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.

Monday Fiction Fiesta - 'Mission Statement'

Good morning.

Tonight I have a planning meeting at East Leeds FM about my radio show. Looking forward to it, to getting to know the other show hosts a little better.  I'm becoming known as 'the one who brings cake'.

So, loosely connected (random group of people around a table), but really harking back to a church away day I was part of over a decade ago, here is today's story.

We're back in The Bookship again and poor Bosslady has to cope with yet another meeting of the Lighthouse Writers...

Mission Statement

The rattling on the door was insistent, annoying.  I was about to call through to Luke to investigate when the phone at the counter rang and I heard his crisp, polite voice answering it.

‘Good morning, ‘The Bookship’… not for another hour… we open at ten…’

Evan was unpacking a delivery below, so it was down to me to answer the door.

Three women with belligerent expressions were trying to get into the Bookship despite the ‘Closed’ sign. I recognised them as members of the Lighthouse Writers; they’d been customers for years and should know our opening hours by now.

‘We’re closed,’ I called through the thick glass.

‘What?’

‘Closed. Open at ten.’

‘We’ve booked The Table…’

‘From 10.30,’ I said in my Stern Voice.  They waited a moment or two before realising today I meant it, and wandered off.

‘Bosslady?  I’ve the secretary of Lighthouse Writers on…’

Luke had his finger on the ‘mute’ button, his eyes full of puppy-dog appeal for rescue.  I snagged the phone from his hand.

‘Can I help?’ I asked.

‘Belinda Summers here… Have our advance party arrived?’

‘I’ve just turned away three ladies since we’re not open yet…’

‘Oh but, we thought, as it’s for the Littlerature Festival…’

‘That I’d be open earlier?’ I interrupted. ‘No, from 10 as usual. The Table will be ready from 10.30, good morning.’

I handed Luke the phone and he set it down, his grey eyes dancing humour.

‘Shall I start setting up, Bosslady?’ he asked.  My name is Emily, but as that makes people think I’m twenty years older than I really am, I shorten it to Em which is a bit less aging.  But I quite like the boys calling me ‘Bosslady’; it’s a term of affectionate respect.  I hope.

Of course, ‘boys’ is a misnomer.  Luke’s in his thirties and Evan a little younger.  Employees, although I prefer to think of them as minions.  Even if it is me brewing up.

Luke is of medium height, sharp and smart, appealing in a dangerous kind of way.  His hair is that light, white blond generally associated with Bond assassins.  Evan’s dark hair is determinedly boy band in style.  He broods for effect, but his work is always spot-on. 

And The Bookship?  Well, I got the barge for a pittance and sweet-talked planning permission to anchor it solidly on dry land and turn it into my current venture.  We’re moored on a wide green bank overlooking the Dee Estuary on the Thurstaston side of West Kirby. 

I keep a small run of new books, local interest featuring strongly, but most of the space is given over to pre-loved volumes.  In the bows I’ve had seating fitted around the natural angles, and it was here that Luke was setting up The Table, a hireable space for local community groups.

I carried the tray of coffee through and called Evan up from unpacking.  We gathered at one end of The Table.

‘Lighthouse Writers,’ I said, reading from the diary.  ‘We’ll have to let them in a bit early.  I understand they’re planning something for the Literature Festival…’

Luke’s eyes danced. ‘Littlerature,’ he enunciated, earning my best Bosslady Scowl.

‘That’s just the sort of self-deprecating, twee prose that gives them a bad name!’ I said.  ‘I wish they’d find themselves a real lighthouse…’

The boys grinned.  I gathered the now empty mugs onto the tray.

‘Here, Bosslady.’  Luke took it from me.  ‘I’ll wash up.’

‘I’ve that delivery to finish checking,’ Evan said, heading for the stairs.  I’d have been more grateful if I hadn’t known they were trying to avoid the arrival of the Lighthouse Writers.

At quarter to ten the writers were back in force, looking affronted and annoyed that we still weren’t open. I rattled the keys as I let them in. 

Their numbers varied, but today there were eight of them heading for The Table.

‘Were you wanting to start early?’ I asked.

