Catching UP

We're delighted to share this generous extract from Rohase Piercy's upcoming short story collection. This one's from Catching Up, in which a series of nested memories produce unexpected revelations. Read on for the hilarious recollections of the youngest version of the narrator.

He hadn't wanted to go, but they'd insisted he was too young to be left home alone. 

'You're coming with us, and that's that!' his Dad had said, with Mum soothing it over: 'You like poor Auntie Kath, you know she always makes a fuss of you!'

Well, yes he did like Auntie Kath – who wasn't his real auntie, just his Mum's best friend from school - she was lovely and kind and cuddly and always had a calming air about her, with none of his Mum's emotional outbursts, but he didn't want to be made a fuss of at his age, and why was she 'poor' Auntie Kath all of a sudden? And he definitely did not like her husband, whom he refused to call 'Uncle' Tom and who was short and pompous and brash, and would no doubt go on and on about their snooty Chloe who was at Bristol University, and ask questions about Liam's own academic progress, or lack of it.

'But I haven't finished my English homework!' he pleaded desperately, and his Mum said, 'Oh, that won't be a problem, they've got a computer in their spare room, Tom'll set you up. Just bring what you need, and you can finish it after we've eaten.'

So there he was, loitering in the Taylors' lounge where a whacking great photo of bloody Chloe smirked on the wall surrounded by framed certificates, fingering all the stupid arty knick-knacks and eyeing up the bottles in the drinks cabinet while his Mum and Kath passed to and fro between kitchen and dining room with plates and stuff. Tom and his Dad were smoking in the garden, their voices crescendoing as they played their usual game of one-upmanship. So embarrassing - Liam deliberately tuned them out in favour of eavesdropping on the womenfolk. 

'So I've got the date for the op now and it's Wednesday week,' Kath was saying as she passed the door. 'Got a couple of pre-op appointments this week coming - no, honestly, it's fine, Annie, I'm all sorted for lifts and stuff, it's just great to know you're there for me. God knows Tom's no good in that department, I mean, he came with me to get the biopsy results, but he was more interested in interrogating the doctors than in supporting me. Do you know, when we got home he wouldn't even look at it – not even when it went all black where they'd put the needle in. It's like he just doesn't want to know.'

'Oh Kath, that's terrible', said his Mum, as Liam edged closer to the door. 'You should have phoned me, I'd have come with you! At least let me know what I can do to help afterwards – bit of cooking, bit of housework, whatever you need. And I'm just on the end of the phone, happy to chat at any time, if you want to get it off your … you know, if you just want to talk.'

'Thanks, Annie. No, Tom's taking me to the hospital, and to the pre-op too, I mean it's the least he can do, isn't it? But having a friend to talk to makes all the difference … I'm sorry I didn't tell you 'til after the results came in, but I didn't want to worry anyone unnecessarily, you know? Didn't want to share my suspicions in case they came true - which of course, they have. Tell you what, though, the nurses are wonderful, so kind and lovely, they've given me this number to ring if I've any concerns or questions, though I think the leaflets cover everything. I'm just mainly relieved that they've caught it in time – at least, I hope they have, they say they won't know for sure until they open it up – but I'll keep you posted from now on, I promise.' 

Liam lingered in the doorway, frowning – Auntie Kath was having an operation? He hoped she'd be all right … a rush of affection engulfed him and he felt six years old again, cuddled into her comforting, bosomy embrace after a fall, a cool pad soaked in Witch Hazel pressed to his bruised forehead. He wandered out into the hallway in hopes of hearing more, just as they exited the dining room. 

'Liam, what are you doing? Come and help me and Kath, there's side plates to be laid and you can take in the glasses if you're careful.' And that was that.

Dinner was boring and prolonged, with Tom droning on about different kind of asparagus and how the wine had been recommended by someone whose son worked at The Grand. Liam's Dad made a great show of swirling it round in the glass before taking a sip, saying 'very nice, a fruity, cheeky little number' in a faux plummy voice and adding 'no, son, you can't have any' in his own. There were three courses, the first consisting solely of asparagus in green sauce, the second a rather nice pie called a Beef Wellington – both unfamiliar, but he ate them anyway because it was eight o'clock and he was friggin' starving. Then there was ice cream and fresh fruit salad for dessert. 'Growing boy, eh?' said Tom with a leer, as Kath urged a second helping upon him, and Mum said 'Oh, he's always hungry, I don't know where he puts it'.

Then afterwards it was, 'Right, shall we 'repair to the drawing room'? I've got a nice single malt you might like to try, Adam,' and his Mum said 'Oh, Liam's got some homework to finish, could you set him up at your computer?' and Auntie Kath said 'Of course! Tom, take Liam upstairs and put the computer on for him while Annie and I clear the table!'

So there he was, sitting at the big oak desk in what used to be the Taylors' spare room but was now apparently 'the office', with his English books in front of him and the internet winking from an enormous flat screen. Anxious to get back to his single malt, Uncle Tom had merely powered up the PC, commenting that Chloe had done 'all of her A Level research on this machine', cuffed Liam (rather hard) on the back of the head, told him to 'get down to it, and don't go fiddling about', and left him to it.

He dutifully typed in 'Wilfrid Owen, War Poet' and a load of stuff came up. Okay. He'd actually already done most of this, he'd only said it to his parents in the hope of getting out of the visit, it just needed a sentence or two just to finish off – Owen's vivid and graphic poems about modern warfare, almost all of which were published posthumously – hang on, they'd know he'd copied that, he'd better put 'published after he was dead' – helped to advance poetry into the Modernist era. Change 'Modernist' into 'modern', no, they'd already said 'modern warfare', how about 'helped to bring poetry into a new era'? Perfect! Sweet! Well done, boyo. Now, perhaps he could … well, browse a bit, see if they had MSN so he could chat to his friends, nothing wrong in that surely?

He crept quietly out to the landing, just to check that Tom wasn't loitering there, ready to make a bee-line for the loo if he was. But no, they were all downstairs in the lounge with the door open, Tom holding forth about music now.

'Never been to the opera? Oh, you should, you know, it's a whole new world, we went last month with James and Alison and loved it, didn't we, Kath?'

