An invitation to come and play

The bandstand, round and somehow forbidding, but I’m sure I remember pale sun-bleached ecru deckchairs and once, a band.  Trees and a low brick wall between park and road and the other side a concrete path - ochre with orange and white pebbles - between grass and the drop down to the sand.  It was a run-down part of town, midway between two otherwise touching towns, gentility on a third edge, in the guise of a Grand Terrace of houses, forlorn and peeling, which sort of said it all.

Oh! and the octagonal little thatched house in the trees with it's pointed-top door which, no matter how often I asked, never became anything,according to my mother, other that "the place they keep tools in."   (Then it made me think of a charity money-box;  today I'd say it would be perfect for 'cottaging')

It was there I witnessed my first eclipse of the sun, entered a fancy dress competition and was eclipsed by a dark-featured boy dressed as Noddy.  It was there I had the conversation which ended, my mother aghast (it was the Fifties when no-one spoke of what was before their eyes) “You mustn’t ever mention it to her.”

And it was there I embarrassed as much as shamed and irritated my mother by climbing the steps to the slide only to become transfixed with fright at the necessity of sliding down the other side.

A response to an  invitation from Thinking Ten - a place I've too much neglected lately, whch is a shame because as somewhere to limber up, to have ideas come sparkling from unexpected places, it can't be beat.   I will try and go there more often. 

Inhibitions

They erected a barricade between themselves, all the while each blaming the other for it, each knowing that really they were the one responsible.  ‘If only he ...’, ‘If only she ...’ and so on and so forth, neither able, or willing to say what they really meant, really, truly wanted.

Upbringing, of course, parental ‘advice’, heavy handed, red-faced, oblique, couched in such formal twisty words, with averted eyes, that it was almost meaningless.

Peer pressure another thing that made them tongue-tied. 

How could she really be sure that what Jacky said was the best way really was, when she was such a ... well, not really someone you wanted to be copying, taking advice from.   Especially when it was couched in such a sly manner, eyes sliding to older friends, who sniggered as if they knew she was lying while you had no way of telling, because of your ignorance.
He ... well he’d claimed to have, already.   Not to her, (don’t be so effing stupid!)  but to the others.   Wasn’t sure that they’d believed him.   Part hadn’t wanted to, part had.   But he suspected they could tell it had been cobbled together from magazines and the film he’d found at the bottom of his parents’ wardrobe.

[This a Thinking Ten piece from a week or so ago. ]

Callipygian and A Change of focus

A change of focus [32]
‘Yanno, no,’ Raptor’s expression pained, ‘how could I have killed him?  I was with you, he in custody...’
Pettinger grunted. ‘No... released on diplomatic bail... as per the fucking handbook.’   Then, doggedly reverting, ignoring the turbulence of messages from his superior, questioning his absence,  ‘How come my brothers knew, when I did not?’
‘Guessed.  I sent you here, paid for your education.’
‘Manufactured reasons for me not to return?
Sharp gleam of surprise, not sufficiently fast-hid, ‘Kept you safe...’
‘Why not protect me there?  Since you need me to eventually return.  And why, for fuck’s sake, why the tinpot embassy?’

A change of focus [33]
Raptor’s smile a recrudescent memory.  ‘Part of their grand scheme to wrest power; naïve belief that allying themselves with Britain in these turbulent times...’
‘Christ, don’t tell me they’re stupid enough to trust the EU handbook?’
‘They wanted a hand-out to support their fight against the Dubnovaskis.   I merely encouraged.’
‘Is Khakbethia really that poverty-stricken?’
‘It’s known hunger... as I know hunger now.’  Standing, ‘Time to eat, Yanno.’
‘You still have to tell me about Sally-Ann.  You knew her, had her, passed her on to me...’
Quietly, ‘Did not kill her.’
‘But caused her to be killed?’
Raptor strode ahead.

