Finished... just in time to start again!

I finished my third draft of  'Fallen' last night, hurrah!  Although it's fairer to say I got to the end of it. The third draft has shown places where I can tighten the plot, enhance some of the motivations, add more character and colour, and link in with earlier themes.

Key amongst these is a revelation about Portia's past, currently stuck on near the end of the book where it would make more dramatic sense to have it earlier.  Only I'm waiting for my two 2nd-draft beta readers to finish so I can ask for input.  Should she reveal it to her SO? Or her BFF? But then the BFF, if she's any kind of a friend, would know already, surely? Therefore I need to let the subject be revealed through dialogue between Portia and her BFF, and then she can tell her SO later on...

I also need to increase the menace near the beginning and I think I know how - so off I go to my 'finished' draft to play with it again.

Oh, and thank you for listening. You've actually been very helpful.

Mumblings...

Struggling to get started today. I'm two-thirds of the way through my third edit of 'Fallen' and coming to the places where I need to merge two scenes into one and that always means a considerable rewrite.  But I have to wait in for both a delivery and a collection and so I have the time, at least.

It's been an odd week.  I've written a flash-fiction story for a competition - a little, local competition hosted by Pudsey Library to celebrate their building's 50th anniversary.  As all I can write at the moment is angels, we have 'An Angel Returns to Pudsey'. Not sure it it's what they want, although it fits the brief of 'Pudsey, past or present', because there might be a bit too much angel and not quite enough Pudsey in the story.  But we'll see.

I'm breaking in a new (to me) laptop.  My previous one has started overheating occasionally and the keys stick from overuse, so my lovely husband bought me a second hand replacement - a Samsung series 3. It's gorgeous, a beautiful, handsome machine with an excellent keyboard that's actually better for my shoulder and wrists as I type.  And play.  I didn't think I knew enough about laptops to be able to tell the difference in quality, but this machine is so much nicer to use than my Toshiba!

I don't want to seem ungrateful - the Tosh worked hard and I've written some pretty good stuff on it - but the Samsung feels like coming home.  And it's very humbling to see how much faith my husband has in me - he didn't tell me he was doing this, just, after it arrived, that he knew I needed a good laptop for my writing.  So I guess I'd better get selling stories, then!

Right.  Off to crochet a granny square now and hope it gets my brain into gear.

PS Don't forget the Name an Angel competition...

Late in the day, but it's still Monday Fiction Time...

While the jury is still out on the novel/novella debate, I'm just holding back on 'The Prize'.  I've been busy with other things this week; a flash-fiction piece for a Thursday deadline, 400 words with Pudsey as the scene.  I can't say more about it before the competition ends, but the first draft was going to have a character called 'Billy the Nun', who sadly didn't make the second draft.

Anyway, I thought I would tease you just a little today with the opening of 'Fallen'...

Chapter One: Storm…  Shed…  Bang

This is a safe place, my safe place.  The house I grew up in, the house I’d inherited, along with dodgy plumbing and imperfect draught-proofing. The roof was sound, and the walls were thick and sturdy.

So there really wasn’t any reason for me to feel scared, was there?

Besides, I don’t mind thunderstorms.  I have been known to sit just inside the back doorway, and look out, enjoying the display and noisy fury of the sky.  I hadn’t been afraid of a storm since I was a child.

Something about this was different, though.  Directly overhead, lightning and thunder simultaneously cracking above my slate-tiled roof, illuminating the windows even through my drawn curtains, it sounded personal.

Eventually I noticed the beginnings of a time lag between flash and growl.  Soon, all I could hear was rain, and I risked a glance at the clock, hitting its top to make the little light pop on so I could see.  Two in the morning – I’d been huddled under my duvet for well over an hour and I was starting to get bored.  Besides, safe place, right?

The storm sulked off and the rain steadied.  I turned the pillow over in search of a cool patch and tried to pretend the rain was a lullaby… softly pattering in rhythmic patterns… 

I think I’d just drifted off when I was startled by a sudden brightness outside, followed immediately by a boom and crash that shook and rattled my windows in their frames. I shrieked in a very unladylike fashion, cowering down again.  Some serious damage must have happened very close by and I repeated my Safe Place litany several times before I began to calm down.  I didn’t rush out to investigate – it was 3.25 a.m. and still raining.  Tomorrow would be quite soon enough to spring out of bed and go exploring.  It wasn’t at all that I was afraid in any way.  Of course not.

Next morning, and the rain had stopped.  I stuffed my feet into the old grey Crocs I kept for gardening and set out into the wilderness of the back garden, the ground squishy beneath my feet.  After the coldest, wettest spring for years, my garden, just a little to the east of the Pennines, was soaking up the rain like a gigantic, happy sponge.

I love the way everything smells after rain; the grass has a greener scent, the air cleanly fragrant.  Today, that was spoiled by a rough, scorched smell drifting across the garden.  It made me think, uneasily, of my fear of the thunderstorm in the night.

The brittle, acrid scent faded as I climbed the steps to the top terrace and looked back down over the garden.  To the right, screened off from the house by a clematis-covered trellis, was my shed, a huge, metal monstrosity which had promised so much and which instead had delivered so little. Had I known that it would have its own internal climate – icicles dangling in frozen suspension in the winter, cloying with damp the rest of the year – I would never have bought the thing.

And the sudden acquisition of a huge hole in its roof wasn’t adding at all to its charm…

Had that racket last night been an actual lighting strike?