'Well, yes, it was very nice,' Liam could hear the soothed-over doubt in Auntie Kath's voice ..'but I don't think Annie and Adam want to listen to opera right now…'

'Nonsense, you'll never know if you don't try, here, give this a go. It's from Don Giovanni, heard of it? Oh, surely you have … this is the, er, the Catalogue Area, really catchy tune, have a listen!'

Liam shook his head in silent disbelief and slid back to the computer.

Less than five minutes later, a shout on the stairs made him jump out of his skin.

'Liam! Come down here for a minute, will you? We need your help!'

Reluctantly but swiftly, he joined his Dad on the stairs and followed him down to the living room.

'Yes, Liam's enjoying Spanish', Mum was saying proudly, 'He's doing well at it it, aren't you, Liam?'

'Er, yes …' what on earth was this? Surely they didn't expect him to recite something in Spanish, right out of the blue? He'd only just started it in September …Jesus ...

'Our Chloe got A-stars in French and German at GCSE level,' commented Tom, giving Dad the opportunity to say he thought Spanish was considered more useful nowadays before continuing in gleeful tones, 'Now, son, Tom and Kath like this song but they haven't a clue what it means, and it's obviously in Spanish so we thought you could enlighten us.' They all waited impatiently as Tom, sighing loudly, identified the track and reluctantly pressed 'Play'. This development was obviously not what he'd been expecting. Liam listened with growing horror as some bloke with a deep voice started singing very fast – something operatic, he couldn't follow it and it didn't even sound like Spanish.

'Come on, Liam, you must be able to make some of it out? España, that's Spain isn't it?' said his Dad hopefully, and he tried, he really tried, to make sense of what he was hearing and give his parent the victory over Tom he so obviously needed.

Ma in Ispagnia son già mille et tre, oh God, what the feck could that mean? Think, Liam, think!

'He says his mother lives in Spain, and she's a hundred and three!' he blurted out in desperation, and miraculously, that seemed to satisfy them.

'Hundred and three, eh? Well, that's certainly something to sing about, isn't it?' said Auntie Kath brightly, and although Tom grumbled something about a funny kind of catalogue, Liam's Dad ruffled his hair affectionately as he made his escape.

Back upstairs, his hands hovered over the keyboard. Sod MSN – what was he going to say to his mates, anyhow? 'We're at my parents' friends' house and they've just got me to translate a bit of Spanish opera for them?' He'd never hear the end of it! He could tell them about the posh PC, but actually Louis Danvers had one exactly like it in his bedroom, all to himself, and he'd only rub it in. So what? No use asking if they had the parental controls on, they were bound to be on just like everywhere, so if he typed in something outrageous like 'Big Tits' it'd come up with that guff about the song of the Great Tit being half a semitone lower in the country than in the city, or was it the other way round, he couldn't give a toss but was probably about to find out, yet again - 

Oh. My. God.

Hello again, Dave

This week we're delighted to host an extract from the new novel by Betty Valentine. Betty is a writer and also the '15 minute poet' (check out her Wordpress site!) living in the Channel Islands.

'1958' is the diary ('Dave') of George Potter, written 1958-2012. He is a stuttering henpecked little man, who finds escape from his dull life and his bossy wife in the shed on his allotment. Life changes for George when the Mullers, Henry and Clara, move in next door. They are German refugees, and Henry runs a bookshop. George and Henry become the best of friends and later on they become lovers; they stay that way for the next 50 years.

This snippet comes from 1961, just after their first weekend together. Eileen is George's wife and Eric is Eileen's terminally dim pug.

Hello again Dave

Things have settled a little. Eileen is no longer narked with me because I brought her roses from the allotment. It always cheers her up when I do that.

Henry is back home because he has a new tenant. Creepy Derek the assistant has moved in upstairs at the bookshop, he has fallen out with his mother who is a war widow, over her new boyfriend. He had nowhere else to go to that he could afford, so Henry said he could use the flat, but just until he found somewhere else. So we have to content ourselves with furtive kisses in the shed and the odd passionate moment when Eileen’s back is turned.

It is not ideal. I realised in the flat with Henry that lovemaking is an entirely different thing when both partners truly want each other. That probably sounds naieve but my only previous experience has been with a woman who would rather not bother, so I assumed that that was the way it was meant to be. 

Now I know different, I want so much more and I am not getting it! It’s a funny thing for a middle aged man to find himself falling in love for the first time. Finding yourself really wanting someone else when you are over 40 is a strange new feeling. It is a physical need, I burn to be with him and he burns to be with me, that need is not being satisfied which is making us both irritable with the people around us.

I have been a little short with Eileen, she keeps asking me if I need something to sort out my bowels because I am being bad tempered, branflakes keep appearing on the breakfast table. I loathe branflakes which is not helping at all.

Dear Dave

I am a much happier boy

Henry surprised me today and sent creepy Derek out for an early lunch break as the shop was quiet. He told him to call in at the stationers and to go to the bank to get some change on the way back. As soon as he was gone Henry locked the door and pretty much dragged me into the office to have his evil way with me, as he put it. 

Not that I was complaining because I was more than keen. Something inside me has woken up after all the years of being starved of affection both physical and mental. Sometimes the madness of this little affair of ours seems utterly reckless and abandoned, but neither of us seems to be able to do a thing about it.

After a glorious time together we emerged smirking and very much happier, only to find a furious Derek standing on the doorstep in the rain because the bank was shut for early closing. Thank goodness he had forgotten his keys!

When I got back to the office one of my colleagues asked if I was ok because I seemed a little flushed. I went scarlet and mentioned that I had a slight headache. I shut the office door and bent over my papers.

When I was working in the garden before dinner, we stopped and chatted politely across the fence for a few minutes, like neighbours do. Just about how the roses have done this year, pretty tame stuff considering the two of us had spent lunchtime in each others arms, and I don’t mean doing the fox-trot!

Comrade Dave

Yes it is catch a ‘Commie’ week down here at the allotments, seriously it really is. Reg Braithewaite our fearless leader [he thinks] has joined the Civil Defence Corps and is now obsessed with hunting down the red menace, he sees communists everywhere!

