As anyone can tell, my heart just isn't in this any more.
Adios amigos. (If you expected more drama, please add a plaintive bugle.)
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Loss lives in a dark prison somewhere near my heart. I keep it trapped there, most of the time. But, sometimes, something happens to set it free and a wave of breathlessness tears through my body. The closest thing I can compare it to is being winded by someone who really knows how to throw a punch. The eternal seconds when one’s lungs refuse to fill, the sense of suffocation, the burning pain. Yet, with loss, it’s not a matter of waiting for one’s body to remember how to breathe, not merely a matter of wiping away the tears and getting back into the fight. Instead, all one can do is wait for it to crawl back into its hiding place and do one’s damnedest to render over the broken wall with a thick coat of denial. Broken. Now there’s a word. Broken means fixable, right? Wrong. Some things cannot be fixed. For some things, broken means over, defunct, never again to work correctly, beaten… lost. The ability to smile if you have Parkinson’s Disease. The ability to draw if you have arthritis. The ability to read if you have macular degeneration. The ability to recognise your own family if you have dementia. The ability to build a career if neurological fatigue cripples you in your early thirties. Loss of a loved one is a heart-breaking reality of life. Loss of oneself is a bewildering, destructive whirlwind that crashes through a mental construct that has taken a lifetime to form: the very essence of who you are. ‘Experts’ talk about going through the five stages of grief when a medical diagnosis smashes your hopes and dreams. What they don’t tell you is that, once you master Acceptance, that sense of loss will lie dormant, deep within your soul, ready to be awakened by the slightest touch. That’s what happened to me this morning when a bereft, beaten face smashed through my defences. I sobbed as a young man kissed an elegant, elderly hand and she began to dance. I sobbed for her loss, and mine, but also for the miracle that, through the desolation of Alzheimer’s Disease, her ballet had survived. When I reach my final years, will my memories be defiled by loss or will the prison walls have been reinforced with unbreakable steel, my mind free to look on my past with perspective and a sense of achievement? I pray for the latter. I pray that, when someone plays the music of my life, my mind moves with the beauty and grace of Marta C. Gonzalez. https://www.facebook.com/paul.bunton/videos/10223790543934452
Like Narcissus, I was mesmerised by the reflection. Softened by the shimmer of sunshine on tiny ripples, the scars looked merely a shadow; my face, the face of a long-forgotten yet desperately missed friend. I lifted cool, wet fingertips from the water to trace the sweep of twisted skin and felt them warm with tears.
The sound of laughter dragged my eyes from the pool. A family approached my quiet oasis, a boy riding high on his father’s shoulders while mother and daughter swung clasped hands between them as they skipped ahead. A wicker picnic basket was enough of a warning. I slunk away, my mind aching with regret at the possibilities they’d stolen from me. Dappled light shone through the ancient broadleaf canopy as I pushed my way through thick undergrowth to find the abandoned trail. Once through, I took a moment to pull sticky willows from my cardigan and curls and suck on the heel of my hand, the blood-stained victim of a particularly vicious, thorny bramble. I don’t think I had any plans in that moment. They grew with the hill, becoming increasingly dark and demanding as my atrophied calf burned with the incline. The heady fragrance of honeysuckle almost brought me to my knees, but I forced my legs to take me to the top where I knew I’d find some kind of peace. Sinking onto a bed of wild flowers, I closed my eyes to the panoramic view and let myself remember the last time we’d been there. The musk of him mingling with the sweet freshness of lily of the valley. The grass tickling my back as he kissed my breasts. His long-lashed, brown eyes shining with love as he pushed himself into me. The ecstasy of that coupling; the absolute rightness of it. Three years it had been. Three years of loss: of him, of myself, of my future. I was standing at the edge before I realised I’d moved. Beneath me, a hundred foot drop of jutting rock promised an end to the pain. An end to reliving the scream of metal tearing into metal. And end to waking, dripping with sweat, as the bone-breaking impact slammed through our fragile bodies. An end to living with agony, and the horror in children’s eyes. An end to the torment of forever remembering him still and silent, never to hold me again. They hadn’t been charged with the death of my unborn babe and there would be no other. Not with this face and this body. I felt myself sway towards the drop, as if a magnet was calling me. It would be so easy. The dog saved me. He pressed himself between me and the edge, pushing me back, his strength more than a match for mine. I found myself on the ground, sobbing, my arms around his neck, my face buried in soft, warm fur. When I was calm, he touched his cold nose to mine and left me there, answering the cheerful calls of his owner. “Dougie! Where are you, boy? You can’t just abandon me without a good reason, you know. Dougie?” I heard the happy reunion and stood to leave. I’d made it to the honeysuckle when they stepped in front of me, the golden labrador’s tail wagging, his handsome owner smiling as he inhaled the heart-warming fragrance. “Something smells good,” he said. “It’s honeysuckle,” I told him. “No, definitely magnolia and citrus.” He bent to stroke his guide dog. “Have you been match-making again, Dougie?” He stood and grinned right at me. “Dougie and I are partial to Chanel. As, it seems, are you?” I’d splashed the last of the Cristalle on that morning. An expensive birthday gift from Jamie, its end had seemed symbolic, driving me to the park in some sort of attempt to let him go. I looked at this tousle-haired athlete in front of me and wondered at the ease with which he navigated these wooded slopes and flirted with a disfigured girl he’d never see. “It was a present,” I told him, my voice breaking just a little. I found myself walking with them, chatting and laughing like a normal person. He sensed my unease when we made it to the car park and a plethora of rude stares so I told him while we waited