Monday Story - The Inside World of Locker Number Seven

Good morning.

Today's tale is in response to the exercise set for last Friday's Pudsey Writers group and which I presented there.  I was trying to write a piece from a very tight perspective - from inside a locker - and tell the entire story through it.  I think I was trying to be too clever, because not all of them got it.

The Inside World of Locker Number Seven

Any traveller through the bus station at Leeds can put a few coins in a slot and hire a locker to store their baggage in while exploring the city. 

At just after 8am one Tuesday morning, the drop of coins triggers the activation of Locker No. Seven.  Its door opens with a squeak and the person operating it places a package inside. It does not look heavy, or valuable, wrapped in brown paper and fastened with tape, but it does appear bulky, nearly, but not quite square, and something about the way it settles into place suggests one end to be significantly lighter than the other.

The locker door closes with another squeak, and the interior falls into darkness.

But not silence, although it was impossible, at the moment, to hear what the sound might be.

Outside, the echoing buzz of people passing by, swapping buses on their way to work, pausing to answer their phones.  The rumble of buses pulling in and pulling out, the occasional announcement.

At just after 10am, the worst of the morning rush hour is over.  The voices outside are fewer now, the noises less frenetic.

Inside the locker, the sound continues, still too soft to distinguish, still blending into the outside noise.

11am, and someone just in by National Express puts coins in Locker Number Nine, opening the door and shoving a large rucksack inside. It is almost too large, so the owner pushes and curses and finally gets the door to close, shaking up the adjacent lockers and causing the contents of Locker Number Seven to shift slightly.  When the dust settles, and there is a lull in the passing of people outside, the sound made by the contents of locker number seven, due to the slight alteration of its position in the locker, is from now on occasionally audible.

Tick

Just after noon, and there is a surge in activity outside as the lunchtime foot traffic begins. People head for the café, for the cash machines, for the toilets. Morning shoppers head home,  bus drivers change shifts, and so it is some time before the outside world is quiet enough to hear the inside world of Locker Number Seven; in fact, several hours pass by before the interior of the locker is disturbed by the sound again.

Tick tick tick…

4.15. The bus station is beginning to get busy once more; school children and commuters on their homeward journeys.  The hubbub echoes.  Suddenly, there’s added uproar outside, a different level of sound.  A different feel to the noise. Voices, announcements, an alarm of some kind… a fire alarm?  No, not that; if anything, this warning has more urgency.

The voices crescendo over the implacable tones of the announcements, shouts intervene, perhaps someone screams.  Someone cries.

And then sirens, engines, motors.  Doors slamming as the nearby toilets are checked. Within moments, everything outside is quiet. Silent.  Inside Locker Number Seven…

Tick tick tick.

5.15. The crackle of radios, of voiced commands.  A new sound, a dog whining, barking; a big dog, from the tone and timbre of its bark.  It must have stopped very near to Locker Seven, for even its panting breath is audible.

But it doesn’t last long; soon, the sound of the dog retreats and silence falls again outside the locker.

Inside: Tick tick tick…

5.40. A whining noise outside now, pausing and changing frequently, as if something is repositioning itself. Then a clatter and a clang as something strikes the metal outer of the locker. Strange noises, then, the override on the locks and the door clicks free…

Tick tick…

The whine is louder now as the door opens. A mechanical remote-control arm swings into view. It makes delicate twists and turns, and the whine is revealed to be the noise of hydraulics repositioning the robotic arm.  It places a small object down inside the locker and then retracts, folding itself down and trundling back away from the lockers.

A signal is sent, picked up as a series of beeps by the object deposited by the robot…

Tick tick tick tick

Ticktick

Bang.

Bank Holiday Monday Storytime - Silver Stackies

My most grovelling apologies; it being Bank Holiday, it quite slipped my mind I owed you a story...

I presented this one at Writers in the Rafters last week. We each had randomly selected a playbill from Leeds Theatres and told to write about being in the audience or working backstage at the show advertised.  I ended up with the Playhouse's 1982 production of The Rocky Horror Shoe...