Most people think he is a bit loopy and ignore him, or tell him to go cool his head under the tap, or worse, but he is relentless in rooting out what he thinks are ‘Red’s’ under the vegetable beds.

What he expects to find the Lord only knows, but extreme vigilance is called for in case we are infiltrated. 

There have been several humorous suggestions that he may be looking for Commie Carrots or Pinko Parsnips, Henry suggested Bolshie Beets.

It is ruddy hilarious.

He wants us to mount nightly patrols to stop the Communists from running riot during the darkened hours. 

Nobody has signed up of course, but I might just do it. Not because I want to help him in his lunatic scheme you understand, it’s just that he will have to be nice to me all night, which will really annoy him!

Regards Tovarisch Dave

Comrade George

My Dearest Holmes: an extract from Rohase Piercy's groundbreaking novel.

'My Dearest Holmes' is a novel of two halves. Part I, entitled 'A Discreet Investigation',

tells the story of an unconventional client's search for her missing companion – a quest

that Sherlock Holmes embarks on with enthusiasm and solves with relative ease. The

denoument of the case, however, has less to do with the resolution of Miss Anne

D'Arcy's dilemma than with Watson's admission, forced out of him by the circumstances

of the investigation, of his feelings for the great detective and his determination to seek a

'marriage of convenience' in order to protect them both from suspicion and scandal.

Part II, entitled 'The Final Problem' and set three years later, follows the same sequence

of events as the original Conan Doyle story of that name (in which Holmes plunges to

his death over the Reichanbach Falls in Switzerland, locked in the arms of his arch-

enemy Professor Moriarty) and carries the reader forward to the events of 'The Adventure

Of The Empty House' in which Doyle, finally bowing to public pressure, 'resurrects' his

hero and returns him to 221B Baker Street and to a conveniently-widowed Watson. In

other words, my version of 'The Final Problem' is an attempt to give an alternative

explanation for the fabled 'Great Hiatus'.

Those of you familiar with the original stories will recognise the setting of this extract,

in which Holmes and Watson, having excaped Moriarty's gang in London, travel across

France and Belgium towards Switzerland. My conceit, however, is that Conan Doyle

failed to disclose the real reason for their flight: Moriarty's threat to expose Watson's

homosexual lifestyle and bring down upon him the full rigour of the 1885 Criminal Law

Amendment Act - the same law under which Oscar Wilde was to be convicted and

sentenced to imprisonment with hard labour just a few years later.

Hobbinol

To celebrate this midwinter, we're proud to share Jay Taverner's Prologue to Rebellion. 'In a feudal world of aristocrats and peasants, The Lady Isabella and her gamekeeper's daughter, Hope, are girls of sixteen. From high society through highway robbery and alongside the perils of war, Hope and Isabella share a passionate coming-of-age.'

'

The candles leapt and guttered, and they were in the room. 

Bell shivered. She had been afraid of the horned men all her life. When she was a tiny girl, Sir Walter had tossed her into the arms of their leader, laughing, asking a blessing on his youngest, and she had smelt the village smells of soot and dirt, and over them the strange acrid herbs of the face paints, and the rot of ancient fur. The horned man had grinned at her, and his teeth were huge as the antlers branching out of his eyes. 

She looked for him now; but there was no man amongst them so large as Jack Smith. She had found out he was really the smith long ago, but it made no difference to the terror he carried in his horns and huge, ribboned skirts when he came at the turn of each New Year. Now the six dancers stamped their clogs on the flags, and horns and ribbons shook.

They were masked strangers. 

Their piper stood in the doorway, and began the dancing tune; as they tilted their heads and brought stiff hands to their waists, the piper ran in small and lithe, and began to step a way between them, round them, and then out in a sinuous line to weave the spectators into their spell. The pipe shrilled. Bell watched the line pass behind the servants in the flickering dark under the gallery: Ben and Matt, John Dickson, Mistress Johnson, Dolly - the piper was no taller than the women of the household, but strange, in white breeches and shirt stiff with ancient embroidery; and flesh all green. 

The inhuman face came slowly towards her, down the line of her kin, ducking in front of Sir Walter, but not with deference, no bow, more as if daring the family to answer the music's call. She tightened her hands in her lap. The piping tune came to her, passed close in a wisp of air warmed by the prancing body, danced behind her, shrilling, mocking. She held her neck rigid as a board. The little winding melody came close; in the corner of her eye the green head and hands reappeared – leaning over her shoulder, playing right into her face, then whisking away. Bell gasped; she had been holding her breath. As the tune retreated, the piper dancing, leading the others towards the far door, she found she wanted them to turn and come back. As if called, the green face turned towards her, and stood still. The dance was over, the stamping and the music stopped; the pipe was lowered.

Sir Walter applauded and called for drink for the Mossmen of the Moor. Benchley carried in the big old wassail bowl, and the Lord touched it to his lips, and handed it to the dancers. They were half themselves again now, villagers standing awkwardly in the Manor hall; but still the pride was in them and their horns. The piper drank last, and carried the bowl back to the household. Sir Walter said, 'Do you offer it to my family, Hobbinol: all mine shall drink with you.'

Bell saw James's lip twitch in disgust, but he could not refuse the custom; he smoothed his ruffles down and touched his fingers to the bowl, and his lip to the brim opposite the place where their paint had spread an oily half-moon. As he let go, his eyes flicked suddenly at the green face; the piper turned quickly and came to Bell. Their eyes met. The surge of response came up in her belly again; but it was not fright, as when the smith had enveloped her in his strangeness, nor did she share her brother's distaste.  She put out her hands, and held those that held the bowl, drawing them towards her. She could scarcely swallow the warm cider.

The spell was quickly broken by James's snicker, and a whisper to Alistair at his side; the piper swiftly bowed, leaving the bowl in her hands, and darted away into the darkness outside the candles; the dancers with a final clatter of clogs trooped out. 'I see our sister is spellbound,' said James in his low voice, 'Perhaps a good thing Hobbinol was a wench this year.'

Something that wasn't allowed

We're so pleased to have a further instalment of The Incident by Maggie Redding to share with you today. If you'd like to read the preceding episodes, just check for Maggie's tag and they'll show up in the archive. Intriguing stuff is developing over coffee in the staff room of Hill Common School...