At least there were no signs of fire – I knew the shed had a serious damp problem, but I hadn’t realised it was enough to prevent a lighting strike combusting my lawnmower.  Best see exactly what the damage was.

Unlocking and throwing back the noisy double doors, I didn’t know what I was seeing at first.  Illuminated by the new circular skylight in the ceiling was a pair of oversized wings, swanlike, creamy white, with huge pinions blackened and gilded with scorch marks, sprawled in a heap between the wheelbarrow and the lawnmower.

What the…?

I closed and opened my eyes, just in case I was having some kind of visual aberration, but no.  The wings were still there, just as improbable and just as massive.

Had some kind of enormous swan crashed in the storm?  Did swans even get that big?  Even folded and twisted, this one looked to have a huge wingspan.  More to the point, from under the edge of the damaged plumage I could now see a remarkably humanlike set of toes…

 

Okay, not a swan.  What else could it be? An elaborate fancy dress costume? But logically, that would mean whoever it was had entered through the roof, causing the hole in the process… and it was a huge hole, must have hurt like hell, crashing through like that…

Maybe I should shelve the improbability of it and see if whoever – whatever – made the hole was okay?

‘Um… hello?’ I ventured.  ‘Anyone in – under – there?’

The wings shivered and stirred, then spread hugely – at least, one of them did, banging against the metal wall with a clang; the other only went halfway, its leading edge scorched and bent and somehow wrong. I realised this couldn’t possibly be a costume; these were real wings, with real muscles and bones and real blood speckling the bent and broken one.

A gasp of pain forced me to push back my rising sense of panic.

‘Are you hurt?’

I inched forward towards the pool of light as the owner of the impossible wings struggled to a seated position, ankles crossed and knees drawn in.  The damaged wing hung forward over the right shoulder and the head was bowed.  I could see short, dark chestnut hair and pale skin – lots of pale skin with red, sore patches.

‘Can I help?’

Slowly, the mahogany head lifted and a pair of the bluest eyes in the world looked at me.  The face was heart-shaped, masculine, sharply, intensely boned.  The eyebrows were dark, sweeping arches, the nose straight and proud and slightly aquiline. 

‘I don’t know,’ a rich, male voice said. ‘Are you any good at splinting wings?’

‘I’ve never tried,’ I admitted, my voice faltering.  ‘What happened?  Where did you come from?’

The blue eyes glanced upwards. 

‘Well, obviously, from up there,’ I acquiesced.  ‘But, I mean, how? And…’  I ran out of sensible things to ask and shrugged. To cover my confusion, I drew nearer, pushing aside garden tools and stacks of empty plant pots as I advanced.

‘Can I see your - um – injury?’ I asked, not quite being able to bring myself to say the word ‘wing’ just yet.

He started to stretch out his right wing, but winced and stopped, his mouth a grimace of pain.

‘Could you tell me what happened?’ I asked as I tried to examine the damage.

‘They threw me out – me!  Can you imagine? I was…’ I caught a glimpse of a wry twist to his lips, ‘…cast down from on high, like a latter-day Lucifer!’

His breath hissed as my searching fingers found a sore spot.

‘…and it’s not as if I deserved it! I was but saying that secularisation could be used in a positive manner, but the old guard…’

‘Like Lucifer?’ I echoed.  ‘You’re trying to tell me you’re an angel? An actual angel?’

He looked at me through the pain. ‘Well, of course I am!  Isn’t it obvious? Wings? Human features?  Ability to converse with – if I may say – a slightly dim-witted human female?  What else would I be? A goose with delusions of grandeur?’

His tone rankled and I forgot about being scared.

‘Really?’ I asked, ‘I mean, as far as looks go, you fit the current stereotype, but just where in the source documents does it say angels have wings?  In fact, it’s probable that wings are just a later theological conceit, and…’

‘Well, one of my theological conceits is hurting quite a lot at the moment and anything you might be able to do to help would be appreciated!’

‘Sorry, it’s just… you’re a bit much to take on face value, you know…’

‘Well, the sooner I can get out of here, the sooner I can be on my way and leave you to your pedantic interpretation of your own belief system!’

‘It’s not my belief system. And it’s not me that’s the problem here!’

 

I felt my face frowning as I thought for a moment.  He couldn’t go anywhere until his wing was strapped up - he’d never fit through the doorway.  ‘I’ll fetch the first aid kit.’

In the house I phoned my friend Grace.  She volunteers at a local nature reserve, so if anyone would know about splinting wings, she would.

‘It’s not hard,’ she told me, ‘but it’s a two person job, really.  Getting the little chap to co-operate is usually the tricky bit.  Wear gloves so you don’t get pecked… shall I come over and give you a bit of a hand?’

‘No, it’s fine! I know you’re busy.  I’ve got someone here to help… what do I do, exactly?’

She rattled off a string of instructions about figure-of-eight bindings, and finished with a warning not to let the injured chap peck at himself.

Finally, refusing again all offers of assistance, I ended the call and went in search of bandages.  I picked up a spare blanket, too, and went back to my unexpected guest.

‘Let’s get the bones immobilised.’  I tried to sound reassuring and confident. ‘It should help with the pain.’

I passed him the blanket – I didn’t know if angels were subject to shock or exposure or embarrassment, but he had no obvious clothing – and carefully began to wind the bandages around his wing, crossing them over so the main three bones of the wing structure were all bound together.  My subject winced from time to time, but bore with my efforts silently.