for his Uber. I expected rejection, for his sudden desire to forget our meeting. One word changed my life forever. “Coffee?” Misty pushed the final pile of paperwork to one side and sighed with relief. No matter how much money it made her, accounts day was, without doubt, her least favourite day of the week. She heard a warning knock then the antique, oak door squeal as it opened. The scent of strawberries wafted in from the factory. The foreman appeared in coat, cap and scarf. “All ready for you,” he said, easing the two-inch thick slab of old wood backwards and forwards in an attempt to identify the source of the high-pitched complaints. “I’ll try some more WD40 on this for you before I leave.” “That’s all right, Pete. I’ve got rather used to it,” she told him with a smile. The mental shrug was plain on his honest face as he relegated the small job to a non job. “The keys?” she reminded him. “Oh, right.” There was a loud jingle and a small scrape of metal on metal then a, “Best of luck tomorrow,” and the thunk of the door closing behind him. Misty stood and stretched, feeling the ache in her back that meant she’d been sitting badly again. The bespoke, ergonomic chair had been purchased specifically to support her dodgy lumbar region, but it didn’t seem to be much better than the seventeenth-century throne it had replaced. It didn’t squeak and squeal, though, she reminded herself. She looked around the office with pleasure, the ultra modern aluminium cabinets, the colourful seating area and ludicrously expensive lighting creating the perfect backdrop for the awards and accolades that dotted the oak-panelled wall. Her stiletto heels left dents in the thick-pile carpet as she went across to look up at that first one: the crumpled certificate proclaiming her to be Berthan-on-Sea WI’s sixth place finisher in ‘Jams, Jellies and Preserves’. She remembered the look of smug derision on the other five competitors’ carefully made-up faces as the too-young, too-new and too-single upstart grabbed her pot and ran, the image of grandmotherly bosoms shaking with suppressed laughter imprinted on her brain. It had spurred her on, though, she’d give them that; none of this would ever have happened without them. She moved along the wall to the Women’s Institute National Competition results from the following year and felt the usual frisson of pleasure as she read her name at the very top. She’d showed them, all right. The phone rang while she was entering the combination on the safe’s keypad. “Oh, have I missed you?” a crackly version of her secretary said. “Em… In case you’re still there, Miss Archer, I just had a call from the television people. The car will be arriving at two pm and not three. I told them that would be fine because I know how much you were looking forward to meeting Mr Norton and his guests, but let me know if it’s inconvenient and I’ll ask them to reschedule… Em… If I don’t talk to you before then, I hope it goes really well… And, em… You will remember to ask for Mr Hanks’ autograph for my mum, won’t you? Em… Right… I’ll see you on Thursday. Good luck!” She’d thrown off her high-powered heels and danced barefoot after that first call. “Everyone wants to meet the reclusive owner and inventor of the astonishing new product that’s taken Europe by storm… What better stage than Mr Norton’s show?… It’ll launch you straight into A-list celebrity…” All of that was very nice, but the fact that the show was aired in the US had been the clincher. Walmart would cave on the price once their customers started to demand Misty Archer’s award-winning jam. The walls creaked and groaned as she opened the safe door and took out a small, blue, plastic container. Irritated by the noise, she slammed the heavy door closed and watched in horror as it rebounded, heading straight for her precious cargo. Her hand moved just too late. The box landed upside down on the abstract carpet. She crawled to the orange square and, heart in mouth, turned the blue plastic upright. “Oh, thank God,” she breathed, seeing the lid tightly in place. She sat there, legs splayed, her eyes closed, the tub held against her thumping chest until it went back to a normal, steady background noise she could easily ignore. Not so the laughter from the walls. That was new. She remembered the last and only time she’d heard it before. That night in the woods. That stupid tawny owl who wouldn’t accept there was no mate within earshot and sod off somewhere else. “Hooo… hu… huhuhuhooo,” again and again, all bloody night. It had been the final straw after the disaster of the WI winter fete. She’d got out of bed, shoved a jacket and her wellies over her pyjamas, grabbed a torch and a pile of her father’s fishing nets and crept into the forest. An icy wind had whispered through the trees, bringing the faint, fresh scent of snowdrops and the sound of tinkling laughter and song. She was so sleep-deprived she hadn’t realised it wasn’t coming from the distant village hall. She’d worked it out in the morning, though. The rays of light breaking through the canopy had lit up the middle portion of the net as if full of impossible mackerel, their shimmering bodies now still, starved of air. She’d cursed as she plodded her way through newly-fallen snow, angry that she’d caught something other than the annoying owl. The anger had faded to astonishment and disbelief when she’d seen the silvery wings and tiny bodies. It had taken five minutes of deep breathing to touch one. It was rigid, frozen in place, its wings torn by the net, its skin ripped bloody by the heavy thread. She didn’t remember dismantling the trap, didn’t remember getting home, didn’t remember anything until she’d come to standing over her father’s neglected fish freezer, her hands pressing down on the heavy lid. She’d gone inside to fill a large glass with her mother’s Scotch. When she woke, the bottle was empty and she’d decided the whole thing was a bad, whisky-induced dream. It was only when the WI’s summer fete was announced and her early attempts at a better jam were still last place ordinary that she’d wondered. Telling herself she was mad, she’d made her way over to her father’s workshop and put her hands on the big handle. It would be empty, she’d told herself before yanking the lid up. Lifeless, accusing eyes stared up at her and she’d jumped back with a shriek, letting the lid fall with a loud bang. Desperation made her go back. She’d flung the strawberry-stained wooden spoon in the sink in disgust and stormed through the garden, the incredible display of colour and fragrance from her mother’s careful planting lost on her. She’d stopped seeing their ethereal faces after she’d gutted the second, her knife moving as efficiently as it had when it had been her job to process the day’s catch. The greenhouse was empty of strawberries before she’d worked out that the wings worked best, and it took the contents of an entire shelf from Tesco to understand that it had to be grated, quickly, before the fine gossamer defrosted. A second outing to Tesco revealed that using the finest side of the grater produced the most effective silvery dust. She’d rummaged in her mother’s baking cupboard to come up with something to keep it in; the old Tupperware box had been used ever since. She ran her fingers over the black ink on the lid. ‘Secret ingredient!’ she’d written, gleeful with absolute confidence that those condescending, patronising women who’d she’d turned to in the hope of friendship would be the ones scurrying away with embarrassment. The next three years had been a whirlwind. Winning the Nationals, setting up a stall in the market, taking on her first employees, moving back to London, securing contracts with every major retailer at a price previously unheard of for a lowly jar of strawberry jam, European outlets begging for product, having to find bigger premises, and now, television and the world. She grinned as she set the box on the coffee table. Finding the level of powder not quite deep enough to fill her scoop, she decided another trip to the family home was long overdue. Her diary was so full, though… If only she could find them somewhere closer to London… Still, these were the trials and tribulations of a successful entrepreneur. She smiled as she looked at the bronze statuette in pride of place in the centre of the table then lifted one end of the box, inhaling deeply as the fairy dust flowed down to the other end, earthy, grassy motes floating towards her. She inhaled deeply and laughed, euphoriant from the rush of magic to her brain and the gleam of the shiny plaque proclaiming her ‘Businesswoman of 2020’. Pocketing the vial of glistening powder, she picked up the keys from the top of the filing cabinet and turned to press a hand against the old oak door. She caressed the ornate carving and leaned in to whisper to it. “This is your official eviction notice. My appeal against that ridiculous Listed Building Order is up for consideration next week and the Mayor and the head of the Planning Committee are bought and paid for. Every splinter of wood will be out of here by the end of the month. And you with it.” She heard their wails as her Christian Louboutins soundlessly travelled past the half-panelled walls to the shiny metal door into the factory. Inside, the pristine production lines were silent apart from the bubbling vats and the brisk strike of metal heels on metal floors. She laughed, her mind still flying high from the dust. “There’s no wood on these walls,” she shouted, hoping they could hear her. She climbed the stairs to the top of the final vat on the line, pressed the button to open the lid and prised the stopper from the vial. The powder drifted downwards to be whisked through hot, sticky jam until it had been transformed into a substance just short of addictive. A sudden crack echoed through the factory and she frowned, looking around for the source. It couldn’t be an employee; it was a sackable offence to stay while Miss Archer added the secret ingredient. “Hello?” she called. Hearing nothing, she shrugged and put the vial back in her pocket. A second crack startled her hand away from the button that closed the lid. She pirouetted a full three hundred and sixty degrees, suspicious eyes narrow with anger at the possibility of an intruder. She didn’t think to look up. She didn’t hear the heavy chunk of the oak ceiling fall. She did, however, hear howls of tinkling laughter before her eyes and her lungs started to melt and the giant stirrer tore the flesh from her bones. Photograph courtesy of congerdesign via pixabay
I have been woefully remiss in not updating this blog in ages. The good news is that I have been writing! Yay! I'd been struggling to make a start on an introduction to the third Kat Farthing book and on a new book based in Anna's world so the relief was immense when I realised I'd come at it all wrong and the words started flowing. I'm now in the middle of Chapter 7, but here's a taster. Please note that this is pre-editing; it may look very different by the time the book comes out!
Chapter 1 Bay of Tritana, Costas The good-natured yells of a boisterous welcome streamed through the open window on rays of dusty sunshine. It was sufficient distraction for the young businessman to pull himself away from the pile of paperwork that reappeared every morning as if by magic. He looked down on a knot of unusual backslapping amongst the familiar busy scene, but the ocean soon drew his gaze. A bronze-tinted glimmer appeared in his brown eyes as he breathed in the salty promise of strange lands and adventure. He allowed himself a moment’s escape then sighed, feeling every ounce of the responsibility that demanded he learn to love his new station in life. His belly grumbled painfully. “Be quiet,” he snapped, “there’s nothing happening.” A second sigh escaped through pursed lips. “There’s never anything happening.” His gift had been pestering him for months, even before Sofia and he had moved here. It had started quietly with the sort of gentle hint that meant ‘choose the whiskey’ or ‘bet on the piebald’ but it was now at the level he associated with the need to duck the sweep of an invisible sword heading straight for the back of his neck. Except there was no sword; there was no danger at all. It was unsettling, irritating and confusing and, despite his determination to ignore every spasm of his belly, his fingers eased themselves towards the decorative dagger on his belt. They drummed themselves against the hilt in time to the waves. A puff of lilac cloud caught his eye as it raced across the horizon on a stiff breeze. He willed it on, hitching his luck to its battle for survival. If it made it to the harbour, he’d take Sofia for a leisurely lunch. If it made it to the mountain, he’d take the rest of the day off. If it made it to… It fizzled into the endless blue without making it even to the large ships anchored in the deep water of the bay. Was it possible to hate blue sky? He hadn’t thought it possible, not after the snow of Mastra. With Mastra came thoughts of Sy, Finn and Beitris, of