Elin Lewis Jones was visiting Hill Common School again the following morning. Vida saw her as soon as she went into the staff-room.  With that hair, she was recognizable from far away and wearing a turquoise top, she could hardly be missed..  Vida’s instinct was to withdraw but she was too late.  She’d been spotted.  Elin strode over to greet her.

‘Good to see you again,’ she said. ‘Shall we sort out some coffee and continue our chat?’

‘Our chat?  What about?’  Vida frowned.  She was less than eager.

‘You were telling me how you came into teaching.’

‘I don’t recall telling you much.’

‘Exactly. I’d like to hear more, about your mother wanting you to be a teacher, for instance.’

Elin spotted the two upright chairs, in a corner, unoccupied.  She led the way over to them. 

‘My mother,’ Vida began as she sat down, ’she was a machinist, in the fashion industry, in north London.  She and her friend were fast, highly skilled, much in demand, well-paid, too.  That was some time ago. We weren’t poor, but life was difficult for her.’  

She looked at Elin and had to look away again, not knowing why.  ‘Mum wanted a better future for me, you see.  A job that’s non-manual, she used to say. Actually, me being mixed race, she wanted to be able to show off about me, not be ashamed, as I think she was.  But she wasn’t prepared to make the required effort.’ 

‘But, teaching?  Was she right?’  Elin leaned forward a little. ‘Was it a good move?’ She seemed not to want to know the reason for her hardly veiled bitterness about her mother’s ambitions for her.

‘I have grave doubts now.’  She gazed out of the tall window. An unblemished blue sky evoked memories of past late spring days, free of all that trapped her now.  Yet there had been other traps in those days.  She preferred not to dwell on those. ‘It breaks my heart, at times,’ she said, all caution dismissed in the presence of someone who understood, ‘the way the pupils are spoken about. And spoken to.  I don't know whether it's ever too late to help anybody.’    She glanced at Elin shyly.  Could she trust her with confidences?  Would Elin laugh at her ideas?  This was an intense conversation to have with a complete stranger.   She hoped none of the staff around them heard the exchange. She guessed that Kelly would have little sympathy for her views. They seethed, her colleagues, they floundered in the staff-room, like a restless sea, their repressed rage justified by a confidence, an arrogance. The room was stuffy. The windows were all closed to keep out the noise of unconstrained pupils yelling in the grounds.  

‘You're an optimist about the pupils, then,’ Elin said.  ‘Or maybe the whole of humankind?  However, in my case, with my job, the gesture of helping them, trying to remove impediments to learning, has to be made. The poor little sods are thoroughly fucked up by both parents and teachers by the time they get to secondary school, if not before that.  Then it’s too late to help, I think.’  Elin turned to look at her with a relaxed, friendly expression. ‘What do you think?’

‘Not being a parent myself, I don't feel qualified to blame them.  I’m frankly not impressed with the way some teachers treat pupils.’  

‘I have never wondered where bullying in schools originates.’  Elin spoke with satisfaction before taking a sip of coffee. 

‘You mean with us, with the teachers?’

  She nodded then made an impatient movement with her whole body. ‘I've a good mind to bugger off to Wales, to live on fresh air and views.  Starvation can't be worse than the expectations put on me.’  She glanced at Vida, smiling again.  Her eyes were soft, warm, a pale green, interesting, interested, all-seeing eyes. Her eyelashes, paler than her hair, were barely visible.  

‘Excuse the language,’ Elin was saying, ‘frustration, poor vocabulary plus a healthy dose of your previous Head of Department‘s cynicism.  How long have you been teaching?’ 

‘Nearly ten years in total.  It feels like a lifetime.  I had a break when I looked after my mother before she died.  But what else can I do?’

‘Become an Ed. Psych?’

‘You’ve just put me off that.  Besides, I like the kids.’

Elin was kind, she encouraged her to talk.  She understood her attitude to teaching, to the school, to the pupils.

‘You could always foster children,’ she said.

‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ Vida said as an image of Peter rose in her mind. Peter was not keen on children. To her relief, further discussion was avoided by the bell for the end of break, destroying the peace of mind of anyone in the room who had that rare commodity. Harassed faces with set jaws were sucked to far reaches of the campus, as the staff abandoned mugs, biscuit crumbs, strewn papers, and books on every surface. Chairs were left in disarray.

Uneasy, now that she’d revealed herself in a way she’d never done before, Vida wandered to a classroom full of, as yet, mostly unspoiled, twelve-year-olds. She’d opened-up, to Elin.  She was as comfortable as if she had been naked. She wished she hadn’t spoken so freely. Her own opinions were disturbing to her, as though she’d said something that wasn’t allowed.

Despite this private angst, the exchange with Elin Lewis Jones was the most pleasant encounter since she’d joined the school. Kelly was lovely, but someone to be wary of when it came to views on education. Elin wasn’t part of the staff-room politics that so bothered Vida.  She had an easy-going manner, Elin did. 

An emptiness

Today we're delighted to share more of Maggie Redding's The Incident. New teacher Vida is gradually settling into her job and making friends. A chance encounter with a fellow teacher's lively family life takes her by surprise - and brings her to acknowledge discords within her own marriage.

    At the end of every day Vida was glad to escape. The school served an area known for its ‘social problems’. She lived a safe distance away, in a three-bedroom, detached house which she and her husband, Peter, had purchased a year ago. He was a graphic designer and worked from home.  The house had been furnished and decorated with love and care, mostly hers. The home, however, did not always provide the sanctuary she needed.

‘How was your day?’

He asked that question every afternoon, when she arrived home.  As soon as she went into the living room, furnished in white and cream, a colour-scheme that only a childless couple would choose, he put a cup of tea in front of her and sat down opposite her to listen.  This he saw as his duty. Little of what she told him was retained. Despite his questions, he was less than interested.  She knew and accepted that.  But how she yearned for support, for understanding from her husband, a real interest in her life, a huge part of it which was not shared by him! Every day, she had to fight her feelings of irritation with him.

