mean?’

Raymond found himself talking about it all; about Mary’s death, about not wanting to be in an empty house, about all the things he wish he could do. At last he came to a jerky halt, aware that he might not be the best company Polly could have chosen.

‘I’m sorry’, he muttered. ‘You don’t want to hear all this.’

She placed a hand on his arm and he felt the warm, reassuring pressure on his skin.

‘It’s fine. None of us gets to middle age without some burden, without a blight we carry round with us for the rest of life. Some burdens are heavier than others.’

He rallied. ‘What about you? What’s your burden?’

She shook her head, her mass of curls flying out in a ginger storm. ‘Let’s leave it and choose our dinner, shall we? I’m going for steak and stilton and a heap of chips!’

Raymond was to realise he was unused to talking when he woke in the night with a dry throat, his jaw muscles stiff like they needed oiling. He got up and drank some water then got back into bed, drifting off in a reverie of imagined dates, companionship and shared travels. What a wonderful, cheerful, vivacious woman Polly was! She’d drawn him out, made him laugh, given him a glimpse of what living could be like.

He woke to shafts of sunlight piercing the gaps in the blinds and illuminating his walking boots, where he’d placed them on the floor last night after a frantic search. He lay smiling for a moment, recalling the plans they’d made to go walking today after he’d told her about the joys of the coastal path and the stunning views that rewarded strenuous hill climbs.

For once, he was eager to begin the day, swinging his legs to the rug, folding his bedding and stowing it in the locker above the driver’s seat before filling the kettle. He unlatched a blind. As it slid down, sunshine flooded in, temporarily depriving him of sight. He shaded his eyes, staring out at the field. He frowned, continuing to stare. At nothing. There was nothing. There was a space, some slight indentations in the grass…four, tyre-shaped, where a two-tone VW had been.

He stood for a long time, gaping, rubbing his neck. Then he reached down, pulled the blind up and latched it, before dragging his duvet out of the top compartment. throwing it on to the bed and climbing back underneath it.

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Visiting Steven [Part 3]

Posted on by
1

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]

Posted on by
2

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

Posted on by
1

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

Posted on by
Reply

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]

Posted on by
4

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