Seleste and Malik, of Anna and Ewan, of Jimmy and a pocketful of King’s medallions. Homesickness and grief near overwhelmed him, but the sudden squeak of a stair had him instantly grabbing up a scroll to attempt a more professional pose; successful gold merchants did not generally spend more time pacing before their office window than sitting behind their desk. He did a double take at the squiggles on the parchment and turned up to down just as the door opened. The clerk was kind enough to pretend she hadn’t seen him. “Sir, there’s a messenger below. Shall I send him up?” “No, I’ll come down once I’ve finished this. My legs could do with a stretch.” The hint of a giggle sparkled in the woman’s wide eyes, but she schooled her mouth into stern obedience. “Yes, sir, Master Peyton.” He’d been doing a fine job of keeping up the act until that moment. His undoing was not her obvious disbelief that he wanted to read the scroll. It wasn’t even the ornate, completely incomprehensible calligraphy emblazoned across the top of it. Instead it was the single line of translation in Standard that lay beneath this: ‘An analysis of ancient records of Vilenchian trade in gold bullion, told in the original language.’ A quick glance through thick brown lashes told him that the clerk knew full well he didn’t read ancient Vilenchian. Their lips twitched as one then Spider let out an enormous guffaw, dropping the scroll on top of his abandoned paperwork. “Caught red-handed!” “Yes, sir, Master Peyton,” said the laughing clerk before quietly closing the door behind her. Two minutes later, he stood frozen before the noisy main office, his hand on the doorknob, his belly telling him he shouldn’t enter or he should enter or there was an assailant with a blade behind him or before him or, for all he knew, the world was about to end. In a rare moment of clarity, he realised he’d lost all sense of himself in trying to become what Sofia and her father expected of him. The chatter silenced as he turned the handle only to start up again as he walked straight across the room and down the back stairs rather than take the stairs to reception. “But what about the messenger?” he heard. “Let him wait!” he called, a jubilant schoolboy truant. My husband and I stayed up very late last night, binge-watching the last five episodes of The New Pope, season two. I think the last time we did this was for The Marvellous Mrs Maisel, possibly my favourite TV show of all time. On paper, a surreal, ecclesiastical drama and a witty, laugh out loud comedy couldn't be more different. In practice, they are both beautifully shot, the acting is excellent and the settings and costumes are fabulous but, most of all, the dialogue is absolutely wonderful. For a change, I'm not bored by a storyline I guessed in episode one, disappointed by shortcut writing that clumsily fills in blanks or grumbling about holes in the plot. Instead, I'm wishing that I'd written it!
At the moment, however, my mind is steadfastly refusing to produce much of anything. Since releasing Dig Three Graves in January, I've written only three things. The first was Last Christmas, a short story. The second was And Then There Were Three (Musketeers), another short story which fills in a little of the background to the Kat Farthing novels. The third was the opening chapter for the next Kat Farthing novel. I spent a whole day on it and only made it to 688 words; for me, a very poor effort. Worse, when I read it a couple of days later, I realised it was rubbish. Sigh. It seems that my mojo has left me and I'm not sure how to get it back. I've been told that writing something, anything, no matter how crap, every day can help break writer's block. It's worth a try, yes? A bit of flash fiction, a waffle about nothing much, a short story, a standalone scene... A lot of it will never see a pair of eyes other than mine, but some might make it on here and, you never know, maybe the next HBO blockbuster will come out of it. I live in hope :) When I embarked on writing Kat, I didn't have much more in mind than giving myself something to do, having another go at writing a novel and, perhaps, making a little money. I knew nothing about writing styles, official (convoluted and frankly ridiculous) genres, agents, the publishing process, the horrendously competitive literature market or how sharks start circling as soon as you stick your head above the parapet. Let me tell you something: writing sucks. Sure, I enjoy the actual writing process and, yes, I love getting nice reviews, but my mental health has become a rollercoaster, the apathy in some quarters is heart-breaking and, when I first sat down at my keyboard, I had zero intention or desire to learn about self-publishing, digital marketing, Photoshop, business accounts, profit and loss statements, and a whole host of other crap that my life would be infinitely better without. So I've decided to cut one drag out of my life: Facebook.
It's a start. PS Can anyone tell me how the heck to remove a redundant Facebook 'like' button?! Scottish glossary
shortarse: a derogatory word for someone who is shorter than average manky: filthy piece and jam: a jam sandwich bawheid: idiot Sassenach: a derogatory word for an English person GLASGOW, JANUARY 1972 They skulked downwind in the shadows, the muffled scrapes of frozen feet shuffling on flattened snow travelling too short a distance to offer a warning. Those who were wise avoided their various lairs or travelled in packs. From the rest, from the stupid, the blasé and the unwary, prey was selected and picked clean with the precision and expertise learned from years of tyranny. The largest of the four risked the arctic conditions to take woollen-clad hands from his pockets and shake a cigarette from its crumpled home. A grunt through the grubby scarf covering his face called his minions into a tighter huddle, their bodies blocking the racing wind from the match rasping against the narrow strip of sandpaper. Thin lips sucked greedily then slowed before casually passing the baton, its tip glowing scarlet as the wind snatched its share. A strict pecking order was observed as the prize was passed to each in turn, the lowest of the group getting a bare second’s inhalation before blistering heat threatened his lips. He almost didn’t register it. His eyes wide with amazement, he slapped his neighbour on the arm, the forgotten fag end flying southwards on the winter gale. The other boy growled at the impact and raised his fist, but the retaliatory punch stalled as an immature