* * *

One Friday, Kelly came in to school late. Vida met her in the staff-room, halfway through the morning. She looked fraught. They stood in the middle of the room, people milling around them, tension tangible.  Kelly’s face was white except for two high spots of colour on her cheeks.

‘The car,’ she said, ‘it wouldn't start.  I had to walk and get the bus, with Ben and Tim in tow.  They complained all the way.  We missed the first two lessons.  Never mind.  They’ll have to catch up.’

‘Didn't you think to get a taxi?’ Vida said.

Kelly was clearly unwilling to explain.  ‘No cash,’ she said after a hesitation. ‘Two credit cards well over their limit already.’

Vida was as much distressed by Kelly's honesty as by her poverty.  That a teacher, a professional person, could be in that state financially, had never occurred to her.  She had made it difficult for Kelly not to explain. 

‘I'm so sorry.  I didn't understand.  I tend to assume everyone's as well off as Peter and I are.  And I'm not showing off, Kelly, just sheltered.  Another time, phone me.’

‘No kids, see.  You have two incomes to yourselves.  We have one and a half incomes for six people.  And yes, I’ll phone you if I find out in time that the car’s gone wrong.  Thanks a lot.’

‘I'll give you a lift home tonight.’ Vida was eager to make amends for her lack of awareness.  She headed for the door because she was already late for the next lesson.

‘Oh, you are a saint,’ said Kelly, grabbing a pile of books and rushing to the door after her.

At the end of the school day, Kelly waited in the car park, with her two boys, Ben, aged sixteen who appeared to topple off his long legs and Tim, fifteen, who was quiet.  They hovered at a distance they deemed to be respectable.  As Vida reached her car, Kelly came over to her.

‘Wow, Lexus.  That's what two incomes and no children do for you.  You lucky thing.’   She said it with a smile and no resentment.  Clearly, four children were worth any car, any day. Vida dismissed an unsettling feeling about to surface in her.

Ben and Tim sauntered over trying to look as though the last thing they would ever do would be to accept a lift in a teacher’s car, even if it was a Lexus. Kelly, piles of books and her laptop on her knees, sat in the front passenger seat.  The boys wriggled down on the back seat, heads as low as possible in order not to be recognised by their peers.

The Bedfords lived beyond the edge of the town, down along a lane just before the village of Milton Stanwick.  With Vida’s uncertainty combined with the Friday evening traffic, the journey took well over half an hour.  The house, a modern detached one with no character at all, set back from the lane in a large, vegetable garden.  The situation was elevated, had views over the countryside, with fields and woodland surrounding it.  Kelly invited Vida in for a cup of tea and to meet her husband, Simon.

Inside the house, the chaos could have appalled Vida had she not been able to see beyond it to identify the warmth, the sheer joy of the family together.  An unsettling feeling stirred in her.

‘Sit down,’ Kelly said, brushing toys off the old-looking sofa so that they were scattered onto the floor.  Two little girls, feet bare, tousled hair, gazed at Vida from a distance.  One had a thumb in her mouth. 

From where she sat, Vida had a view of the rear garden, lilac bushes, the vegetable plot with runner bean canes, roses tumbling over a hedge, birds gathering to a feeding table.  She relaxed into the cosy lack of order, revelling in the fecundity of it. New friends, new experiences, new insights, new thoughts: her life was changing.

Because of the distance between home and work when she had been at her previous school, there had been no time or opportunity for much in the way of friendship.  There had been other factors, of course, like Peter; but rather than dwell on those, she now welcomed the chance to broaden her social life.

Simon bustled in from the garden, festooned with dry washing just un-pegged from a long washing line. He immediately took on tea-making.  Before Vida had developed a proper acquaintance with three-year-old Lucy and Lola, aged twelve months, a mug of tea was thrust into her hand.  Kelly's husband was unlikely, being tall, large, balding but with eyes that crinkled readily in the outer corners.  He had a belly covered by a floppy, faded t-shirt and wore loose shorts with sandals on his feet.

‘Don't put up with those two,’ he said, referring to Lucy and Lola, who were demanding Vida’s attention.  ‘They haven't been to nursery today so they’re craving the stimulation of someone new.  They've been with boring old Daddy all the time.’

‘He's not boring old Daddy,’ Kelly said.  ‘Are you?’  She looked up at him.

He looked down at her with his crinkling smile.  ‘You tell me,’ he said. They both laughed at some shared but secret meaning.

Vida smiled but inside, something unsettled her, causing her to hold her breath for a moment.  A long time had passed since that kind of flirting had been exchanged between herself and Peter, if it ever had to any extent, were she to be honest.  She was glad to focus on Lola's attempts to climb onto her lap.  To enable her to lift the child, she balanced her mug of tea on a nearby bookshelf.  Lola gazed at her in delight. She toyed with Vida’s earrings, touched her teeth, grabbed a handful of her carefully pinned up hair. Vida gazed in delight at Lola, too.

‘Lola, don't,’ said Simon.

‘It's all right,’ Vida said as her hair fell about her shoulders.  ‘She's so lovely.’  She took the child’s tiny hand, pressing her lips against it.  Soft, new, unused, the little fingers curled round her thumb.  ‘She's so beautiful,’ Vida said in wonder. It had been a long time since she had been so close to a child as young as Lola.  There was that feeling once more, unsettling her. She began to feel anxious to leave, to reach home.

 ‘We think so, don't we, Simon?’  Kelly said, sinking into a chair.  ‘But in truth, she’s just like any other baby.’

Lola's hand went back to Vida’s hair, tugging it.  Again Simon remonstrated.  Vida smiled grimly to herself.  She was used to less gentle tugging than this. She held the child against her, leaning her cheek on top of the fuzzy little head.  A great emptiness welled up inside her.  

‘Peter!’ she said suddenly.  ‘I’ve lost count of time.  He’ll be concerned if I'm very late.’

‘It's half past five,’ Simon said.

That was very late to Peter. Vida fumbled in her handbag for her phone.  She always switched it off in the classroom, a good habit as an example had to be set for the pupils: there were enough problems with phones ringing and texting messages under the desks.

‘Peter, I'm on my way.’

‘Where have you been?’  

She hoped Kelly and Simon could hear neither Peter’s words nor his tone.  