I paused as I got near to where the wing drooped drunkenly.

‘I’m worried about hurting you. But we need to realign the bones.’

He took hold of the damaged wing himself and, his breath hissing between his teeth, helping me to straighten and bind the area around the break.

‘How is it?’

‘Not good,’ he said.  ‘But we should be able to get it back in place now.’

I looked at how the left wing naturally folded at his back, and gently pushed the right wing, now bound closed, into better alignment. I passed another bandage over it, under the sound left wing, and across his body beneath his arms, having to lean in close to reach.  He smelled, bizarrely, of cinnamon and vanilla, and I found myself smiling as I passed the bandage around again, securing it neatly just under his ribs.

‘What’s so amusing?’

‘Well, I called a friend to ask how to strap a wing.  She said to mind you didn’t peck me.’

‘Ha.  Yes, I can see how that would amuse you…’  He winced.  ‘They’ll be looking for me soon.’

‘That’s good.’

‘No, it really isn’t.  I don’t want to be found. Not by them.’

I raised an eyebrow at that but decided I didn’t want to know.

‘At the risk of sounding dim-witted again,’ I said, ‘can you stand? Are you hurt anywhere other than your… um..?’

‘No, just a bit singed… there’s not much headroom in here, is there?’ He struggled to his feet, stooping so he didn’t fall foul of the steel support above him.  He glanced up at the hole in the roof, just to the right of the beam.  ‘I suppose I should be grateful I didn’t land more to the left.’

Outside, he paused to blink a few times in the thin, early sunshine.

‘Well, goodbye,’ I said.  ‘Mind how you go.’

He raised those improbable eyebrows at me. ‘Pardon? ‘Mind how I go’?  That’s it?’

‘You’re not expecting a lift of any sort? You did say they’d be looking for you…’

‘Yes – the wrong ‘they’.  Was that not clear?’

I shook my head. ‘I suppose you’d better come inside, then.’

Getting him into the house wasn’t straightforward.  He had to duck and enter sideways to avoid banging his wings on the door frame, and before he crossed the threshold he stopped.

‘You need to invite me in,’ he said.

‘I thought I just had,’ I said, vague memories of vampire legend crossing my mind.

‘No; properly.’

‘All right. Come in, then.’

‘Thank you.’

He sounded as if he meant it.  I pulled a stool out from the breakfast bar for him and he eased onto it carefully.

‘You’re a bit of a mess,’ I said, eyeing the scrapes and bruises to his skin and trying not to be distracted by his physique – he was a couple of workouts away from what Grace referred to as ‘ripped’, with firmly delineated muscles, little body hair, perfect bones and a formidable scowl. ‘Let’s get you cleaned up a bit.

‘So, tell me,’ I began as I dabbed and patted gently at his scrapes, ‘do angels need pain relief? Food? I’d like to help, but until I know it’s not going to hurt you…’

‘Thank you!’ he said with some relief.  ‘I’m very hungry!’

While I was making a pot of tea and a pile of toast, the phone rang. The answering machine in the office area of my dining room clicked on; I heard my own voice, sounding oddly tinny.

‘Claws and Chores, please leave your number and…’

‘Claws and Chores?’ my visitor queried, helping himself to toast.

‘I provide a pet-sitting solution to busy people,’ I told him.  ‘And, I have a client within the hour…’

His eyes grew guarded.

‘Do I need to wait in the shed until you return?’ he asked.

I shook my head at him.  In the familiar surroundings of my kitchen, he looked lost and vulnerable. Angel, avian human or mutant hallucination, whichever he was, I felt sorry for him.

‘I’m not that heartless.  There’s a spare bed, if you need it.’

‘I don’t deserve your kindness,’ he said, which, considering he’d ruined my shed and called me ‘dim-witted’ was, actually, quite true.  ‘I heal quickly, compared to you mortals, but even so, I’m grounded for a few days at least…’

A few days? I’d been thinking a few hours at most!

‘…and there are things you need to know,’ he went on.  ‘We’re not meant to involve humankind but, really, you’ve involved yourself.  Still…  The… people, yes, let’s call them that… people who are looking for me.  There are rules.  They can’t come into the house unless you invite them…’

‘Like vampires...’ 

‘No, not much.  And the chances are that if you did let one of these… persons in, you wouldn’t be hurt…’

‘Hurt?’

‘Well, not on purpose…’

‘This sounds a bit sinister!’ I protested.

‘For example,’ he pushed on, ignoring me, ‘if one of your friends were at the door, and you said, come in, and one of… them were listening, they’d claim it was an open invitation.  So be careful.’

‘All right; I’m not fond of cold callers anyway,’ I admitted.  ‘But who are these people? What should I look out for?’

He shook his head.

‘That’s not something you need to worry about.’

‘Look, I do have to go out… that client I mentioned?  And you’re saying there’s…’

‘You’ll be fine.  Just don’t let any strangers in when you get back. Spare bed, you said?’

After helping him up to the guest room I collected my bag and coat and left for my first customer of the day – Fluffykins McGarrett, a large, smoky blue Persian cat with a face like a squashed bottom, a loud voice and a very sweet nature.  The human of the house worked shifts, so I was doing breakfasts this week.

Today Fluffykins was waiting for me on the living room windowsill.

‘Sorry I’m a little late,’ I said, bustling about with food and water.  ‘It’s been a bit of a morning, really.’