Cue the Time Warp...

Silver Stackies

Someone asked me, once, if there was anything in my wardrobe I kept but never wore.  Actually, there are a few things I just can’t bring myself to get rid of.  My silver stackies, for instance.  6” heels, and I’m tall anyway.  My feet are no longer flexible enough to get into the things.  But they’re not just shoes, they’re a memory prompt, a mental time machine…

I’d been working for about 18 months as wardrobe mistress for the Playhouse, and I loved it.  All the glitz and glamour of showbiz seen close up.  That’s what I liked; the smoke and mirrors, the transformative power of the stage.  Seen first hand, the costumes could be a disappointment; centre seams as straight as a broken nose, failed zips held closed with safety pins.  But the audience, kept at a distance, never saw any of the hasty repairs and make-do-and-mends.

We were just in the throes of putting on the touring performance of ‘The Rocky Horror Show’ for three weeks.  In the early eighties, when most people still thought a tranny was a sort of radio,  the show was said to be a bit of an eye-popper, so when I turned up to fettle the newly-arrived costumes on the morning of the dress rehearsal, I was quite looking forward to the day.

Until I walked in and found Derek, our stage manager, prowling like a seething tiger.

‘Chrissie, we’ve got a problem!’  He grabbed my arm, pulling me towards the wardrobe room.  ‘Or, you have…’

Piled on my worktable in the sewing corner was a heap of mangled, tangled garments.

‘Oh, no!  What happened?’

‘Some idiot was manhandling the costumes in and dropped them – right where that dip in the tarmac collects the rainwater…’

I sighed.  The show had just finished a run elsewhere and the production team had ensured us all the costumes would be properly delivered  and all I would have to do was hang them up and show the dressers where they were.  It should not have involved a massive clean-up operation for me, first.

‘Dress rehearsal’s at two, it all needs to be ready for 1 pm… first show at 7pm darling! Tell me you can help?  I’ll buy you shoes!’

I smiled in spite of myself; Derek knew the way to my heart was through my footwear.

‘Keep the coffee coming.  And I’m not working through my lunch break… and don’t pester me!’

I began untangling the jumble of damp and mud-stained costumes, intrigued at the contrasts. There were three muddied basques, a beautiful vintage-style dress that had formerly been cream, and a spongy, squashy mummy-suit which was far more brown than white.  I sighed.  I was never going to get all that clean and dry in time…

 I set to anyway, sponging and dabbing away at the stains, starting with the basques.  They were the easiest of the soiled garments to sort out, a light sponging and most of the mud gave up, and the fabric was robust enough to give it a scrub where necessary.  The dress gave me a bit more trouble; in the finish, I had to wash it through in my little sink, wringing it out and allowing it to drip dry over a rail while I tried to perform a miracle on the mummy suit.

I reminded myself to point out to Derek that I am very good at my job.

But not even I could revive the mummy suit; made of layers of stockinette over  thick wadding fastened over a pair of leggings and a shirt, it had absorbed too much muddy water and was, frankly, doomed until a proper dry cleaner could be found.

A gopher arrived with coffee and a warning that Derek was on his way to see if I needed anything – Derek-speak for have-you-saved-the-day-yet?

I stuffed clean, dry towels into the cavities of the mummy suit, rolled it in more towels and was hugging it close to my body in an attempt to squeeze the excess liquids out when he arrived.

‘Derek, it’s not your fault,’ I told him when he sidled into my domain.  His mouth goldfished as he watched me wrestling with an armful of betowelled mummy and he shook his head in despair.  ‘You’re only responsible for the costumes after delivery….’

‘Not your fault, Chrissie,’ he stressed.  ‘I’ll still get the blame! How bad is it?’

‘Really, not so bad.  The basques are fine, the dress I can press dry – it’s only this thing and I’ve had a thought…’  I left off my improbable wrestling match and laid the mummy suit out on my table, pulling towels out of the arms and legs as I went.  ‘Get me a hairdryer and send out for a dozen crepe bandages and I can have it wearable for dress rehearsal.’