‘I would have thought you would be more supportive of this Littlerature Festival!’ Belinda said.  ‘After all, it’s bringing you lots of business!’

‘I am supporting it,’ I said.  ‘I’m hosting a poetry evening…’

‘Well, it’s news to me!’ She squashed herself into the last free space on The Table.  ‘We’d better get on; we should have started half an hour ago…’

I retreated behind the counter where her glare was slightly less scorching.  I could still hear everything, though.

‘Frank, you were going to list some topics for the workshop…?’

Frank cleared his throat.

‘Well, I thought, as we want new members, we could set an exercise in the workshop…’

I heard this every week from them; they wanted new members. Sometimes they got them; people would come back a second time, too.  But for some reason, never for a third time.

 Frank was warming to his theme.  ‘Something easy so they can all join in… ‘Love’ is a good one…’

‘Oh, no… not love.  People will write dreadful poetry or smut or things in bad taste…’ Belinda announced.  ‘No, I don’t think setting a topic is a good idea.   Really, the things you come up with! We can read our own work out and…’

‘Excuse me…’

It was a small voice, and it was right in front of me, and I’d been so busy eavesdropping I hadn’t noticed I had a customer; a self-contained young woman with a quiet air of shyness.

‘I’m sorry, miles away!’ I smiled apology.  ‘Can I help?’

‘I heard there’s a writing group meeting here this morning, looking for new members?’

‘Yes.’ I nodded towards The Table.  ‘The Lighthouse Writers.  I’ll introduce you, if you like?’

‘They look a bit busy…’

‘They’re a little involved at the moment planning for the LitFest…  They’ll be breaking for tea and biscuits soon, though, if you don’t mind waiting.’

‘I think I’d like to just listen in first, anyway.’

‘Whatever we do should reflect our mission statement,’ Belinda was saying.

‘Have we got one?’ Diane asked.

‘Of course we do: ‘To shine like a beacon of hope, drawing writers into the light of our mutual support.  To share our wisdom so none founder on the reefs of mediocrity…’

My sudden coughing fit drew a number of baleful glares in my direction as I masked an inappropriate giggle. The would-be writer’s mouth twitched.

‘Moving on…’ Belinda took charge again.  ‘What I think we should do is all take a word from the Mission Statement and use it as inspiration… and we all present our work at the workshop. We’ll be demonstrating to potential new members…  We wouldn’t want to put them off by sounding too good, but we need to make sure we don’t get anyone unsuitable.  Remember, we want to be supportive and welcoming…’

‘I’ll write a poem,’ Frank announced.  ‘I’ll take the word ‘Wisdom’…’

‘Really?’ Belinda said.  ‘How are you going to rhyme that?’

‘Assonance…’

‘There’s no reason for bad language!’

‘Look, don’t bother introducing me,’ the girl said.  ‘I think I’d rather founder on the reefs of mediocrity!’

‘Have you seen this?’ I asked, fishing a couple of leaflets out of the rack near the till.  ‘There’s an open mike poetry night here as part of the LitFest, you’ll be very welcome. Lighthouse Writers won’t be here, though – it’s the same evening as their event.’

Raised voices from The Table interrupted.

‘Well you couldn’t find a rhyme with both hands, Frank!’

‘At least I know how to scan properly! That Haiku you presented with three verses of four lines each…’

‘It was experimental!’

‘Well, we don’t do experiments at Lighthouse Writers; we’re traditional!’

‘Here are details of a couple of other local groups,’ I said as the mudslinging continued at The Table.  The one at Hoylake is very well thought of.  I think you’re wise to avoid Lighthouse...’

‘Isn’t that what lighthouses are for?’ she said.  ‘To keep you away?’

I laughed.  ‘Yes, I suppose they are. Do you think they realise?’

‘…don’t know why I bother with this group – I’ve a good mind to join the Caldy lot…’

‘Your problem, Belinda, is you’re a big fish in a small pond…’

‘Who are you calling ‘big’..?.’

The girl shook her head.  ‘You’re sure they’re not coming to your poetry night?’

‘No. Way past their bedtimes. See you then?’

She nodded.  ‘Thanks – you’ve been very helpful.’