Fluffykins fed, I took a seat on the sofa and waited for him to join me; it was part of my remit to spend a few minutes cuddling the cats in my care.  It wasn’t a chore; Fluffykins purred and snuggled and made a soft, warm patch on my lap and provided some much-needed calm after the events of the morning, a safe place to begin to process everything that had happened.

I’d never really given the possibility of angels much thought.  That is, I’d read about them in the Bible and other places, and every now and then I’d see something on the low-budget documentary channels about people being rescued by ‘guardian angels’, but I’d never thought of myself as a believer. Briefly I wondered if my house guest was anyone’s guardian angel, and if so, if they were having a really bad day today… That’s if he even was an angel; he might not be. There were any number of reasons why he might have wings… alien visitor, mutant, escaped experiment... bizarrely, out of all the possibilities I came up with, angel actually seemed the least unlikely, even if he was less impressive than you’d expect from a supernatural messenger of God.  There was, after all, an undeniable hole in my shed roof.  Besides, if that was what my visitor believed, maybe it was best to humour him. 

It all seemed rather surreal, in retrospect.  In fact, by the time I had to move Fluffyfkins off my lap and head back, I’d almost convinced myself that the hole in my shed roof had a perfectly normal origin.  I picked up bread and milk and biscuits from the local supermarket on my way, resisting the temptation to buy angel cake and headed home.

There was a man in a dark suit and unnecessary sunglasses loitering near my gate.  The adjoining house was for sale, so a slightly shabby estate agent wasn’t really unusual. I didn’t think anything of it at first, not until he tried to follow me up my own path.

‘Hello,’ he said.  ‘It’s about your insurance claim.  And you are?’

Suspicious, that’s what I was, suddenly. It didn’t seem likely that an insurance agent would turn up without knowing who he was going to speak to.  Besides, although he didn’t look particularly threatening, he smelled of damp, menace, and mushrooms.  I wondered if this was one of my guest’s mysterious ‘people’, and just what I was going to do if it was.

‘I haven’t made an insurance claim. Who are you from?’

‘I see,’ he said, ignoring my question.  ‘Well, we can make a start.   What did you say your name was?’

‘Really, it’s not convenient; I’m rather busy today.’

‘I’ll need to let head office know… May I use your phone?’

‘Don’t bother; I’ll contact them myself.  I’d like you to leave now.’

‘But I must just…’

I didn’t want to be rude, just in case he really was what he claimed.  It annoyed me, though, that I was worried about offending a stranger who repeatedly ignored my polite requests to get lost.  Not knowing if he was a danger or not, I pulled out my phone and waved it annoyingly in his annoying face. 

‘If you don’t go away, I’ll call my brother.  He’s with the police.  I’m sure he’ll be very interested in an insurance man who won’t show any ID…’

He backed off and I hurried up the path and into the house, locking and chaining the door behind me.

‘Is that you?’ the voice of my unexpected guest called out.

‘Yes,’ I dumped the shopping in the kitchen and climbed the stairs to the guest room.  ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes.’  He was lying on his stomach on the bed, half covered by the quilt, his wings on top of it.  ‘I didn’t think to ask if you lived alone; I suddenly realised it could have been anyone coming in.’

‘No.  I’m a bit fussy who I give keys to.’  Not that it was any of his business.

‘Did you have any trouble outside?’

‘Well…’ Now that I was safely in the house, I felt a bit silly.  It was probably just some poor, feckless chap who’d left his ID and my details in the office.  ‘There was an insurance agent with no ID.  Pushy.  I was worried at the time – you’ve got me really on edge, imagining danger everywhere. I didn’t see any of your ‘people’, if that’s what you were wondering.’

He looked at me with a raised arc of eyebrow. ‘Dear soul!  Exactly what were you expecting my opponents to look like?’

‘Opponents?’ I echoed. 

He gave an uncomfortable single-shouldered shrug.

‘Enemies,’ he said.  ‘But don’t worry – you’re quite safe.’

I drew breath to protest when there was a sharp knock at the door.  From the top of the stairs, I could see a dark-suited shape through the glass panels.  Trying not to feel too alarmed, I ignored the knocking and went back to my guest.

‘They won’t give up, you know,’ he said.  ‘They know I’m nearby, even if they don’t know the exact house yet.’

‘Well, anyone walking along the road behind the house is bound to see that ruddy great hole in the shed roof,’ I said, feeling calmer now I was back in the room with him.  ‘It wouldn’t take a genius to work it out.’

‘If another confronts you, ask for their name. There’s a power in names, and they fear it. Once you can name them, you may forbid them the threshold.’

‘On the subject of names,’ I said, ‘Portia Williams.’

‘Portia?’ he queried.  ‘Isn’t that a rather pretentious name for someone as unprepossessing as yourself?’

I wanted to scowl, wondering what he saw when he looked at me. A woman the wrong side of thirty-five, slightly above average height, with hair too long to be short and too short to be shoulder-length? A spinster with wary grey-blue eyes, living alone in a huge house?

He tipped his head, waiting for an answer, and I found myself explaining the reasons behind my rather grand forename.

‘Well, my father’s a petrol-head.  I was nearly called Minnie, only my mother was heavily into Shakespeare.’ I sighed.  ‘I think I had a lucky escape…’

‘I see.  Well, Portia.  You can call me Yuri.’

‘Glad to meet you, Yuri,’ I said, perhaps not entirely accurately.  ‘So, before I go out again, are you going to tell me who that was outside? What does he want?’ 