‘You’re a star, Chrissie; I owe you lunch!’

‘You owe me shoes!’ I told him.

In spite of insisting I wouldn’t work through lunch, I spent much of it tacking crepe bandages over the dirty arms and torso of the mummy suit, pausing only to dash to the ironing board and press the last of the moisture from the dress.  By 1pm, the dressers had arrived and were demanding costumes for their cast, and once I’d shown them my system and seen them happy, I began to relax.

Presently, I took myself off in search of Derek. 

‘Crisis averted,’ I told him.

‘Chrissie, you’re a gem! Now you’ve finished, why don’t you…?’

‘…go for lunch?’ I finished for him.  ‘I’d love to.  And you were going to drop me a shoe-shaped bonus for saving the day?’

‘Be back in half an hour, and I’ll treat you to dinner tonight, too,’ he offered, passing me a couple of nice, crisp bank notes. 

‘I’ll think about it.  See you soon.’ 

I grabbed a burger at the first place I passed, stuffing it down my gullet as I headed for the shop where I’d spotted the shoes that were my current obsession.

Pointed toes promising bunions and corns in my future, in the shiniest of silver, six inch heels – possibly a little extreme, but, well…  a snip at £8.99. There was just one problem.  They didn’t have my size.

‘We sold the last 7 about half an hour ago,’ the assistant told me with an apologetic wince, seeing me deflate at the news. If I’d had my lunch break when I’d hoped to, those shoes would have been mine.  ‘Hang on,’ she said.  ‘Let me check something…’

She disappeared into her stock room to reappear a few moments later with a pair of silver stilettoes dangling from her fingers.

‘We’ve got these,’ she began. ‘They’re a larger size, but try them anyway…’

They were an eight and a half, but she knocked two pounds off the price and threw in a pair of insoles which stopped them falling off my feet entirely.  Of course I took them; a bit of tissue paper stuffed in the toes and they’d be fine.  

I got back to the theatre exactly 34 minutes after I’d left. Derek shook his head at me and tapped his watch.

‘I know – I’ve missed out on a free feed. Worth it, though.’ I took my shoes out and waved them.  ‘They were a real bargain – I have some change for you…’

‘Keep it,’ he said.  ‘And come to dinner anyway.’

I watched the show from the wings for a few minutes until it was time to dash back to my lair to help the dressers with the costume changes.  None of them seemed to have noticed some of the costumes had suffered puddle-dunking, although the handler for the mummy suit did comment that whatever I’d done to it had made it look much better on stage.

By 5 pm, all the clothes were back on the hangers and I was waiting for just one pair of shoes. Instead of being returned to me by the dresser, the actor himself brought them in, limping and barefoot with the stage shoes clutched in one hand.

‘Damn understudy wore these in the last two shows… he’s stretched them; I’m a nine and he’s a tem and they just do not fit! How am I supposed to do anything in these, darling?’

‘Insoles to reduce them, tissue in the toes,’ I said promptly.  ‘I’ll make sure I let your dresser have some in time for the show.’

‘There are meant to be spares!’ he said.  ‘But one pair went missing in Manchester and you wouldn’t believe how expensive large size ladies shoes are!  And the looks you get when you try them on!’

He limped off, looking for plasters and muttering about how understudies should be chosen for their shoe size, not their abilities, and leaving me with the shoes.

They were rather nice ones; black toes and ankle straps and sliver Cuban heels, striking, but not flash.  I wiped them off and put them with the rest of his costumes, adding tissue paper and sacrificing my own, as yet unused insoles, to the set.  I’d more than an hour before I was on call again, so I escaped the theatre and campus to get a bite to eat, knowing I’d be starving long before the post-show dinner.

First night nerves.  I got them just as much as anyone; every item of clothing, every hat, shoe and feather boa had become my responsibility as soon as it had been delivered and it was a relief when all the dressers had finished with the costumes for the first act and I had a short respite before the costume changes began.