brain failed to compute what its visual system was processing. From twenty feet away, they gaped upon the slim figure of a younger boy in clothes that screamed attentive, well-heeled parents. They didn’t see the exquisitely carved cheekbones and chiselled nose, the generous, Cupid-blessed lips or a pair of long-lashed, mocha eyes that would learn to melt hearts with the barest twinkle. All they saw was the astounding colour of his skin. Through the clouds of snow, the boy trudging behind the rarest of sights in this whiter than white part of Scotland could only see the dark outline of a kid in a hood and the perfect imprints of a pair of brand new wellies. But he could smell the cigarette smoke and felt his stomach churn with apprehension. Deep in his coat pocket, a small fist closed firmly over two coins. When he reached the end of the shortcut, he could see the school bullies had arranged themselves as a barricade before the figure in the leak-free wellies. The icy newspaper lining his own boots squelched as he shifted his weight. He weighed up the risk of running for the gap on the far side, knowing in his head that backtracking would make him late, knowing in his heart that all he’d be doing was delaying the inevitable. Undecided, he edged forward, trying to hear what was being said. The words rushed past on the wind, only one or two clear in every three. He took another step. And another. “It’s the midget!” “Oh, crap,” he thought, glad his granny couldn’t hear him. The taste of soap filled his mind nonetheless. “What’d yuh think, shortarse? D’yuh think it’ll rub off? If I gie him a slap, my han’ would turn manky like him, the dirty darkie? Him whose old man steals food from oor table? Him who shud gae the fuck hame.” The small boy didn’t understand the parroting of parental bigotry. He knew the tone, though, and he could see the hands that itched to tear the warm coat from black skin, the feet that twitched to test the true colour of its blood. It’d be him next, if he was still there when they were done. But… if not today, it would be tomorrow or the next… Hell (more soap), they’d got him bang to rights on his very first day; Granny’s precious savings ripped from his hand, his belly growling come lunch time and only a piece and jam for tea. He’d managed to avoid them in the days since, but they’d not let him pass now. Not now they knew Granny had too much pride to let her boy join the long paupers’ queue. As his thoughts raced, the bully’s apprentices moved beyond words to actions. Prods became shoves became a game of passing the parcel, the rich kid’s polite pleas drowned out by grunts and laughter. Beyond, the leader stood to one side, blocking free passage, bright blue eyes fixed on the lump of a puny fist concealing cash. It might have been choreographed by a higher power, that instant in which a beautiful boy in brand new wellies and a short boy with soaking wet socks changed their lives. A mahogany fist drew back just like dad had demonstrated. Behind, a wild scream of defiance rang along the alley and two stubby legs slipped and slid northwards, a mousy brown head a battering ram, skinny arms wheeling. The ferocity of the double attack allowed the two a few second’s advance. Fast wee hands pummelled anything in their path while more precise jabs were aimed upwards at chins and noses. But two eight-year-old weaklings are no match for a gang of four eleven-year-old bruisers and the youngsters soon found themselves eating bloody snow as their pockets were expertly patted down between unnecessary, vindictive punches. “Pick on someone your own size,” came a strangely smooth, yet clipped voice, almost like something off the radio. The weight lifted from the prone bodies as four turned to face one. About the same height, but thinner, wirier, with floppy blonde hair and a tatty, ill-fitting school uniform and pair of old gym shoes, his hands and face red with the cold, the bullies saw a bawheid who’d add nothing to their coffers. The bullied saw a potential saviour. “Fucking Sassenach,” sneered the leader. “Take yer nose oot o’ oor business, ya English bastart.” He took a step closer with each word, an alpha male establishing his presence. Flanking him, three grinning loons kept pace. The blonde turned so quickly his body was a blur. The roundhouse kick sent a right foot whipping a full 360 degrees from ground to head in the blink of an eye, its heel aimed directly for the smug face who’d unwittingly postured its way within range. The connection sent ripples of power through chin, shoulders, torso and finally knees. Rolling eyes hit the snowdrift first, the unconscious mass behind it flopping to the ground like a fish out of water. There was a moment of stunned awe before the three lackies eyed each other nervously and backed off a few steps, heavy breathing fogging the air between them and their unwelcome adversary. The lanky blonde just smiled, his arms loose at his side, his body relaxed and ready to repeat his performance. A low groan interrupted the stand off. All turned to watch as the fallen leader pushed his way to sitting, his vengeful eyes tearing holes in the boy who’d spoiled his morning. “Cheatin’ bastart,” he mumbled through swollen lips. The sound of the bell was a face-saving reprieve; Mr Mason’s unrelenting attitude to tardiness more than sufficient reason to postpone proceedings. Urgent hands pulled the eldest boy from the snow and the four swaggered off, promising vengeance while making sure to keep their distance from the scarily confident stranger. The boy in the brand new wellies was the first to break the silence. “My mum’ll kill me,” he said, looking down on a torn pocket and stained trousers. His head came up slowly, his mind switching to more important matters. “How’d yae dae that?” “Mair important, can yae teach me?” The smallest boy unfurled his hand to reveal two shiny coins then tipped them into his pocket. “I’m nae gaeing hungry agin. No way.” The blonde’s smile stretched into a grin. “It’s karate. I did it… I used to…” There was silence as the grin subsided and he tried to get his thoughts in order, tried to find a handful of words to explain death and loss and poverty and what used to be. He covered the telltale vibration at the corner of his mouth by introducing himself. “I’m Tommy, Tommy Farthing. I just moved here.” The beautiful child held out a resolute, chocolate brown hand. “I’m Jamie McKenzie. It’s my first day.” The wee kid interrupted the handshake, impatient for the answer to his question. “Michael Harper,” he