He sighed.

‘I really can’t explain… think of him – them as agents of chaos, if you like.’

‘But what about your own… people.  Won’t they be searching, too?’

‘Well, I hope so.  If the ones I was with own up… but it’ll take time.  My people will have to meet, to discuss who to send, how to protect them…’

‘Protect?  You mean there’s real danger involved here?’

‘Not for you.  Not specifically…’

‘What?’

‘Well, no-one is going to deliberately try to hurt you.  But sometimes there are accidents…  What do they say? Collateral damage?’

I glanced out of the bedroom window at the front garden.  Below, I could see two overdressed figures loitering just beyond the gate.  And these chaps were going to back down if I just asked their names?

                                                            

‘Oh, great!’ I said.  ‘Look, I have other clients.  Anything you need before I leave?’

Competition Time...!

Your chance to name a main protagonist in a novel!

My current first draft and my next planned novel feature a strong male character. He's  lead in the planned novel and a main supporting character in the first draft.  What you  need to know about him:
He's an angel, living amongst humankind to help them.
He's especially attuned to the suicidal, the unhappy, the lost.
He's rather good-looking but has a slight suggestion of belly fat, just enough to make him look pleasant to cuddle up to.

What you need to know about the name:
It must be fairly easy to type
It must be easy to read
Preferably it should have some Greek (or at least Mediterranean) overtones, since he's established on Crete

And the prize:

The winning suggestion will be used as this character's name throughout both books.  The person submitting the winning suggestion will be fully acknowledged in the credits of the book, should it reach publication.

Please leave your suggestions in the comment box.

The competition will be spreading over other social media platforms as well and a winner will be announced at the beginning of March.

Fiction on Monday - Locked in...Locked out...

Today I'm going to post the short story that I took to Writers in the Rafters last Thursday.  Apologies if you were waiting for more for 'The Prize'. but so am I... it happens like that, sometimes.  You're seeing the creative process at work here, and sometimes it isn't pretty...

So, here it is, on the subject of being locked out...

HOMETIME

Beth’s shoulder hurt.  Her schoolbag weighed a ton today - French and German textbooks, and the weight of all that homework as well.  It was two miles to walk home and hot for April.  There was a hill, too, but at least the last half mile was downhill, and she got to walk past the posh houses and the big, open recreation ground, and there was her house, just ahead, an Edwardian end terrace with a tiny garden at the front and a yard at the back.  The side of the house looked straight onto the pavement of a side road, the windows of Mum’s sewing room and the back sitting room like wide apart eyes.

Mum usually had the front door open for her – all Beth’s friends had their own door keys, but not Beth.  Mum was like that.  Not exactly mistrusting, but it was like Mum thought Beth was still twelve, rather than almost sixteen.

Up the little terracotta tiled path and Beth pushed the door.  Hmm.  Locked. Mum might have fallen asleep in the chair, she supposed. Mum did that, sometimes.

Beth hefted her bag and trailed around the house.  She didn’t knock on the front door – Dad worked nights and it would wake him. Dad didn’t sleep well and was usually grumpy, but he got three nights off a week so he had more time at the weekends.

Beth tapped softly on the side window, waiting for Mum to waft the net curtain to show she’d heard, but nothing happened.  Maybe Mum was in the kitchen and didn’t hear?

Beth knocked harder.  Now the dog jumped up on the sofa under the window and barked at the glass. Oh, great! Dad’d wake up early and be in a worse mood than usual and it’d be her fault!

‘It’s only me, Rusty!’ Beth called and, recognising her voice, the dog quietened down, jumping off the sofa and disturbing the corner of the net curtain in the process. 

Beth sighed.  Well, maybe Mum was in the loo, or something.  She waited a few moments, and knocked again, causing Rusty to bark once more.  It was no use knocking.  She was locked out.

But Mum was always in when it was school hometime!

Suddenly she realised that the corner of the net curtain Rusty had disturbed was now away from the glass.  She stood on tiptoe, and peered in…

She dropped down again, upset, disturbed by what she thought she’d seen.  Taking a breath to steady her nerves, she pushed up again against the glass… yes… the vacuum cleaner was fallen over in the middle of the rug.  A vertical line of darkness suggested the door to the hall was open – they never did that, it let the sounds through to wake Dad, and the dog would run about in the hall – everything she could see through the corner of the window suggested something bad had happened…

Beth gave herself a little shake.  This was silly.  She was locked out, that’s all, and she’d just have to wait until Dad got up or Mum came back.

She returned to the front of the house to sit on the doorstep, resting her chin on her hand.  A glance at her watch told her it was five to five – she’d only been locked out for ten minutes, but it seemed like ages.  Well, she’d wait until five past and then knock on the front door.  It would wake Dad ten minutes early, but that would be all right, wouldn’t it? Ten minutes, when you’re locked out and worried about your Mum?

The hands on the watch moved slowly, slowly, slowly…

Four minutes past.  That was enough. The stone step was hard and she was getting really worried.  She got up and began working the knocker at the front door, sending the noise clattering and crashing through the house.  Rusty ran to the door, barking like crazy.  That should do it! Sorry, Dad…  After a minute, she looked through the letter box, hoping to see Dad’s slippered feet on the stairs, but no.  It looked, though, like some of the coats had been knocked down… what was going on?

About twenty past five, a car pulled up.  The next-door neighbours, Mrs Lewis and her daughter Jenny got out.  At the sight of Beth, Mrs Lewis’ face took on a worried, sympathetic look.