It’s strange, being alone in my wardrobe studio when most of the costumes are on the bodies of their actors; sometimes, I think I’m a ghost wardrobe mistress, haunting the empty rails of past productions…

The feeling didn’t last long.  Flamboyant cursing heralded a visitor, and the owner of the over stretched shoes came tottering into my domain.

‘I’m looking for Chrissie…?’

‘Me.’ I got up from my seat and went over, but not too close. Five foot ten of handsome male actor was all very well, but he was sweating and wearing a basque and stockings which spoiled the effect somewhat.  ‘Stretched shoes playing up again?’

‘Yes.’ He sat awkwardly down on a clothes hamper and pulled off one of the shoes. Remnants of tissue confettied to the ground.  ‘But it’s not that, darling – the heels come adrift. Have you another miracle up your sleeve anywhere…?’

I examined the shoe.  The heel had been worked almost completely off, hanging on by just a flap of glue.

‘There’s a really good cobbler in Leeds market, I can take them across in the morning for you, but as for tonight…’

‘Oh, great! Will someone please go and shout ‘is there a cobbler in the house? What can we do?’

‘I have shoes…’

I almost wrapped my hands across my mouth to stop my words coming out, but, well, the show must go on… The actor glanced at my feet; I was in my runaround loafers.

‘Charming!’

‘No…’ I went for my bag.  ‘Brand new, got them today, 8 ½…’

‘You’re never that!’

‘I know. Bargain, insoles and tissue, remember? If you could drop  a half size, just for the rest of the show…’

‘Give them over…’

And so it was that the second act of the first performance of the Rocky Horror Show at Leeds Playhouse starred an unexpected pair of silver stilettoes, courtesy of me, watching proudly in the wings as my shoes stole the show.

The actor returned them to me later with voluble gratitude and even autographed them for me by way of thanks.

And that’s why they’re still in my wardrobe, more than 30 years later.  I’ve never worn them.

That damn actor stretched them too much.

Monday Morning Story Time - Coathooks

Good morning.

Posting early today as I will be out most of the day and don't want to make you wait, Dear Reader, until this evening.
A story I wrote for Pudsey Writers and it's tailored to the group; more mature persons attend PW.
At the previous meeting, an exercise was suggested: write about coathooks.
So we did.
Several people antropomorhised their hooks, having them in changing rooms or school cloakrooms talking to each other. Others wrote about the importance of coathooks.

Barry wrote a poem about dying lobsters, but that's just SO Barry.

And I wrote this:

Coathooks

The last of the boxes had been loaded on the removals van and it had set off across town to Mae’s new home.  Her daughter-in-law Alison was waiting there for the van, to help organise the unloading and Billy, Mae’s oldest son and Alison’s husband, was here, helping her get ready to go. He was currently in the kitchen, making sure all the cupboards were empty.

Mae had already checked, of course.

She hauled herself up the stairs – she was leaving the stair carpet, no need for it in a bungalow – and walked into each of the three bedrooms in turn.  This had been Billy’s room.  And Eileen had had the little one at the front. 

And this had been hers and Johnny’s room.

All the bedrooms were empty now.

She made her way back down the stairs again and into the front room, looking around. The bay window was odd without her collection of houseplants on the window ledges, overlarge without its curtains  - she wanted those for the new house, they’d just fit the dining room.

Was this really the right thing to do?

Oh, the house was far too big for her, it was old and draughty, and cost a fortune to heat.  And really, she’d had quite enough of the stairs!

The new place was nearer to Billy and Alison, and on a proper bus route.  There was a small, manageable garden and a nice, new kitchen.  No stairs anywhere.

But it wasn’t home, and she didn’t know what Johnny would have said.

It almost felt like she’d be leaving him behind, with the house.  All those memories.

She left the front room and found herself face-to-face with the line of coat hooks behind the front door.

Oh, so many memories in that row of pegs…

When the children were too little to reach, they had put their coats over the banister at the foot of the stairs… only hers and Johnny’s coats had been on the hooks, his flat cap and her headscarf above.  As the family grew taller, so more coats had filled in the row. Eileen’s fitted wool with the half-belt, Billy’s motorbike jacket… Mae had been so pleased when it had been replaced with something a little less rebellious, a velvet jacket, sign of Alison’s calming influence.