‘I gave a lift to a colleague.  Her car had broken down.’

‘Well, I hope you won't be much longer.’

‘I'm on my way.’  She snapped the phone shut.  ‘I should be going.  He is the anxious sort.’ 

As she left, Kelly came out to the car with her, explaining that the garage had said her own car would be ready the next day, which was a Saturday.  The two women exchanged phone numbers.  ‘Any time you're stuck,’ Vida said.

‘You and your husband, you should come round for a meal one evening,’ Kelly said.

Vida looked straight ahead of her.  ‘You're very kind, Kelly.  Peter is a bit of a geek, he loves his work.  He doesn't socialise much but I'd love to come and visit your beautiful family on my own, especially during the school holidays.’

She drove off.  Her vision was misty, her mind agitated by another stirring of that something on which she could not afford to dwell.   

Wrong-turned

Here's a moment of high drama from Hearts and Minds. The inky Weird Sisters highly recommend Jay Taverner's well-researched historical novels in the Brynsquilver series. They're all an excellent read. We suggest you dive in!

By the time Hope reached the end of the last row of cabbages, down by the bottom hedge, Parsley’s shadow was longer than the little cat herself, sitting upright on the path with ears cocked. Hope leaned her hoe on the hedge and looked out over the gate. Bron was not coming, then; she had chosen the shorter but steeper road home, round Bryn. Pushing back the rush of loneliness which came with the thought, Hope shook out her skirt and set off down the slope. The goats were loud in protest in the lower field: it was more than time to bring them in for milking.

Crossing the old field, where the grass still needed resting, she heard something that stopped her dead. It was the cry she had heard this morning - but now it was clearly human. It came from the old goat shed. Hope turned, and began to run.

She pulled open the sagging door, then found herself suddenly sprawled on her back in the grass, the wind knocked out of her and her right cheek exploding into pain. She grabbed ineffectually at a bare foot that ran over her chest, but had scarcely heaved herself on to her knees when the fleeing figure collapsed with a howl into the grass. For a moment Hope knelt there foolishly, shaking her head to clear it, before she stood up and walked cautiously towards the girl who had flung her aside.

The face that turned towards her was filthy and blood-streaked, but the eyes were blazing. The girl struggled to get up but fell back, her face contracted with pain.

“You need not run away,” said Hope, “I won’t hurt you.” She stretched out a hand, but the girl flinched away and flung up an arm to shield her face. Then the narrow, distended body arched in a spasm of pain and she turned her face to bite the grass. Hope could see clearly now why she had not been able to run away: she was in labour - deep in, and a failing labour, if Hope was any judge. She was covered in mud, her skirt bloody and torn as if by desperate hands. The memory of the earlier screams came to Hope with dreadful clarity. She must have been in the shed all day.

Hope bent and took her gently by the shoulders. “Look at me,” she said firmly. “You must let me be your friend. I have some skill in this.” But not as much as Bell has, she thought desperately. Why aren’t you here? I knew I would need you...


Four hours later the girl was weaker, but no nearer to the birth of her baby. She lay before the fire on a straw pallet spread with Hope’s old shawl. Between her fierce, futile pains she lay more and more still, far gone in exhaustion. Hope was exhausted herself; her small experience of birthing had been no preparation for this. The old women of these hills kept their power over their daughters by making this their mystery, and even Bell, trusted wise-woman for all other ills and ailments, was not their first choice for a childbed. Hope had delivered children, two or three, and had helped Bell with a dozen more; but she had seen nothing like this deathly straining for hour after hour, with nothing coming but blood. She knew much more about goats; she had turned back-facing kids, though nannies were feeble things, and still might die on you. This girl seemed unlikely to do that, after all she had so far endured; but Hope did not know how to help her.

She was standing, irresolute, at the foot of the stair, when the door opened suddenly and a tall, slightly stooped figure was outlined against the red and gold of the sinking sun.

“Bron! Thank God!”

Bron looked startled. “What’s the matter?”

Before Hope could answer, the girl screamed. Bron’s eyes widened; she stood, frozen, as the girl thrashed on the floor. Hope thought suddenly, she has never seen this. How could she, living all her days on a hill farm so far from other human dwellings, and no mother, no women there, only her father and brother since she was a child? Bron was staring, horrified; for a desperate moment Hope thought she might turn and go. She felt a great need to keep her, to have company, however little help it might be. Words tumbled out of her.

“I think the babe is turned wrong,” she said. “It won’t come. And I don’t know how to help her, I…” She stopped and ran her hand through her hair. “I don’t know what to do, Bron.”


Bron’s eyes had not left the writhing body on the floor. Hope could not tell what she was thinking. Then, still without speaking, Bron crossed to the hearth and knelt down. She took the see-sawing head between her hands; she was making a little crooning noise, between whistling and humming. She was not flung off, or bitten; the flailing body relaxed, and the hands that reached up held on, thin brown fingers gripping into Bron’s old jerkin as if it were the last handhold in the world. Bron stroked the matted black hair out of the girl’s eyes, then gently, and still making the same reassuring, wordless noise, ran her large red hands over the swollen belly. “Wrong-turned, yes,” she said, “and wedged so. I must turn it, or it will kill her. Hold her, if she will let you.”

All those words left unsaid

Constance Wilde died on 7th April 1898. Inevitably linked for all time with the scandals of her famous husband Oscar, Constance's tumultuous interior life is imagined by Rohase Piercy in her novel The Coward Does It With A Kiss.

The curtain is moving in the breeze … it comforts me, like the rocking of a cradle.  Green, with turquoise motif – what are they?  Flowers?  Dragons?  I always loved green.  These are decadent curtains; you would not find them in an English hospital. The colours absorb the pain a little, and I find some ease.

Well, it is over; and the nuns who nurse me are  kind, and bring me morphine for the pain, and do everything for my comfort.  They have laid me on my side today, and I cannot move without help, so I watch the light move slowly across the window, and the curtain stirring where they have opened it a little to let in fresh air.  Faint voices drift up from the grounds below; a bell tolls in the distance.  I remind myself that you, Oscar, suffered worse things in prison.