‘Oh, dear!  We thought we’d be back ages ago…! Got a message for you from your Mum, love.’

‘Mum! Is she okay?’

‘Why don’t you come inside?’

Mrs Lewis’ house was the same as Beth’s, but it looked much smaller.  The front room was stuffed with sofas and sideboards and plants.  Jenny disappeared into the back of the house to make tea, and Beth sat anxiously, waiting for more information.

Mrs Lewis didn’t like to hurry a story, though.

‘Well, lovey.  I had to go to the doctor’s and I waited ages after my appointment time… I should have been seen at twenty past four! So that’s why I’m late… Anyway, just before we left we heard this…  Never mind.’

She broke off.  Beth was almost bursting with worry, desperate to blurt out questions.  But it was best not to do that with Mrs Lewis – she got sidetracked. 

‘Where was I? Oh, yes.  Don’t mention the ambulance…’

‘Ambulance?’

‘Well.   Your Mum gave us a knock.  Your Dad was taken poorly and she wanted an ambulance sending for.  Well, of course we did, and she went off with him to the General in it.  They didn’t seem too worried, only she said you were at school and could you bring your Dad’s teeth to him?’

Jenny arrived with a tea tray.  Unasked, she loaded a cup of tea with sugar and milk and passed it to Beth.  ‘Drink up, pet,’ she said quietly.  ‘He’ll be fine.’

‘Um… thanks.’ Beth’s shoulders sagged.  She felt very small and young to be coping with this.  And Dad’s teeth?  ‘But I – I can’t get into the house, I don’t have a key, I’m locked out!’

Suddenly, it was too much, and she started to cry.  Jenny, being nearest, put a comforting arm round her shoulders while Mrs Lewis made sympathetic noises.

‘Don’t you worry about that,’ Jenny said.  ‘Your mother gave me your Dad’s keys.  You drink your tea, and then, if you like, I’ll come in with you.’

‘Thank you, it’s very kind!’

‘Jenny!’ Mrs Lewis put in.  ‘Don’t forget you’ve got things to do here!’

Jenny had walked her to the door, though, and waited until Beth had unlocked the door and gone in, pushing Rusty back with her knees. She closed the front door behind her with a thunk and picked up the fallen coats, hanging them back on their hooks.

In the sitting room, she righted the vacuum cleaner and put it away and took her Mum’s cup, still half-full of cold tea, out to the kitchen.   She found a plastic bag for Dad’s teeth, rinsing the bleach off them and leaving them to drain before tipping them in and tying the neck of the bag distastefully.  She let Rusty out to cock his leg against the back gate, and wandered back into the sitting room. There was a note with her name on it, propped against the mantelpiece, and she unfolded it and read it quickly.

Mum’s handwriting was worse than usual, like she’d written quickly.

‘Beth’, it said.

‘Your Dad’s got stomach ache really badly and we’re going to hospital. Mrs Lewis will tell you and give you the key.  Bring Dad’s teeth and a pack of ciggies from the cupboard.  Get bus fare from the fruit bowl and ask at Information to find where we are.

Mumx’

Twenty minutes later, Beth had washed her face, changed out of her school clothes, and was on the number 98 bus to Birkenhead General.  She was on one of the long, sideways seats and kept trying not to think about what the old lady opposite would say if she knew she was sitting a few feet away from a set of false teeth in a plastic bag.

The bus stopped outside the hospital and she hurried in, looking for the information desk.

‘Elizabeth!’

‘Mum!’

Mum had been waiting just inside the door, and she folded Beth into a big, warm hug.

‘Now, don’t you worry, it’s all right.  It’s all right.  I’ve just left him for ten minutes while the doctors have another look. Kidney stones, they think. That’s all.’

They separated.  Beth felt all shaky from the shock, and Mum looked tired.

‘You got those ciggies? And the teeth?’

‘Yes, Mum.’

‘You’ve been a long time! What happened?’

‘I waited for ages! Mrs Lewis was at the doctor’s and didn’t get back until half five… But, Dad? I mean…’

‘Come on.  Let’s get a cuppa and I’ll tell you all about it.’

It was after 8 o’clock when they finally got home.  Beth had been allowed in for a few minutes towards the end of visiting, and had been a bit scared to see Dad, such a tall, big man, looking lost and small in the huge hospital bed.

‘Just a bit weary,’ he’d told her, when she’d asked.  It didn’t really tell her much, but then, nobody seemed to be telling anyone anything, anyway.

Of course, she still had to go to school the next day, and got a telling-off for not doing her German homework, but when she explained about Dad, her teacher sniffed and tore up the detention slip he’d been writing.  ‘Don’t do it again,’ he said.  ‘Verbs matter.’

It was another long walk home, and she kept thinking of the day before, the abandoned vacuum cleaner, the coats on the hall floor.  But today the door was open, and there was tea waiting, and something else.

‘Dad’s going to be all right,’ Mum said.  ‘He’ll be home next week.  And I’ve been thinking.  About yesterday, you coming home and that.’ She pushed a small, shiny thing across the kitchen table towards Beth.  ‘Maybe it’s time you had your own key.’

To Novella or not to Novella...

You've had three parts now of 'The Prize' which is developing towards novella status.  But I don't have the time to dedicate to a 25K work at the moment... I'm debating a rewrite to make it back into a short story, with the intention of working it into a longer, deeper work as soon as my other commitments ease off a little.