At The Table, Frank had turned puce, and Belinda was trembling with fury. It looked about to topple over into violence at any moment. I sauntered over, pretending I hadn’t heard a word.

‘Yes?’ Belinda snapped.

‘Just wondering when you’d like your tea?’

‘Oh… any time will do.  Now. Next on the list… how do we go about keeping new members once we have them…?’

Perspectives

Earth Hour

I knew nothing about this until an e-chat with someone in Australia was interrupted when she said she had to switch off the lights for Earth Hour.  Later, when I mentioned it to my husband, he'd already heard about it, so we decided to give it a go.

We watched a film by candle light and started early (so we didn't miss any) and finished late (it was nice to be in the dark with the tea lights gleaming).  It only occurred to me later that perhaps watching the film used more power than switching off the lights, but Saturday night is usually film or disc night anyway.

Viewpoints

Perhaps our choice of film was appropriate - 'Gravity'.  If you don't know the story, it's Plot 3B of the 7 traditional Sci-Fi plots - astronauts' ship is damaged and they must try to get home...

Visually, it was stunning; Earth from space with spiderwebs of golden lights picking out the nighttime cities and roads. The juxtaposition of sound and silence was well worked without being overdone. The plot... well, some people would argue it didn't have one.  But I found quite a chunky storyline there, perhaps because I'm a science-fiction fanista, perhaps because I'm a writer. I really enjoyed it, but I can see why other people may not have appreciated it on the same level.

One person said that it was a very short film and made no sense; our Blu-Ray copy is 91 minutes, so perhaps there showing had a bit missing.

Pass It On

Here in the UK it's Mother's Day.  Time was when this was all about my mother - what I could do to show my appreciation of her. In the fullness of time, I became a mother myself, and I found a new perspective on the day - it wasn't just about my Mum any more, it was about me, too. I began to feel I was just the next generation of a long line of mothers and children perpetuating a day of gratitude... I can only imagine how it must feel if you've a grandmother living, too, as I never knew mine at all.

Now my mother is gone and it's all about me. My son makes sure I get a card and something to mark the day. This year, with Mother's day being a week after my birthday, he took me to lunch midweek which was really nice.

All about me?  Well, by the time I've thanked him and reassured him that I've had a nice day (even though he hasn't called...), it's becoming more about his feelings than about mine...

To mums everywhere. Phew.

Monday Story - 'What Love Looks Like'

So, last month's task at Writers in the Rafters was to write on the topic of love, hope, support, advice...  I got two stories out of the topic, eventually - it was a bit last-minute - and this is the one I didn't present...

What Love Looks Like

Her first show.  She was an overnight success, as the saying goes, and it had only taken thirty years…

Drinks trays circulated. Critics mused and nodded.  It seemed her photography, her silly little timewasting hobby, wasn’t quite so silly now.  She smiled behind her glass of orange juice.  Bucks Fizz was doing the rounds, so it looked like she was drinking.

‘Ms Fane, hello.’ Someone with a microphone appeared in front of her.  ‘Mary Trent, Radio Wirral for ‘Let’s Have A Look…’ I wondered if you can tell me what you’re saying here?’

‘The show is called ‘Afresh’… I wanted to take a new look at concepts we think we know well…’ Julie trotted out the official promotional line, her eyes drifting the crowd as she expounded.  ‘Emotions like love, concepts such as hope… Have they changed? Have our perceptions of them changed…?  What do they look like in the current climate?’

In the corner, Paul was talking to her mother.  He was crouched at the side of the wheelchair, bringing himself down to her level, smiling and engaged.  Yes.  That’s what love looked like; your husband talking to your mother as if he wanted to.

‘So all the photographs here…?’

‘Are trying to reflect a modern reality of love and hope and support.’

‘Thank you, Ms Fane.’ The interviewer switched off the recorder, her shoulders sinking as she relaxed.  ‘Right.  Thanks so much.  I can enjoy the show, now.  Oh, one thing… love and hope and support?  All the pictures?  Even that one?’

Julie smiled and went closer to the photograph in question. It was a monochrome of a Mersey Ferry full of summer trippers; the sepia tone took it back in time, made it archaic.