But in time, the coats began to vanish again; Eileen married and moved away, taking her coat with her.  Billy’s and Alison’s followed, coming back to their place on the hooks for visits once or twice a week.  And soon, there were prams parked beneath the coat rack.  And once more, the procession of coats continued.  Baby coats on the banister, making her smile.  Tall grandchildren, reaching up to the hooks.  But always, at the end of the day, just two occupied hooks, hers and Johnny’s, headscarf and flat cap, even though they didn’t wear them any more.  Out of fashion, these days, relegated finally to a cupboard.

And then there came the awful day when there were too many coats, all of them black, and when they had gone, only Mae’s remained.

Had five years gone so quickly?  Sometimes she felt Johnny was still here, in the corner somewhere, or just out of sight behind her. Would she leave that behind, too, that crumb of comfort? 

If only she knew what she was doing was right. 

She heard the click of the kitchen door closing and knew Billy was on his way through.  She reached up to lift down her coat…

…and there, under it, was Johnny’s flat cap.

‘Oh!’  She’d thought it lost, somewhere in a cupboard; she was sure it hadn’t been there on the hooks yesterday…

That didn’t matter, what mattered was that it was there now, a sign Johnny was ready to leave the house, too.

‘Mam?’  Billy’s voice broke in on her thoughts as she turned the flat cap carefully in her hands.  ‘You ready to go?’

Mae breathed out a long, satisfied sigh. It had been a good house, but the new one would be better.

‘Yes,’ she said.  ‘I am.’

Story Monday - 'Raise a Toast'

Good morning from wet and rainy Farnley.

Today's short story came from a Writers in the Rafter exercise. We were each given a newspaper headline and image and told to write the story of the headline. We were given nothing of the original articles except that.
Bizarrely, I got a piece of toasted bread with the headline 'Raise a Toast!' for mine.  As I don't do bread, or toast for that matter, I had trouble taking the challenge seriously.

So here is my imagined newspaper article story, which actually went down better than it deserved...

Raise a Toast…

Residents in a sleepy Wirral village woke to breakfast time chaos today as their toasters began behaving in an unexpected manner. Amongst the first to have their normal routine interrupted were

 Mr & Mrs George and Maureen Dovecot .

‘It was a bit of a shock, to be honest,’ Maureen said. ‘My George was waiting by the toaster when it gave off this really loud ‘clunk’ and the toast shot right up into the air! I mean, it just didn’t stop; it buried itself in the ceiling, both slices. Well, poor George, he was ever so upset…’

When asked about George’s distress, Maureen explained: ‘Well, he had to have cornflakes.’

But it wasn’t just the Dovecot’s whose breakfast was disrupted.  In an adjacent house, Phillip Lewis had similar issues.

‘It’s a relatively new toaster, so I can’t blame it on a fault in the mechanism…’ he explains. ‘But I put in two slices of wholemeal bread, as usual, and when the toaster ejected… bang! Up they went, turning in the air like Ninja stars, and finished up embedded in the beam… I’d blame my son, but he’s staying with his grandparents this week.’

Betty Hughes, the retired schoolmistress  across the street was also affected. 

‘I like a bagel for breakfast,’ she explains.  ‘I sliced it as usual and popped the two halves into my toaster. And presently they popped up… and up… and up… I’m used to odd things happening though, for a very long time I’ve felt a Presence. But nothing like this! Maybe it’s a poltergeist.’

Recent arrival in the village, Col. Jack O’Neill, late of the US Army, has his own explanation. ‘Magnets,’ he says, eyeing the three slices of bread decorating the ceiling of his cottage kitchen with suspicion. ‘I’ve seen some pretty odd things during my time in the Military. But if you dig deep enough, you’ll find it’s generally down to magnets.’

So, was it a prank, magnets, or the work of a mischievous poltergeist – a toastergeist, perhaps -  that disrupted the village this morning? Perhaps we’ll never know.