I can track my page views here and so I know 'The Prize', in all its episodes, has had a  fair number of readings.  So now it's your turn. Short story or novella? Leave me a comment and help me decide...

Writers in the Rafters, East Leeds FM and Bunny a-GoGo

Good morning.

Writers in the Rafters

Writers in the Rafters, the creative writing group of Leeds Central Libraries, started up again yesterday after its Christmas break.  We are in new premises - our lovely rafter-filled room has been let to paying customers on the afternoon we generally meet, and so we've been relegated to a table in the Art Library.  The acoustics are great, and it's a warm, bright space, but there is no door to keep us private from the rest of the library - just a very decorative arch - and there are two public-access computers so we were slightly gatecrashed a couple of times.

I was almost late.  Lingering over lunch with the lovely HM, discussing working in Alexandria, angels, and (briefly) the Ballet Boyz, I then had to dash down to meet my husband and give him his father's clean laundry (see Bunny a-Go-Go for more on this).

January is always good at Rafters as we tend to get new members in. Whether or not we retain them is a different matter; a lot of people turn up thinking it's a free 'course'.  It actually can function that way - we set exercises to be completed and brought back for reading next month, we're encouraged to comment on each other's work.  Mostly, though, these comments come in the form of genteel flattery and you have to ask if you want specific feedback.

One of the new members, a poet and novelist, had no qualms about offering advice.  This is both refreshing and welcome, even if the first thing he did was comment unfavourably about the opening of a short story I'd just written, there and then, in response to an icebreaker Ben, our facilitating Librarian, had set for us.

Ben had produced a box of assorted objects and we were to pick several of them to write about. Focusing on a walking stick, an orange, a stress-reliever, a poncho and an empty jar, I wrote about a man being bored in the office and setting up a game of minigolf and his boss walking in. New Poet didn't like the opening in which I said the main protagonist was bored - the word resonated too much in the mind of the reader and set up negative associations at the start of the story.  Fair enough.  But it's a first draft, written in a ten-minute rush, on the spot. He later queried a point in a story from another writer - he just asked a simple question about whether something was actually what was done at the time, and she didn't like it at all.

I think New Poet is going to be a refreshing change.

East Leeds FM

I had an email last year, in the wake of 100 Poets, asking me if I'd be interested in perhaps doing a radio show on ELFM and inviting me to a meeting about it.  It's a very small station due to move into larger premises later this year, with potential for a lot more shows and hosts.  I understood a few people had been cherry-picked for this meeting, but when I got there, I was surprised and flattered - and maybe a little worried - that everyone else had done at least one show before... big learning curve ahead.  My pitch for a nuts & bolts question-and-answer on the how to's of writing went down well, although there are some issues to sort out.  But I made a lot of interesting contacts, and who knows where it will lead?  I already have an author lined up for interview...

On a different note, and with a nod to my 'Rafters' paragraph. We have a young writer in the group who seems to need to big herself up constantly. She stresses the personal pronoun whenever she speaks. Now, she's young, I'm trying not to judge.  But to the new members, having someone announce they're due to have their eleventh story read on radio soon can sound a little intimidating, especially as they don't know she doesn't get paid for any of these stories, which appear on East Leeds FM.

I'm just waiting for later in the year when she pipes up about being on the radio and I can ask her if she'd like to be on my show...

Bunny a-Go-Go...

My father in law is 82 and not the most cheerful of people so, behind his back, we refer to him as the Happy Bunny.  This has become shortened to Bunny which, if you're listening in to me talking about him, makes it sound like a sweet little endearment.  The reality is that Bunny is a strong-willed character with a great deal of determination and very sure opinions of the way the world should work.

He's been in hospital since last year (that sounds rather dramatic, I know...) from the end of December until now - two and a half weeks, really, with complications from his COPD.  He's gone home today, so my husband is at the flat with him, waiting for the care team to go in and assess Bunny's care needs.  He actually enjoyed being in hospital; he had people to talk to and was fed and looked after.  In the outside world, the reality is that only my husband and I go to see him; he's fallen out with everyone, or they've fallen out with him. He wouldn't let us tell his granddaughter he was in hospital, although she works there and would have gone to visit him.  I feel sorry for him, since he's obviously lonely, yet he won't go out to the local lunch clubs because it's too much effort.  As non-drivers, it's very hard for us to make the journey all the way across Leeds, especially for my husband, who has full-time work to juggle as well.

Anyway, Bunny is Home, which is cause for celebration, and I'll be back on the shopping run from next week.

The Prize - Part Three

So, to reprise... Kate and Lucy won tickets to a dance show and are invited backstage afterwards for an interview. Kate is writing a  novel about angels, and claims the show has helped with her research.

The company is a little dismayed by this news. What's more, their founders, Gabes and Luke, have found out and instructed them to dazzle the two ladies a little - invite them to the hotel for dinner - as they could be a threat...

What is the relevance of Kate's choice of career?
How quickly will Lucy get over Martin?
Who are the mysterious founders, Gabes and Luke?
And will this story EVER be finished or develop something resembling a plot...?

The Prize -  Part Three

Pauline tapped on one dressing room door after another, but all were empty.  She frowned… yes, she’d told them to get a move on, but had they left already?

‘Pauline.’

She turned at the sound of Vio’s voice, found him watching her from the doorway to the green room.

‘Have they gone? I hope they…’

‘I told them to make sure they didn’t arrive before the car did.  They wanted to stretch out a bit, so they’re going to circle once or twice first.’