If I could go back – oh, a long way back in my life, I could make all things as new as this new morning.  This must be what a newborn baby sees, light and movement, the edge of a curtain dancing in the breeze.  And all sound is muffled.

I have short, jagged periods of sleep, and when I wake the bedclothes are drenched in sweat.  In my dreams I hear people shouting, aiming words at me like sharp, black beads.  What are they saying?  Next time I awake, I will try to make sense of it.  Is it just my name that I hear, repeated over and over?

Constance!  Constance!  Constance!

*****

I remember you called my name, and I ran out of the house, out of the front door and across the street to the beach; there were carriages, and pedestrians on the street turning to stare, and families on the beach.  This was Worthing, not Babbacombe; there were no nooks and crannies in which to hide.

I walked along the Esplanade, wringing my hands.  My agitation drew curious glances, but I kept my head down and walked to the pier, and to the end of the pier, and then all the way back to the house.  You were there in the little front parlour, alone.  I tried to dash past, to go up to my room, but you ran out and caught me by the arm.

“Constance.”

“Let me go, Oscar.”

“Constance, I have got to talk to you.”

“I don't want to talk.  Leave me alone.”

“Constance please.  Come in here, please, the children will hear.  Just one brief word, I beg of you.”

I followed you into the room, and you closed the door.  Wearily I sat down upon the sofa.

“Where are they?”

“Gone.”

“Gone where?”

“Away. Does it matter? Constance, please listen.  I am sorry that you saw what you did.  I am sorry that I allowed Bosie to bring him here.  It will not happen again, my dear;  please try to put it out of your mind.”

“What will not happen again, Oscar?”

“Well, this – this intrusion into your domestic life.  I have told Bosie he is not to bring any more of his - friends to this house.  Really, the last thing I want to do is to upset you, Constance.  I promise to be more careful ...”

“More careful?  Careful to keep your sordid life out of sight, is that what you mean?  You do realise, don't you, that our children could have walked past that door at any moment?”

“No!  I mean yes, I suppose that is what I mean, and no, I made sure the boys were out with Fräulein Zeigler, or I would never ...”

“I see.  May I go now?”

“Constance, please try to understand.”

“Oh, I understand perfectly well, Oscar.  You are not sorry for what you and Bosie are doing, but you are sorry that I saw you do it.  You will not promise to give up your unsavoury companions and activities, but you will try to keep them out of my way.  Oscar, I don't know exactly what age that young man was, but he cannot have been more than fifteen at most.  Have you absolutely no sense of responsibility?  In a few years' time your own sons will be that age – does that not even give you pause for thought?”

You sighed, a long, shuddering sigh, and held your head in your hands.  At last you said quietly:  “But you knew, Constance.”

“I knew about you and Bosie, but not about this.  Where do you meet these boys, Oscar?  Do you do this in London?  Of course you do, how stupid of me.  You introduced me to that boy Edward Shelley, when I came home unexpectedly and found him in the house.  How can you – how can you corrupt the young like this, when you have children of your own?”

You blushed deeply, and murmured something inaudible.

“What?” I asked sharply, “What did you say?”

“I do not corrupt them, Constance.  There are boys that I know, but they are already hardened little … they are already leading that life, Constance, it is how they earn a living.”

“Oh, I see.  So you are kindly providing employment for the poor.”

“I did not say that, Constance.”

“Where do you meet them?  On the streets?”

“My dear, you don't want to know all this.”

“But I do!  I do!  I have a right to know, I demand to know.  Where do you meet them?  Do you bring them to our house on a regular basis, when I am away?”

“No!  I have a friend called Alfred Taylor.  He lives in Little College Street.  He – arranges introductions.  We go out for meals, to hotels … there.  That is all.  Now you know.  What are you going to do, Constance?  Are you going to divorce me, and take the boys away?”

You sounded so hopeless, so desolate, that I raged inwardly at my inability to keep pity at bay.

“No, of course not.  What would I have to gain by dragging our children's name in the mud?”

“Your freedom, my dear.  A new husband, perhaps.”

I was furious at having the tables turned on me at a time like this.

“What?  It is you who want freedom, not I!  Well, you have it.  You have always taken it, anyway.  Consider yourself free to do as you wish.  And I do not want a new husband.”

That was true.  I would have given anything, there and then, to have my old husband back, the husband I had courted so shyly and married so proudly only a decade ago.  Not this debauched and lascivious stranger.

“Constance, I know that Arthur Humphreys is in love with you.”

“Don't talk nonsense, he's a married man,” I said, and left the room.

I lay on my bed and sobbed until I was nearly sick.  I remembered with revulsion my romantic indulgence of your friendships, and the spell cast over me, in the early days, by Bosie.  I bit my nails to the quick, and damned him to Hell a thousand times.  I thought of Ada Leverson, that wily old Sphinx on her pedestal; she knew you for what you were and revelled in it, and by watching you as I had done I felt that I'd brought myself down to her level.  As for you, Oscar – well, I planned my revenge in this way and that, and swore that I would make you suffer.  

When I came to myself, I found that you'd left for Brighton; and there was still the blood on my lips of all those words left unsaid, crying out for vengeance.

The boys had been clamouring to go out.  They wanted to know where Bosie was – he'd arrived out of the blue as was his wont, apparently completely oblivious to his father's threats and determined to muscle in on our family holiday, as always.  They wanted to go to the beach with you both, but I had no idea where you were so I sent them on a sedate afternoon walk with Fräulein Zeigler.  Poor dears, this was not turning out to be a happy holiday for them; they were restless and demanding, estranged by school and unable to settle.  

When you came in to find the parlour empty, you must have assumed I'd gone with them; but  I was in the kitchen, checking the supplies, suspecting that the local cook we'd engaged was not above a little domestic pilfering.  I found nothing amiss however, and after a while I made my way upstairs to lie down; as I passed the open door of the room I'd reluctantly allotted to Bosie, I saw you.

You were kneeling before a young boy lying on the bed, leaning over him, your fingers twined in his hair.  With your free hand you were loosening his clothes, quickly, deftly, while Bosie sat poised on the edge of the bedside chair, watching with a greedy, hateful expression on his face.  The boy slid his arm around your neck, and pulled you down to him.  You kissed first his lips and then his throat, moving slowly down his body.