The most recent  entries for the Prediction which required the inclusion of handbook, grunt, and  turbulent.  And with thanks to my younger son for the word 'callipygian'

Coming to terms

"Do you need a.... drink or anything ... a cup of tea? Was it bad news?" 
The voice tailed away, could have been speaking from the moon, from another planet for all she heard what it was saying, she was at the limit of her ability to concentrate on anyone else, to be polite. One hand still clutched the telegram, the other fiddled with the buttons at her throat, they’d never felt this tight before, she thought she might choke. 
Turning her back, with as much determination as she could muster, not caring whether or not she was seeming to be rude, she continued to walk down the overgrown path, away from the house, trying not to see the faintly printed capitals, on paper tape, stuck to the pale cream official Post Office form, trying not to read the words which were, nevertheless, etched on her retina. MISSED BOAT STOP NOT GOING TO MAKE THIRTEENTH STOP REARRANGE WEDDING FOR TWENTYNINTH.
 The baby would be here by then, for sure. 

 .oOo.

Sometimes you win and other times someone else does. 
This was one of the latter, and been for the past three occasions if he was honest. If he was counting. Which he hadn’t meant to be at least. But in truth he’d begun to wonder if it wasn’t just that he was a mug, falling for all those sob stories about dying mothers, weddings and funerals to go to and letting them take his place on the boat. After all, he had a wedding to go to, didn’t he?
 His own. 
Or was that the problem? Was he secretly – so secret even he didn’t know – trying to get out of marrying Emily? 
Not that Emily was the problem, not at all, he loved Emily. Obviously he did, and she loved him otherwise she’d never have let him ... 
But she did, had seen how important it was. He’d been so desperate, so sure that if he didn’t then, with her, he never would, and given that the life expectancy once they got to France was, so some smartarse n the pub had told him, no more than fourteen days, he’d die without ever having ... so maybe he had been a bit over-persuasive. 
Maybe that was why it had been such a ... let down. 

 .oOo.

Skin of his teeth, and that fact that he’d made it in time must mean that God had intended it all along. He had arrived. And on the twenty-ninth as he had said. Had told his brother to get in touch with the registrar and rearrange it. 
The same brother picked him up from the port, handed him a bag with a suit and a shirt – neither the right size but they’d do – and drove to the registry office like a madman, assuring him he had the ring and everyone knew today was the day and though he’d not seen Emily herself, just her mother, she’d said it would all be OK, Emily would be there. 
And she was. 
But the baby that Emily carried inside had been there for nigh on nine months. His ship overseas had sailed on Easter Sunday. Today was the end of September.

[Three prompted pieces from Thinking Ten] 

Covert

Whatever I wanted to believe, he was not, and never would be, one of those WYSIWYGs.

Probably never had been.  No, for all the carefully combed hair, the deliberate, deceptively-boyish (in the sense of in quotation marks, but I did know he was too intelligent to do that twitchy-fingered thing to denote them) flop of a mid-brown fringe, the discreet and expensive aftershave, faintly redolent of an apple orchard on a drowsy afternoon (a memory, which was nearly my undoing, though I kept that to myself) and the confident way he strode into the room, he was most definitely not what he seemed.

I watched him, confident that, sat where I was, it would take him a moment or two to spot me, and went over in my mind what I knew of him, what he had allowed to be known.

And what he had hoped never would be known.

But I have my sources.  I knew that the eyes above those perfectly-planed cheekbones would just as easily transfer to a snake, and that, like the iceberg of his wicked heart, there was far more going on under that smooth exterior.  And all of it sewage.

Thinking Ten: Words Inc, (Wednesday)  snake, plane, iceberg

Learning by experience

‘It's the way to do it, the proper way, the way I was taught.’

‘Yes, but why?’
‘Because it’s always been done like that.’
‘Yes, so you keep saying, but why?’
‘Well, it just is, that’s how I was shown, and by someone who knew a lot more about it than you do!’
She was getting upset, defensive, seeing it as only right that she would know more than me, would be the one to tell me.
But because she couldn’t give me a better reason, I was refusing to do it that way, insisted, stubbornly and with the arrogance of youth, the contrariness of my teenage years, on doing it what felt like a more logical way.

It was many, many years before I worked out that her way, the way my mother had been taught,  was better, for the simple reason that to fold one quarter of a tablecloth back on itself meant it was far easier to spread it open across a table with a single flick.

Thinking Ten prompt:  Take it Away (Tuesday) It's the way...