‘I don’t know what Gabes and Luke are going to say…

’

‘Same as they always do.  Don’t frighten anyone and don’t crash.’  Vio shrugged.  ‘You know, I’d quite like to have gone with them,’ he said wistfully.  ‘But I promised to wait for you.’

‘Thanks; that’s kind of you.’

Vio grinned at her, raising a dark, sultry wing of an eyebrow. ‘Gabes and Luke as well, of course; they’re picking us up in the limo.’

‘Flash gits,’ Pauline said, making him laugh

.

‘Come on. Wait for them out front.’  He threw a casual arm around her, hugged her against him.

‘Um… Vio?  This is new,’ she said, glancing at his hand resting on her shoulder.

‘Do you mind?’

‘No.  But Gabes and Luke will give you the ‘no fraternising’ lecture if they find out…’

‘We just won’t have to let them find out, then, will we? Besides, thinking of leaving at the end of the run.’

‘What? Vio, no! They need you!’

‘I need me, too, Paulie! Other things need me! The company needs new blood – Gabes has got a couple of likely lads lined up for training in off season, so why not go now before I’m burned out?’

‘Because… we’ll miss you.’

For a minute, Vio wondered if that was what she’d meant to say.  It wouldn’t do any good, though.  There were too many impossibilities in the way of them being ever any more than friends. The realisation saddened him, but as they neared the door he gave her shoulder a quick squeeze before releasing her, just in case the limo was outside already.

‘If Gabes wins, I’ll think about staying,’ he said, unwilling to leave the subject. ‘But not if Luke does.’

‘But his choreography’s brilliant! Well, so is Gabes’, but it’s just so… Luke’s really good at bringing out the shadows…’

‘You weren’t with us, last time he won.  I think only Charlie and I survived that particular tour.’

‘But, Vio!’

He shook his head.  ‘Let’s just hope Gabes gets the win.’

*

We were shown into a private saloon set up with several small dining tables, and a relaxed seating area to the far end of the room.  Windows were long and wide and lusciously draped and a small bar area at the side of the room was staffed by a young man whose crisp good looks would have made him stand out in any crowed other than this one.   Once we’d ordered drinks, Peter sat at one end of a leather sofa, smiling at Lucy and patting the seat next to him invitingly. Dominic shot me a slightly wary glance I wasn’t supposed to notice, and so I eased myself into a soft, squashy armchair – I didn’t want him to worry about having to share a sofa with me – and he found a neighbouring chair to arrange his beautiful limbs in.

‘So,’ he said, smiling in a friendly sort of way. ‘You’re an author.’

‘Of sorts,’ I agreed.  ‘It’s hard work to make any money at it. My husband works, though, and he’s happy to support me while I try.’

‘Oh, you’re married!’ Dominic said, as if it explained something he’d been puzzling over.

‘Yes.  And very happily, too, so you’re all quite safe with me.’ I glanced across at where Lucy was flirting delicately with Peter. ‘My friend isn’t, though. So I’m not quite sure I’d fancy Pete’s chances of escaping unscathed!’

Peter gave me a swift half-smile.  ‘Scathed is good,’ he said, and turned his full attention back to Lucy.

The outclassed eye-candy barman brought the drinks over just as there was a commotion outside and most of the rest of the dancers piled into the room.

‘Tell me about your latest work?  The one you’re researching by looking at us?’ Dominic suggested, over the chaos of arrivals and greetings and the sudden rush of male bodies crossing my eyeline.

‘It’s the flight thing,’ I said. ‘How does the human form behave in the air? How would an avian human fly? Birds have tails to help them control their positions in the air – angels with tails would just look stupid… I looked at athletes – the Olympics were really useful – the trampolining and the gymnastics and even the swimming – and that led me on to look at dancers…’

Dominic tried to keep talking to me, but as soon as the new arrivals had finished their orders at the bar, they came over, demanding attention and introductions to Lucy and me, and I found myself part of four or five conversations at the same time, bewildered and trying desperately to keep up…

‘Have you ever done dance yourself, Kate?’ Samuel, tall, fair, blessed with fabulous cheekbones, asked.

‘Oh, I went for lessons once. Mixed tap and ballet… I was three. I didn’t like the noise of the tap shoes, apparently, so I never went again…’

‘Did you not want to?’

‘Yes, but that was how it was in our house; you got one chance and if you didn’t like it, you’d made your mind up and you never got another go.’

‘It sounds harsh.’

‘Practical,’ I corrected.

‘And you write?’ This was from one of the more mature members… ah… Vio, that was his name.  He still looked to be under thirty.

‘Yes, I do. Sometimes, I even sell things.’

‘What is it you enjoy so much?’

‘It gives me the chance to talk to people, ask them stuff.  I’d much rather ask you questions, Vio, than talk about myself.  Did you all know each other before you joined the company, or…?’

‘Some of us trained together.  Gabes and Luke put the group together, though.’

‘So, what do you do when the tour ends? Do you get any down time or…?’

‘Kate…’  One with an elaborate neckline tattoo sat on the arm of my chair and handed me a glass of something I initially thought was orange juice. ‘Your latest work – what will you do with it? Who will read it?’

‘Oh, well, I’m on the agent trail again, so no-one at first… It’s about six months off being ready, anyway, and I might try it on a few peer-review sites…’

Someone passed me another drink.

And then the door opened again.