Tag Archives: love

Adonis

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He was a grown man, but his mother still received child allowance for him. New in the area, everyone soon realised they had someone special in their midst. He was the most beautiful youth in the upper sixth. To all the girls and some of the boys and teachers, he was an Adonis. But Jason was not a celebrity pretty boy. His mature looks led him to be mistaken for a teacher on many occasions and his unassuming nature meant that other boys were not jealous.

Tammy in the lower sixth knew she was in love with him. On a Thursday afternoon after school she could be seen plodding two paces behind her best friend Lee-Anne Friends since infant school, they had always walked home together; sometimes in a group, sometimes just the two of them. The two girls had less in common as they grew older. For Tammy, Lee-Anne provided a tenuous link with the in-crowd. Lee-Anne was pretty and popular although not the most beautiful or cleverest in their cohort. Being with her plain, plump friend emphasised her best points.

The walk home today was different for Lee=Anne and Tammy. Lee-Anne was walking hand-in-hand with Jason. Tammy had no idea how this new development had occurred. All the girls had been longing to be asked out by Jason but his quiet reserve gave no hint which girl had caught his eye.

Now he strode confidently along, his dark curls bouncing in the breeze, his strong, sun-tanned hand gripped around Lee-Anne’s pale, slender fingers with their manicured nails. She was tall and slim but he was head and shoulders above her. She gazed up at him, hanging on his every word.

As Tammy trailed behind them, she noted enviously how Lee-Anne’s short, neat school skirt showed off her long, slim legs and her natural blond tresses tumbled down her back.

They didn’t even notice when Tammy turned in at her front garden gate and made no response to her ‘see you tomorrow’ as she scuffed up the path to her door. Usually the two girls stood gossiping and giggling before Lee-Anne continued home. Tammy was relieved to find the house empty. She shut her bedroom door and played her Naxos playlist. Ever since that music lesson on opera she had become a devoted Radio 3 listener and a secret visitor to the smallest section of HMV. Her mind struggled to take in the mythical stories of the most yearning operas. They always finished with the death of the lovers, although it was the dying that seemed to bring about the true fulfilment of that love. Her heart understood. Inside the pimply schoolgirl was a passionate young woman born in the wrong age. She should have been a pre-Raphaelite artist’s model or a poet’s wife. Girls far younger than her would have already run away with their lovers in bygone days.

That evening she delved further than usual into the internet: opera, mythology, broken hearts, spells, potions, suicides. You could order anything on the internet.

The next afternoon, she set off home by herself but soon heard voices calling her and turned to see Jason and Lee-Anne. The man-boy caught up with her. His deep, melodious voice rendered her almost incapable of listening to his words, let alone replying.

‘Lee-Anne tells me you’re good at drama and music. Would you like to help with my school show? On the production side, of course- not on the stage’.

Tammy let out a breath, only able to nod. Lee-Anne had drawn alongside.

‘She likes opera,’ she sneered.

‘Even better! That’s what it’s going to be, a modern adaptation of ancient myths; on a small scale, of course- tight budget!’

The project got off to a good start as Jason injected staff and students alike with an infectious enthusiasm. If he had any career ambitions it was to be a polymath and he had the ability to achieve anything he desired. He genuinely appreciated Tammy’s contribution and had the generosity of sprit to tell her so. Tammy basked in his praise and fantasised that he was secretly in love with her.

Jason’s stage story wove itself into her inner life. Her parcel arrived from the internet. Anything else she needed could be found in the kitchen. It was time for she and Jason’s fantasy passion to be fulfilled. He agreed to her suggestion that he drop by her house on the way home from school, to listen to her CDs. Lee-Anne was at a convenient dentist appointment..

Tammy had ready the love potion and the death potion, Cupid’s arrow to pierce his heart. As he looked at her art posters and listened to Wagner, she asked if he would like a glass of Coke.

At first, the potion made him feel a little giddy and he sat on the edge of her bed but when he focused his eyes, he gazed at Tammy anew. She edged closer to him. When their lips met, she was not disappointed and lay back, giddy with the sensations. In a feverish surge, they pulled off each others’ clothes. She could hardly believe she was touching him and he was responding. The music built to a crescendo and she had won her love. It was time for fulfilment, while he was all hers. He would never look as beautiful as he did now, lying naked beside her. She slipped her hand under the pillow and withdrew the arrow that would pierce his heart, thrusting it under his ribs.

When she heard his startled, unearthly cry, she knew he’d joined her in ecstasy. For a moment, she tried to stem the flow of hot blood that pumped from him but it spurred her on to join him as quickly as possible so she swalloed the death potion and positioned the knife under her ribs.

The first Lee-Anne learned of the terrible deaths was when detectives arrived at her front door and took her in for questioning. The jealous girlfriend was the only lead they had.

Outside the school gates, a mountain of flowers grew, though few were for Tammy. The whole community was in a state of shock. Questions were asked in parliament. The deaths did not fit knife crime patterns or teenage suicide trends.