said. “So can ye?” Tommy could see the challenge in his eyes. “You got guts, little man. You can have my back any time. And, yes, I’ll show you what I can.” He turned to the coloured boy. “And you’ve got one hell of a right. A bit more weight behind it and you could have done some damage.” Twenty minutes later, Eileen McKenzie opened her front door, dishtowel in hand, her four-year-old peeking through her legs. Her elder son looked like he’d been pulled through a hedge. On his left was a lad only half his size with a bloody nose and thoughtful eyes. On the right was a tall blonde wearing practically nothing but a cheeky smile to protect him from the weather. “And what happened to school?” she asked, hands on hips, her eyebrows nearly as high as her widow’s peak. Jamie looked up through his eyelashes and shrugged beguilingly. “A wee bit of trouble on the way, mum, but we handled it.” Eileen put on her sternest face. “We?” she asked, looking the mismatched trio. “And who dared give you ‘trouble’?” Her son changed the subject by appealing to his mother’s soft spot. “We only came hame so ye could fix Michael’s nose and mebbe gie him my auld wellies? Tommy could dae with a pair o’ gloves tae. Then we’ll heid straight back, promise…” Soft brown eyes welled up on command. “Mr Mason’ll gie us grief without a note, but…” She caved like she always did, her bark infinitely worse than her bite when it came to her boys. “Ach, you’ll get a note, don’t you worry. Now, inside, and get those wet clothes in front of the fire.” She got the three settled in the kitchen and went rummaging for old wellies for the wee boy and spare clothes to warm that poor boy’s scrawny frame. Once their bellies were warm and full, she’d get out of them who dared to rip her Jamie’s jacket. Whoever was responsible wouldn’t know what’d hit them when she tore it out of their backsides. Back downstairs, her arms full, she found only crumbs and empty plates in the kitchen. Dumping the clothes on the table, she heard an impatient, “Git lost, Connor. This is fur men only,” from the lounge. Smiling, she snuck through the dining room and eased the door open just enough to spy. There, in their underpants, were the three eight-year-olds, their arms in the air, their faces as serious as priests during confession. Connor pranced around them, a stick in his hand, making like Errol Flynn. “One for all, and all for one,” the three boys intoned together, looking up at the imaginary sword points that formed a lopsided pyramid of steel above their heads. Eileen felt tears prickle the back of her eyes and quietly closed the door. She knew only too well how much ‘trouble’ lay ahead for a darkie, a shortarse and a Sassenach in this day and age. Best they faced it together. She shook her head at her romantic nonsense. It wasn’t like it would last… The receptionist barely looked up, his smoky grey eyes darting across his shiny-coated tablet with an impatience that suggested a long overdue coffee break. She opened her mouth to demand answers, but the piercing fire in that glance dried all hint of saliva and her tongue and lips came to a full stop before they’d even begun. She pretended all was well, looking past the desk to the two enormous, mechanical counters on the whitewashed brick wall behind; the one on the left displaying numbers in red, the one on the right in blue. It appeared red was winning whatever endless game was being played. She’d just about worked out the exact ratio when he began to speak, his voice surprisingly familiar in intonation, pitch and accent. She thought to berate him for mocking her when she realised that the words were hers too; written in her diary after that misguided second bottle last night. But how? Her bewilderment dimmed until all she could sense was the cadence of damning insight… ‘Is it pride? Or lust perhaps? Whatever it is, it has driven my life as surely as the gravity of the sun drives the Earth and its moon. Is it balanced by a willingness to collect those with broken wings, to be the friend always ready to drop everything? To be the worker who never misses a deadline, who always volunteers to do more? A small, internal voice tells me that my supposed kindness and diligence are merely facets of my own particular brand of sin: being an overachieving, ambitious creature who ever strives because she knows not how to simply be. And why is this? There was a moment when I let it all go; accepted my place in life without rancour or envy, was content, happy even. The world had other plans for me, pushed me screaming into an abyss of fear, sorrow and bewilderment. When I broke for air, I could see the light ahead, and a new path. But, for me, new equals ‘challenge’, ‘succeed’, ‘win’. And so the cycle began again. Three times, life or the world or a God I don’t believe in has pushed me to be different. Three times I have been unable to learn. Do I regret it? Yes. And no. For who of us are able to remake our DNA and the unique experiences that make us us?’ A smile reached the receptionist’s eyes as he snapped closed the tablet’s metallic cover. He clicked his fingers and a tiny man materialised at her side, his body language screaming ‘eager to please’ despite the otherworldly flames forcing his feet to dance on the spot. ‘Follow your guide,’ the receptionist intoned with a solemn, resonant bass, his smile now a distant memory. The imp, for surely that was what he was, clasped her wrist, his fingers searing grooves into her skin. She pulled against its impossibly strong grasp, crying out in pain, ‘What the hell?’ ‘Precisely,’ the receptionist snapped. ‘It’s not like He didn’t give you chances. You admitted as much yourself.’ His eyes moved past her horrified tears, his ears deaf to her pleas. ‘Next!’ he shouted as the red counter slowly clicked on one and the faint odour of brimstone reached her nostrils. Image by Engin_Akyurt from Pixabay