Just cause

From the ditch - luckily dry - and behind the hedge I had a good view of the road, the arriving of the cars, and the dressed-in-their-best folk emerging from them, smiling and commenting on the sunshine, welcome, and surprising, after the week of rain we’d had, the women’s hats, turning back and forth in over-animated conversation, a parade of long-stemmed flowers.
Then, for a while, after the slamming of doors and tap-tapping of heels on the stone pathway ceased there was a lull in the proceedings, and only the meandering organ music from within the church to be heard, spiced by the buzzing of bees amongst the dog-roses.
I’d seen him go in, early, earlier than he should have, than the accompanying best man thought wise, looking nervous, unaccustomed to the harshness of the collar and tie around his neck, and I knew that he’d’ve liked to take a tot or two from the hip flask he usually carried but could not today since it would have spoiled the line of his hired suit.
Then the big, black, smooth-engined car arrived, pulled into the space in front of the lych gate that had been saved for it, and the blonde head of the driver could be seen, going to open the passenger doors.   Her father first, smug pomposity in every gleaming inch of him, then her, The Bride, looking somehow plastic and unreal, as if captured and sprayed.  Made stiff and plastic, a model of a soon-to-be-the-perfect-wife.
I waited until the organ began that creaking, doom-laden tune before making my move.   Opened silently (my earlier, pre-greasing preparations paying off) the little door and crept to another narrow door from where, while remaining hidden, I had a good view of those standing therein. 
Waited until after “Who giveth this woman” for her father to sit down in the front pew.
Waited for the “If any man knows...” words from the officiating vicar.
Waited for the sudden swirl of stiff-skirted dress, the tap-tapping of a single pair of feet.
Heard (or thought I did) the falling of the flowers from her hand.
Only heard the beginnings of the gasp of questioning shock as I opened the inner door, making sure to stay out of sight.  Shut it and wedged the already-held chair behind it.   Took her hand and ran with her through and out the small back door, reminding her to duck.   Through the hedge, leapt the ditch and to the pick-up truck beyond.
Climbed in and sped away.
The groom himself had been impediment enough.

Thinking Ten Saturday canvas

Steps in growing up

I hadn’t yet been given the nickname ‘Drip’ but this is as good an illustration as any of why I eventually earned it.  
It was probably my ninth summer, back in the days when we had a lot more freedom both to wander at will and to make mistakes.   My mistake wasn’t, as it happened, life-threatening, even though the last decision I made went against the only ‘beware of’ instruction I remembered receiving from my parents.  
It was like this.  I’d caught, on a warm and sunny afternoon, a bus to the nearest small town. (Ware, it was which, to those that didn’t know it, caused a string of daft and repetitive questions, which would have out-Pythoned Monty had he been around at the time).
Somehow, I’d spent more money that I should have and so didn’t have enough for the bus fare home.   So I walked about a mile to what I thought was a suitably far enough away bus stop to eat up the difference in fare.   Having arrived, I then looked at the timetable to see when the next bus was due (country buses were on the infrequent side).   It took me some time to understand that the reason the timetable wasn’t making any sense to me was not because I couldn’t read it but because I didn’t own a watch and had not the faintest clue what the time was.
When that dawned on me I started walking, taking a longer route than necessary because I didn’t know the short cuts.   So it was probably something more than four miles I walked, all the way through Stanstead Abbotts. 
When a car stopped and offered a lift I studied them only briefly – a couple older than my parents, grey-haired and obviously anxious to be helpful.   I accepted, gratefully and sat on the green leather seat, trying hard not to cry with relief and hoping they wouldn’t notice that my hands were so sweaty that they picked up the dye off the green leather seats

Plot Thickens (Thursday) a decision based on not enough information

Tune-wired memory

“One two three ...”  yesterday's Thinking Ten words for Take it  away Tuesday:  a ten minute piece of writing which has to start with these words.

Where they led me seemed inevitable.

That song, a bit whiney, ubiquitous at the time,  coloured many weeks as I remember, filled my head again, including that ever-after memorable line (because I don’t think I’d heard it before):   “like taking candy from a baby”.

I Googled it, looked it up on You Tube and was not surprised to find the year was 1966, the year I married.   It had been written and recorded by someone called Len Barry, who I’d swear I’d never heard of, ever.

Despite the pleasure of the memories hearing it again certainly makes me more appreciative of more meaningful lyrics, like many of Arab Strap and The Floating Men.   And many, many more.