Jason remained forever beautiful in everyone’s memory and Tammy achieved the notoriety she had failed to attract in life…

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

Ripple [Part 1]

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While I am away and  doing internet cold turkey for a couple of weeks I’ve left you a brand new two-part story. Is Oliver delusional? Or is there really something sinister happening on his computer?

Ripple

             It is there again, rippling the surface; an outline surfacing and receding against the background. Oliver rubs his eyes and peers again at the blue screen. Now there is nothing under the desktop shortcuts. He makes a mental note to take the laptop into town.
He stretches, rises and walks to the tall wall of glass where he gazes out over the cityscape. It is an arresting view, even for one who lives such a large part of his life in front of a screen. The city stretches away, a pleasing mix of old and new dotted with ancient steepled churches and elegant, high rise skyscrapers and further away the sweep of the harbour with a variety of shipping docking and embarking day and night. Immediately below his block the silver snake of the canal winds its way around the parks and estates on its way out to port. But Oliver does not glance down, ever. He prefers to see further into the distance and away.
His phone buzzes, breaking into his thoughts.
“Are you ok?”
Melanie. She has assumed responsibility for his wellbeing despite his protests that he is fine.
“Yes. I’m alright. You don’t need to keep ringing.”
Mel laughs. “You’re such a charmer, Olly! I’m only looking out for you.”
“You don’t need to.”
“Have you been out today? You should get out. It isn’t good to sit at home brooding.”
“I’m not brooding. I’m working. And I do have to go out because my laptop’s playing up. I may need to get a new one.”
His sister sighs. “Is that the only reason to go out? You could just walk! How about meeting for lunch somewhere? Or come here to eat this evening?”
Oliver shudders. He’d have to sit around the table with noisy, prattling kids, make small talk, Mel and Charlie tiptoeing around his feelings like bomb disposal experts.
He grabs a jacket, stuffs the errant laptop and lead into its bag, grabs his keys and steps out of the apartment to summon the lift. In the lobby he grunts a peremptory reply to the doorman’s greeting before exiting through the revolving glass door and down the steps to the street. Pulling his collar together tight against the blustery wind he turns left and left again rather than continuing along to Canal Street, which would be the shortest route into town. Oliver has not walked along the towpath for eight months and has no intention of going there again, ever.
Nerina haunts his thoughts as always, day and night. As he walks he tries to picture her but succeeds only in conjuring parts of his wife- her smooth, white throat as she laughed, the black curls that fell down her back, the velvet soft touch of her and her husky voice as she spoke in her accented English. How she’d mocked him, her sly, sideways look as she posed in front of their mirror before telling him she had to go out. The way she dressed, a sensuous smile as she pulled on a sheer stocking or applied glossy, red lipstick.
At the store counter he unpacks the laptop, explaining the issue with its screen. The assistant, Paula according to her badge, turns the screen to the side for him to show her the fault. But there is nothing; no vestige of the movement he’d been witnessing. Oliver frowns, feeling a heat rise to his face. Paula smiles an open, sympathetic grin.
“Don’t be embarrassed! It’s common for devices’ faults to disappear like magic as soon as customers step through the doors with them. It’s almost as if the threat of repair is enough to make them behave!” She laughs; a deep, throaty bellow that forces Oliver to stare up into her face. It is a broad, guileless face, not pretty but honest; a face accustomed to laughter. For a moment he feels his shoulders relaxing, feels the tension draining down towards his feet. He nods at Paula, stows the errant laptop in the bag and thanks her.
“Bring it back if it starts playing up again” she advises him, before turning to another customer.
Oliver feels lighter as he exits the store and heads for home. He’ll try and eat something then get on with the figures he is supposed to be producing for a company report.
In his kitchen he can think of nothing he wants to eat and opts instead for a couple of the prescription tablets, standing at the sink, pressing the tiny, white capsules from their foil wrapping and swilling them down with a mouthful of water.
At his desk he opens the laptop lid and switches on, waiting for his password prompt and taking the deep breaths he’s been coached to employ if he feels a sense of panic. As he taps in the password his palms grow damp and he wipes them on his jeans as he waits for everything to load. The desktop shortcuts appear, nothing else. He exhales and thinks of Paula’s kind, friendly face as he clicks on his work folder and scans the files for his current spreadsheet. The white screen underneath the figures is flat and stable. Oliver breathes, closing his eyes to relish the relief.
He begins to work, clicking on each cell, highlighting, deleting and replacing. Needing to refer to some previous notes he rifles through some papers in a cardboard folder beside the laptop. Sheet in hand he turns back to the screen. It is heart-stopping. Oliver feels his pulse thumping as he takes short, shallow breaths, the blood draining from his face. He stares. The outline has reappeared, more defined now, undulating but clear. It is a face; a face he knows; the pronounced cheek bones, almond-shaped eyes and full lips. Nerina. He starts as her eyes flash open, the paper dropping to the floor. Her sensual lips part in the shape of a word as the image floats on the screen. She smiles, continues to mouth the word.
Oliver has dreamed of hearing Nerina’s husky voice; has lain awake at night bathed in perspiration, longing for her but now he dreads to turn on the volume switch, fearful of listening, although he knows what it is she is saying. He should switch off. He should shut down, power off, pull the plug. He shudders, transfixed by her rippling features, strands of her curls drifting in a rectangular pool…

      Check in to Anecdotage next week for Part 2 of ‘Ripple’.