Christmas Eve, the day when everything seemed possible. The presents, long agonised over, had been carefully wrapped with shiny paper and bows of glossy ribbon, their tags written with copperplate handwriting and hope. The fridge was bulging with every possible treat and titbit, even that exorbitantly priced beer that no one but father liked. The Christmas pudding, made with absolute attention to mother’s own recipe, looked and smelled amazing. The tree… well, even if I said so myself, the tree was perfect. I’d finished cleaning my little house just before midnight. It had been scrubbed to within an inch of its life, its cushions plumped, its linen freshly laundered and even its curtains hoovered, twinkling lights strung along pristine curtain poles, and the detritus of everyday life shoved behind locked cupboard doors. The final touch had been the mistletoe, my bounty from an hour-long trek into the depths of Pixie Week Woods and another fight with a particularly offensive barbed wire fence that my fake Barbour would never recover from. It was a small price, I thought, as I pulled the duvet up under my chin. My eyes sprang open at one minute to eight. Ever-prescient Monty stretched, curling to precisely the right angle to offer his chin for a rub. ‘I haven’t even moved,’ I told him, laughing, my fingers finding soft, warm fur. ‘How do you always know?’ He didn’t reply, but his whiskers twitched and the sound of distant pile-drivers vibrated against my chest. I switched off the alarm then diverted from my normal routine by meandering my way through to the living room in my pyjamas, a confused Monty following in my wake. His plaintiff miaows were eclipsed by Mariah Carey as I pressed play on the cd player and began gyrating around the coffee table, the tv remote control held to my lips as I belted out the chorus. The look on his face suggested he’d be much happier with a portion of Sheba than an off-key promise that all I wanted for Christmas was him. Rather than take pity on his empty belly, I scooped him up and held him high in the air as I swayed along to George Michael. ‘It’s going to be a wonderful Christmas, Monty,’ I told the chubby tabby. ‘I can feel it in my bones.’ My parents, brother and sister-in-law arrived within seconds of each other. ‘Good journey?’ I asked brightly. Father looked askance and opened his mouth, but mother buried me under voluminous coat, scarf, hat and gloves so I was spared his rebuke. It was Christmas Day. No one got stuck in traffic on a damp, dull Christmas Day, especially when they only had to drive eight miles along main roads. I sighed through the Chanel-soaked cashmere and busied myself laying everything on the bed so not a crease or smudge might befall them. Back in the hall, I discovered mother inspecting a fingertip that had just been run along the top of the abstract I’d hung outside the loo. Beside her, father stood shaking his head at the multi-coloured, shaggy rug I’d made to block the draft coming in through warped floorboards. Behind him, Pete and Sarah were almost tapping their feet in time to the fruitless seconds marching into their past. I opened my mouth to apologise for their wait then realised I had nothing to apologise for. ‘Sorry’ became ‘So nice to see you all. Merry Christmas!’ The return greetings were stiff. They all remembered two years before, and the eighteen months it had taken me to tentatively patch the damage. They made themselves uncomfortable in the living room while I went to retrieve coffee, mince pies and a selection of Marks and Sparks’ finest Christmas morsels. Monty made himself scarce while the four sat on the edge of tatty sofas covered in extravagant homemade throws. They chatted politely, talking stocks and shares, work, and their latest acquisitions, each sentence an escalation of the previous boast. A Caribbean cruise paid for by short-selling BAT stock was trumped by a new Bentley which was trumped by Sarah being offered an equity partnership in a top ten law firm. Congratulations resounded as mother reorganised Christmas tree baubles to her liking. I forced a smile as I placed bone china mugs on coasters. It was only a tree. It had only taken six hours to decorate it. And smiling was supposed to generate endorphins, wasn’t it? ‘Shall we do presents?’ I asked. The anticipation of longed-for appreciation gave my voice a touch of excitement. ‘What’s the buy-in?’ father asked Sarah. ‘Nothing we can’t handle,’ she said smugly, ‘but we’ve decided to take a break first. I thought a week or two in Val d’Isere, but Peter thinks the snow is better in Whistler.’ ‘These leaves have been in your cupboard too long, Frances,’ mother interrupted with a clink of china and a small moue of distaste. Those tea leaves were brand new. ‘I’ll open another box, mother. Unless you’d like a small glass of bubbly instead?’ She made a show of looking at her watch. Like it mattered what time it was. ‘Perhaps a small one, if Sarah will join me?’ ‘Well, it is Christmas Day,’ Sarah replied, ‘and we are celebrating.’ ‘A glass of ale, father?’ Two bottles of ‘It’s not vintage!’ Bollinger, father’s ‘What, that muck?’ rejection of the designer beer I’d spent all Saturday tracking down, and a third of my only bottle of Scotch later, it was time for presents. I worked this out because Sarah produced three small, ornately wrapped cubes from her elegant, leather handbag and mother sent father to retrieve theirs from the car. If I had pierced ears and a penchant for overpriced gold, I’m sure I’d have loved the Tiffany earrings that Sarah’s secretary had bought for me. Through my smileache, I watched mother and father enthuse over their necklace and cufflinks then make all the appropriate noises as Peter showed off the Patek Philippe watch that Sarah had given him and Sarah produced a photograph of the Louis Vuitton briefcase and matching leather organiser that Peter had bought for her. I knew full well they’d bought their own ‘gifts’. They always did. ‘We all know what you think about the family money so I got you something useful,’ was mother’s introduction to the large, heavy parcel father hefted to my chair. A small nugget of childish joy lit me from within. It couldn’t be the new sewing machine I’d craved, could it? No, it couldn’t. ‘Thank you, mother, father,’ I intoned, the muscles in my face rebelling as I looked down on a hose reel. ‘I remembered you saying you needed a new one.’ But not me finishing the sentence with, ‘so I couldn’t believe my luck when I found one at half price last week.’ In September. I hid tears by heading back into the kitchen, muttering that the potatoes needed turning. Pete appeared as I was pointlessly rearranging things in the oven. He plucked a fresh bottle of Bollinger from the fridge then stopped to watch me basting the spuds with hot oil. ‘Don’t know why you never wear the earrings we get you. Bit ungrateful, you know.’ My mouth dropped open as I watched him turn and wander back to his wife. I found myself fingering my deformed right earlobe and snatched my hand from under my long hair. Maybe he’d forgotten? It had been eighteen years since he’d encouraged his girlfriend of the time to stick a dirty needle through my eight-year-old ear. The infection had taken three months to heal and left my lobe split in two. Peter had thought it highly amusing although clearly not amusing enough to encourage his brain to move the memory into long-term, retrievable storage. I hardened my heart and went to face the music. ‘You haven’t made too much, have you?’ mother asked as I was kneeling by the tree to retrieve my gifts to them. ‘Just one each, mother.’ ‘Lunch, Frances, lunch. You know we’re having supper with the Ashworths.’ No, I didn’t know you were having supper with the Ashworths. If I’d known you were having dinner with the effing Ashworths, would I have spent a month’s income on a turkey, all the trimmings, a case of “It’s not vintage!” champagne and a bottle of the best port my meagre savings could stretch to? I closed my eyes and breathed out slowly, my face thankfully turned from my tipsy relatives. Hang in there, Frankie. Either way, it’ll be worth it. I gave mother her gift first. I’d painstakingly dyed and hand-stitched the silk in an ornate pattern of scarlet, royal blue and dark, almost midnight, purple; her favourite colours. I remembered holding my breath as I made the first cut, but my hands had been as sure as ever. The finished product, a kimono for her alfresco breakfasts on the west patio, would have sold for £399 on my website. I held my breath as I watched her face, part of me still hoping. ‘Do you have the receipt? It’s not really me,’ she said, bundling the silk back into its silver paper. ‘Is it one of yours, Frances?’ Sarah asked. ‘Yes,’ I said with a small smile, thankful that one member of my family had remembered how I earned my living these days. ‘Hmm, I thought so. Rather garish.’ I removed the virtual blade from my belly and swallowed the retorts queuing to spring from my tongue. I got duplicate grunts from father and Peter for their fine gauge, intricately patterned, alpaca jumpers (£350) that had taken me nearly a month to design and knit. Sarah at least unfurled the sunset orange, cashmere poncho to look at it properly. Sure, it was a bold (£399) item, but the colour was absolutely perfect for her skin tone and was about as ‘in’ as it’s possible to get. She’d look amazing in it. She didn’t bother to hide her disdain as she dropped it on her lap with a laugh. ‘Oh my God,’ she said through her titters, ‘what on earth made you choose orange? I’d look like a I was wearing a life jacket!’ The very best examples of my skills were put to one side before I had a chance to mention I’d been approached by a highly regarded fashion vlogger who thought my work was exceptional; that I’d found the perfect new premises and only needed their advice and a little of the family money I’d run from to expand the business. There was no interrupting them. Peter topped up glasses as the four of them scathingly assessed my pathetic life choices. My ‘hobby’ was an eccentricity that was best ignored, my association with the ‘arty crowd’ an affectation, the rejection of my inheritance an aberration, the break-up with my nobody fiancé the only positive in a series of bad decisions. If I’d handed them diamonds they’d have complained they were too hard. I’d been stupid to dream of anything else. I disappeared to put the stuffing balls in the oven; I didn’t need to be in the room to have what was left of my affection for them torn apart. I didn’t sleep. Couldn’t sleep. Got up twice to make sure the baking tray I’d ‘borrowed’ from mother’s kitchen was in position. When the doorbell rang, I was sitting in the hall, dressed in my new orange poncho. ‘Afternoon, Miss Walker. We wondered if we might have a quick word?’ ‘I was just popping out to my parent’s house,’ I told them, baking tray and car keys in hand. They shared an awkward look. ‘If we could talk inside?’ the elder cop asked, his voice gentle. I played curious and a little confused as I offered them coffee or tea and showed them through to the living room, my stomach heaving with apprehension. We sat in front of my perfect Christmas tree. ‘You’re feeling all right, Miss Walker?’ ‘Yes, fine. Why do you ask? What’s going on?’ ‘I’m sorry to inform you, Miss, that your parents, your brother and his wife were taken to Accident and Emergency last night. It appears that they ingested something poisonous.’ I gasped and stood. ‘Where are they? Charing Cross? I need to go…’ ‘I’m sorry, Miss, but they didn’t make it.’ I sat with a thump, looking from one sympathetic, blue-clad man to the other. ‘I don’t understand.’ ‘You cooked the family Christmas lunch here?’ I hugged the baking tray to my chest. ‘Yes. Turkey and all the trimmings. Just how they like it.’ ‘And you all ate and drank the same things?’ ‘Yes. Except the meat, of course. I’m vegetarian.’ ‘And the meat was…?’ ‘Turkey, the gravy had meat juices in it so I guess that counts, the pigs in blankets, the stuffing balls that mum brought with her.’ I raised the baking tray in explanation. ‘Oh, and the cabbage that’s cooked in chicken stock and lemon juice. It’s dad’s favourite.’ ‘The stuffing balls. Do you know where your mother got them?’ ‘They’re homemade. Pork forcemeat, herbs, finely chopped onion and lots of dried, wild mushrooms. I found a veritable feast of fungi on a walk in October… My partner and I had broken up so I started taking long walks to clear my head. I… Well, one day I saw the most perfect crop for Christmas so I got them before anyone else did. Same place I got the mistletoe hanging in the hall…’ I gave a near hysterical laugh. ‘Managed to rip my jacket both times. We had a chuckle about that…’ I looked towards the open sewing box on the coffee table; beside it, still looking the worse for wear despite umpteen rows of tiny stitches, the only Barbour I could afford without admitting I’d been wrong to shut myself off from the Trust Fund. ‘She was so pleased with the mushrooms,' I murmured. 'Promised me she’d have someone check them to make sure they were all right because I’m not an expert… Oh my God… The mushrooms?’ They left soon after, the sergeant telling me a detective would probably be in touch, but he was sure I had nothing to worry about; it was obviously an accident. He and I were underneath the mistletoe when he said a kind goodbye to my wide, wet eyes; Monty winding himself around our feet. I picked up my faithful friend as the door closed, holding him close, kissing his furry face. ‘I told you it was going to be a wonderful Christmas,’ I whispered. Image by S. Hermann & F. Richter from Pixabay
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