I should have backed away, quickly and silently, but I stood in the doorway for some time and watched you quite calmly, until Bosie looked up and saw me.  I have never seen anyone's eyes become quite so round with shock.  I turned and ran back down the stairs, along the passage to the front door, and out into the street.  I heard your voices calling me:  “Constance!  Constance!  Constance!”

New Teacher Nerves

We're delighted to have an extract from The Incident by Maggie Redding today. Nervous new teacher Vida Hartley is trying to navigate life in a rough school. She starts the day with a significant encounter.

With her energy and wild, red hair, the woman appeared like an avenging angel pouncing on poor Dudley Waters.  He had just run in front of Vida Hartley’s car in the staff car park.  The woman was unknown to Vida.  She did, however. vaguely recognise Dudley Waters.  Everyone at Hill Common School knew of Dudley Waters, Year Nine and difficult.  Now he was being marched rapidly up to Vida.  The red-haired woman held onto him by the collar of his blazer. 

‘Say sorry to this lady,’ this vivid stranger instructed him. ‘You gave her a fright.  Look how white she’s gone.’

‘White?’  He grinned up at Vida, who, conscious of her colour, was not sure if his query was a cheeky reference to it.  ‘Sorry’, he added.

Vida thanked him.

‘Off you go and in future, take care around cars,’ he was told by the woman.  He scampered off as though triumphant. She turned to Vida.  ‘Saucy little devil,’ she gave a laugh.  ‘White!  Hello, I’m the newly assigned Ed. Psych. to this school, Elin Lewis Jones. You teach here?’

Vida took the proffered hand.  There had been talk of the new Educational Psychologist in the staff room, with sniffs of disdain, but no one had referred to her striking appearance nor to her Welsh accent. 

‘Yes, I do.  I’m Davida Hartley, always known as Vida, new this term.  Must hurry. I’m late.’

‘Maybe we’ll meet up in the staff room.’

Not if she could help it, Vida told herself.  Elin Lewis Jones was not the route to the acceptance of her colleagues that Vida needed. She’d already found the staff room unfriendly.

At break, she was helping herself to coffee when a quiet voice behind her said, ‘Mucky lot, teachers.’

She turned, mug in hand, to see Elin Lewis Jones reaching past her to lift a tea towel from the countertop and proceed to mop up spills with it.  She then dumped it on the counter.  

‘Are you sitting with particular friends?’ Elin said as she helped herself to coffee. 

‘I don’t sit with anyone.’

She gazed at Vida.  ‘You are a Nervous Nelly, Vida.’  Her voice was surprisingly kind. Vida could have become tearful at that gentle tone in this otherwise hostile place.  Elin surveyed the prospect of a seat, or two seats, in the room, overcrowded and, to Vida, daunting.

‘I still feel very new here,’ Vida said, relenting because of the soft voice. 

‘Look, there are two upright chairs over there,'' Elin said, as she took Vida’s elbow to steer her across the staff-room.

‘Are you Welsh?’ she said as they both sat down.  ‘I ask because of your name, Davida.’

‘Everyone calls me Vida.’

‘Not Welsh, though?’

‘No. Just a boring Londoner.’

‘Being a Londoner, that's not boring. What’s your subject?’

‘History.  And cynicism.’ 

Elin smiled. ‘Oh, a wit.’

‘It's not original.  My previous Head of History used to say it.’ 

‘It can save some angst, though, can’t it, a little cynicism?’

Vida looked at the woman properly for the first time. Her hair was auburn, wild and curly and there were hints of freckles on her creamy skin. She was enviably slender, in a white blouse and black culottes. Her Welsh voice was devoid of harshness. ‘I agree,’ Vida said. 

‘What made you want to be a teacher?’  

  ‘My mother, I suppose.’

‘It was her idea? Was your mother a teacher, then?’ 

‘No. She wanted a daughter who was a teacher. I was an obedient daughter. She died some years ago.’ Vida told Elin a little about her life as an only child of a single mother in North London.

‘Have you settled in at Hill Common?’

‘I have not.’  Her own vehemence surprised her.

‘I can imagine you haven’t. There are many problems in this school and in the estate around it. I am thinking you could maybe ratify my opinions about this place.’

The signal for the end of break sounded throughout the school.  

‘Back to the grindstone,’ Elin said, rising. ‘I’ll see you again.’

The following day, at break, by the time Elin Lewis Jones strode into the staff-room, Vida was already engaged in a conversation with Kelly Bedford. Elin’s presence seemed to be a focus in the room and to have a tug on Vida’s awareness, perhaps because of her eagerness to avoid her. 

Kelly had introduced herself: ‘You’re new, aren’t you?  How are you coping? I’m Kelly Bedford. Maths.’

Vida smiled - with relief as much as anything.  She had been so aware of her isolation in the staff-room. 'Vida Hartley, history. I’m coping in fear and trepidation, most of the time,’ she said. 

‘I know. I came in January. You’ll soon get used to it.’

‘I’m not sure that I want to.  In my worst moments, I hesitate at the car park entrance and I’m tempted to go back home.’ Vida felt her gaze drawn to the corner where Elin stood, tall, elegant, aloof and alone, without any apparent concern. 

‘Oh, we all feel like that, all the time,’ Kelly was saying.

Vida and Kelly sipped coffee. ‘They’re all so angry, aren’t they?’ Vida said.

‘I suppose it’s not their fault.  They don’t choose to live on Hill Common estate, do they?’

Vida glanced at her, trying to hide her alarm. Kelly picked it up, though. 

       ‘Or did you mean the staff?’  She threw her head back and gave a gurgling laugh. ‘In another week, you’ll be the same.’

Vida laughed sheepishly. ‘Perhaps I am now.’ Oh, she hoped not.

‘Who do you have next lesson?’

‘A Year Eleven. For the Civil War. They are quite a decent crowd.’

‘My son, Ben Morrison, is in year Eleven.  But you don’t have him, do you? Oh, that’s the bell for the end of break, already.  Peace doesn’t last long, does it?  Keep your pecker up, Vida.’