But odd how fast and hard it came to me on reading those words

I beg your pardon

I remember making the dress, must have been early in 1963,  cotton, with a surface that felt a bit like it had been embroidered with the self-same threads, heavy-weight (I’d read about something called ‘crash’ and wondered if it was that, but, from the dictionary definition, assume not).   What it undoubtedly was was a highly unflattering mustard colour.   It had a drawstring waist and should more accurately be described as a pinafore dress because it was sleeveless and intended to be worn over a matching blouse with stiff, stand-up collar, which required lining with a tight-woven man-made fabric.   It was so uncomfortable, however, that I invariably felt I’d spent the night in the fridge and my neck become frozen solid, that I preferred wearing a brown jumper instead.

This was the outfit I was wearing, along with brown shoes and dark stockings, the night I first got together with the man who became my husband.   I still have the stockings - torn to shreds as we tried to negotiate a row of rose bushes.

Today's Thinking Ten prompt : Words Inc. (Wednesday) mustard, fridge, crash

Distraction

There’s no accounting for the way the brain works, for how childish imagination can make something out of nothing,  sometimes to tell a story, to distract from external things that are going bad, to make the world seem right again, even if only for a little while.   And sometimes, most times, that story was just enough to let enough time go past so that things outside the door of his room – white painted, dark blue dressing gown that he never wore because it was too tight, but it still stayed hanging there on the brass hook – to settle down, for the voices to stop shouting, for things to be back to normal.

Sometimes imagination did take over, did tell him stories of bad things, told them so well he didn’t always know they were just stories, found himself believing in lines of witches, in robots shouting in metallic voices ... until it started to get light.

But today, just when it was starting to get light, he remembered that view from his bedroom window, and knew that the most terrifying thought of all had been terrifying because it had also been a prophecy, which somehow he’d always known, had always half-believed.   Even while he didn’t believe it.   A prophecy of the firing squad which, as soon as the sun was fully up, would shoot him dead..

3xT10 flashes - Baby clinic

The pair of them stood in front of me, joint accusation, joint virtue, and all around conversation dropped to next to nothing as every other woman in the room wanted to hear what they were going to say to me.

‘Er, Mrs Stoneman ...’ Sister Weston, hating my guts but not wanting to let the vicar’s wife see it.

‘It‘s miss.’  And my face matched my name, the ‘stone’ bit at least.   This was a battle I’d fought several times already.

‘Oh, it’s ... it’s just a courtesy title ...’  The starchy rustle of her gown, the creaking of her highly-polished lace-ups, the pursing of her lips - not one iota of courtesy in intent.

‘I find it insulting.   I’m not married, don’t want to be and certainly do not merit the title.’  I reached into my pocket for the packet of Woodbines I knew was there and without taking my eyes off her, pulled one out and put it between my lips, closed the packet and replaced it in my pocket.

Right on cue, she said ‘Oh Mrs ... er, Miss Stoneman, we don’t want to smoke around baby do we?’

And beside her the vicar’s wife reached into her own pocket, pulled out a lighter, flicked it to flame and while extending it to my cigarette said, ‘Whyever not, I need something to help me through the day.’

You could have heard a pin drop.  

Actually that’s a lie, because if it had dropped the same time as the pupil midwife, poor little kid, dropped the metal dish, in such a way as to cause the nappy therein to tip and spill its contents – what had that child been eating?! – you wouldn’t have heard a thing, especially as her screech, of horror, followed the clatter pdq.   Mercifully, Sister Weston was struck dumb.  

Her face was a picture though and I remembered then that it was a new vicar’s wife, or rather the wife of the new vicar, only arrived on Sunday (I just knew they always came into the clinic, regular, presumably to sign us up for christening and all the other shit.  I’d always ignored them.  Up to now.)

Anyway, this one was no sweet-natured flowers-and-soup type vicar’s wife.   Had her wits about her, well and truly.  Before Sister could open her mouth the she’d said to the poor little pupil midwife, ‘Don’t cry, it’s only piss and shit, tell me where the cloths are kept and I’ll clean it up, then perhaps you can take me round to tell me who’s who.’

The rest of this week's posts for Thinking Ten

Words Inc. (Wednesday)  joint, gown, pocket

One Word/Sentence Two (Friday) In the second sentence include the following word: dish

Plot Thickens (Thursday)  taking on an unfamiliar role