Not the Lover that Rhymes with Cover…

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I’ve begun to notice interesting developments on social media recently. Some conversation threads have started to engage and pull in Facebook contacts from different spheres.

Take, for instance a news snippet concerning Lover. Lover [correctly pronounced Low-ver and rhyming with Dover] is a tiny satellite hamlet and part of a much smaller village called Redlynch, in the county of Wiltshire, England. For many years Lover post office has cashed in on its oft mis-pronounced name whenever Valentine’s Day became a distant speck on the horizon of February. Would-be beaux, belles and partners have made a habit of flocking to this backwater to post their cards and declarations of love in order to have ‘Lover’ stamped upon the outside of their envelopes.

In 1957, at the age of four I began school life in Lover, walking down through the village with my mother on the very first day only and after that having to accompany my brothers. There was no soft, part-time option, no lollipop person to see us across roads [there was no traffic either], no inside toilets-[a bucket under a wooden seat in a building across the playground sufficed], only two classes-infants and juniors-and thirty seven or so children altogether. We played all together in the playground [schoolyard], did country dancing to the accompaniment of a wind-up record player and played rounders on the field at the back which was shared by a farmer’s dairy herd. Anyone succeeding in attaining a rounder would have to run the gauntlet of cow deposits as well as fielders.

I loved my infant teacher, Miss Hunter with a devotion matched only by my fear of the head-teacher and junior class teacher, Mrs Reardon. Miss Hunter taught us fractions by bringing in a beautiful Battenburg cake that demonstrated halves and quarters. Mrs Reardon violated my fragile confidence by shaming me in front of the class for my ignorance in the mysteries of tracing. Miss Hunter took us for nature walks, holding hands with our partners in a long, snaking crocodile as we learned the names of trees and wild flowers. Mrs Reardon applied soap to the mouth of a small, swearing boy so that he ran around the playground crying and frothing at the lips.

I was in the junior class for a short period, probably no more than a year and yet I spent a good deal of it sitting by an older girl to help her with her grey, English workbook-mortifying for her and tedious for me. Distractions were provided by newts inserted into inkwells [we had to dip our pens into them, never managing to write without the inevitable blot] or someone’s misdemeanour prompting a few whacks across their palms. I laboured over sums involving pounds, shillings and pence or stones, pounds and ounces or yards, feet and inches.

At age seven my family moved to a different part of the country for my father to take up a promotion. There I attended another two-class primary school in a rural area-this time almost remote enough to be another country-but that is altogether another story…

An Expert’s Guide to Partnership

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I once read, years ago that your best chance of a lifetime partner is one who, on first meeting comes across as about a six or a seven out of ten. I also read that this potentially successful sharer of your life is likely to have elements of background in common with you; these might be socio-economic factors or cultural. They might, for instance have been born and brought up in a large city as you were, or raised in a remote farming community. They have spent their childhood in a poverty stricken tenement flat or be heir to a vast fortune. They may be from the same era and have a penchant for the same music and TV programmes. As long as their background is similar to your own the relationship stands a better chance of enduring. It makes sense and even more so when you are searching for this partner later in life, as many are.
At any age it is possible to become drawn by the way someone looks or acts. You have to feel sorry for the poor women who’ve been featured on our local TV news programme recently for having been duped by internet predators who stalked them for money. Those women naively assumed that the websites they were using for internet dating could protect them from such fraudsters. The potential suitors were charming, good looking and [crucially] professed great interest in their victims. They did not, however exist. It is easy to think of the women as foolish however anyone can be susceptible to the lure of flattery, especially those who’ve been on their own for some time or are vulnerable from past experiences.
Searching for a partner in later life is a tricky business, but I’ve always believed that anyone who truly wants a companion can have one, whatever the circumstances. It is just a matter of being realistic. For women, sadly, the field is still narrowed by having to search within an older age bracket-a difficult situation for older women! The singles group that [until recently] frequented one of our local bars on Friday nights was dominated by the same ageing females and dotted with a few similarly aged men, the entire group sharing an appearance of jaded acceptance, the women having each partnered one or other of the men at some time. At intervals one of the men would ask one of the women to dance, or a pair of women would take to the dance floor, after each sortie returning to their tables in a kind of desultory trance.
It is also important to remember that singledom can be infinitely preferable to unhappy partnerships.
There are women I know whose expectations are unrealistic [and I’m sure there are men who are the same]. I would say it is worth sitting down and assessing which qualities you feel are important in a potential mate. For me it would boil down to intelligence, sense of humour and downright kindness. Everything else-looks, charm, money etc would be desirable but no more than a bonus.
Of course, you do have to kiss a lot of frogs. I’m writing from experience here [and yes-I’ve told Husband I am still waiting for his miraculous metamorphosis to prince-lest he become too complacent!]