‘Oh, especially that one!  During WWII, one of the Mersey Ferries rescued over 7000 people from Dunkirk; hope and support all packaged up in one.  The ferries were vital, too, in getting people to work in the war years.  Service and courage, the quiet bravery of everyday people left to carry on without their loved ones, worrying about their safety…’

The story of the ferry was true, of course.  But the reality had been that Julie had been desperate to use an iconic Mersey Ferry in the show somehow, anyhow, not caring whether it confused the critics or not.  But within an hour of mounting the shot, she found that a logical reason for including the picture had formed in her mind.  It just went to show that everything was attributable.

Paul looked across and she thought she saw a glimpse of a ‘save-me’ in his smile.  She smiled back and steeled herself to go over.

‘I knew you’d do it!’ her mother announced.  ‘I always said you could!’

Julie’s smile became fake as she remembered…

‘You’re wasting your time, taking snapshots! And they cost money you should be spending on your children! I never wasted my money when I was bringing you and your brothers up…’  Mother had paused to light a cigarette, puffing angrily on it.  ‘Twenty four, divorced already, two kids at school and you’re talking about a photography course! Well, I can’t babysit while you go off to college…’

‘It’s one afternoon a week,’ Julie had said, knowing the battle already lost, the law laid down.  ‘Just for a couple of hours…’

‘Your place is with those kids. Until they’re old enough not to need you, they should be top of your list!’

Useless to point out that they were always top priority, of course, that she wanted to do the course so she could get a better job and earn more money. The world didn’t work like that as far as her mother was concerned…

‘Could I have a group shot for the ‘Globe’?’ someone asked.  Julie nodded and stood behind the wheelchair.  Paul straightened, and took her hand, lacing his fingers with her own.  He never put his arm round her – it was too proprietorial, he said.  Holding hands was more mutual.

‘She couldn’t have done it without me,’ Mother said to anyone who would listen.  ‘I supported her and looked after the kids and made her get on with it.  Yes, without me, she’d be nothing…’

 ‘Where’s my dad?’ Julie asked.  ‘We can’t have a group shot without my dad!’

‘Over here.’ Paul tugged Julie’s hand, led her away to where a familiar wispy-haired figure was standing in the shadows, deep in contemplation of a picture showing wildflowers growing in a municipal park. 

‘What’s this?  Weeds in amongst the bedding plants?’ he asked.  Himself a keen gardener, the thought of wildflower planting was anathema to him.

‘It’s a metaphor, Dad,’ Julie said, a smile in her voice.  ‘Come on. Have your picture taken for the paper.’

‘We’ll have to be going soon,’ Dad said.  ‘Your mother doesn’t like to be out late… something on TV she wants to watch.’

‘That’s what love looks like,’ Julie said, waving her parents off after Dad and a taxi driver had manoeuvred the wheelchair into the car.  ‘Dad giving up so much so Mum could stay at home.’

‘Do you think?’ Paul said.  ‘I thought it looked like you letting her take the credit for you being famous!’

‘What? No.  It’s all down to the people around me. I couldn’t have done it without any of you,’ she said in sudden realisation.  ‘You all supported me.  Even mother, in her own way.  If she’d looked after the boys for that one afternoon a week, I’d never have had to ask Claire to babysit… and then you wouldn’t have had to come to jump start her car when it wouldn’t start…’

‘It’s what any brother would do.’

‘We wouldn’t have met, if Mother had been more helpful, is what I’m saying.  If I hadn’t had to fight so hard to do the course, would I have kept fighting until I made it?’

Even so, without the man at her side, she’d still be entering amateur competitions once or twice a year.  It had been Paul who’d suggested, once the boys had left for Uni, that she dust off her old camera, Paul who’d comforted her when she’d lost her job in the recession.  He’d shown her how to see it as an opportunity to spend more time doing what she loved, had bought her a new camera, even though they couldn’t afford it. 

Julie felt the comforting squeeze of Paul’s fingers.  ‘No.  No, it’s more than that.  You’ve got real talent, love.’

She looked up into his face, saw the pride there.  He smiled and squeezed her fingers, the same smile he’d given her every time he caught her eyes on him.  Never mind these dozens and dozens of photographs; it was Paul.  That’s what love looked like.