GOOD VIBRATIONS by Maggie Redding

Maggie Redding has kindly allowed us to publish this delightful new story. We must admit, it took us ages to work out what was in Grandma's special bag. Will you be any quicker to solve the riddle?

G00D VIBRATIONS

My grandma was a lovely lady. You wouldn’t think she was as old as she was, 83. Visiting her, which I did frequently, was no chore. One day, I let myself in as a note on the door instructed – ‘Janey, just come in and bring the key with you’ -. Was grandma ill?

‘Up here, Janey, love,’ she called, confirming my worries. Her voice came from her bedroom. In bed?

I pulled the key from the lock and ran up the stairs to the big bedroom at the front of Grandma’s house, which she used to share with Grandad until he died. I had been only seven at the time.

I was right. She was in bed, but on the top of the covers and over her only a blanket. I threw myself at her. ‘Oh, Gran, are you ill?’

She chuckled. ‘Just a bit off colour, love.’ Her white hair radiated on the pillow. I thought she looked beautiful. Could old ladies look beautiful?

‘Can I get you anything Gran? A cup of tea?’

She frowned. ‘I’ve gone off tea. Tell you what.’ She waved a £5 note at me, ‘Could you pop down to the shop and get me a bottle of fizz?’ You know, common or garden lemonade.’

‘Of course I can.’ Nothing was too much trouble for Gran, especially if it would keep her alive. ‘Anything else?’

‘No love, that will be lovely.’

I checked, and again, but that was all she needed. It didn’t seem like enough. Anyway, I rushed out, remembering to take the key. I brought home a large bottle of lemonade and when I went back into Gran’s house, I popped into the kitchen for a glass tumbler.

‘You’re a good girl,’ she cooed over me. She paused and seemed to be pondering something. ‘Look, can you do something else?’

‘Of course,’ I said.

‘It’s got to be kept a secret.’

‘That’s okay. I can keep a secret.’

‘I need to give you a bag, to take to the rubbish dump. Recycling. You know? And don’t tell anyone, and don’t look in it.’

‘No,’ I said rashly.’ I won’t.’

She hesitated again, then ‘Okay’, she said. ‘You see that third drawer down in this unit next to the bed?’

I looked to where she was pointing. It was too low for her to reach from the bed. She could easily fall out. ‘This one?’ I squatted down to the drawer and tugged it open.

‘Is there a pretty bag, with a zip, in there?’

There was, with lots of other pretty things. Grandma loved flowers. The bag was very pretty with birds and flowers on it, all in lovely colours. It looked a bit lumpy. ‘This one?’

I pulled it out. It was not big or heavy.

‘That’s the one.’ Gran leaned back on her pillow. ‘Just take it to the dump and sling it on.’

‘Even the bag?’

‘Yes. Even the bag. Especially the bag. I hoped I could trust you. I’ll get you a bag like that if you want one.’

‘No. No. Shall I go now, Gran? The dump isn’t too far, is it?’

‘No, but I think you should go home straight afterwards. Your Mum will be worried.’ She put her hand out to touch my face. ‘You’re a good girl,’ she said. She sounded weary. ‘I’ve been wondering what to do with that bag.’

‘You haven’t been robbing people, have you, Gran?’

‘Yes, I have. And don’t you copy me.’ But she chuckled. ‘Janey. It’s my guilty secret. I have a few, private things, you know, that nobody knows about.’

I set off, with the pretty bag, to go to the Recycling Centre. It was not far. What on earth could my grandmother have a guilty secret about? Old ladies surely don’t have guilty secrets.

On my way, as a distraction, I prodded the bag. There were, by the look of it, some unlikely-shaped articles in there. I could not imagine what they were. On the way I met my school friend, Lauren. Normally, I would have been pleased to see her. 

‘Janey! Where you going?’

‘To the dump. With some rubbish.’

‘What’s in there? I like the bag.’ She reached out to touch it.

‘No!’ I shrieked. ‘It’s my Gran’s. You can’’t touch it. It’s – lethal rubbish.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ she said as I turned so that the bag was behind me.

‘I promised Gran. It’s old-fashioned stuff.’ I was desperate. I had promised Gran that the bag would be disposed of.

‘All right. Keep your hair on. The Dump is closed today, in the afternoon, anyway.’

‘It isn’t?’ I gasped.

‘Where you gonna put it now?’

‘I don’t know. Is there another rubbish dump?’

‘There are rubbish bins in the Park,’ Lauren said. Would that count, a rubbish bin? I didn’t know. If Gran wanted to keep this bag a secret, there was no way I was going to take it home. My mother would have been so inquisitive. I knew that revealing your secrets to your mother was something not easily done.

We walked a bit further, Lauren and me. It was a late afternoon, not getting dark, but sunless and gloomy. Trees were beginning to turn. The air smelled sort of dank and of rotting stuff. ‘I expect a rubbish bin would do,’ I said.

‘I’m not supposed to go in the Park alone,’ Lauren said as we neared the gates.

‘You wouldn’t be alone if I was with you,’ I told her. ‘I can go on my own if you don’t want to come.’

But she wanted to come with me. I suspected she still hoped to find out what was in the bag. ‘I won’t try to take it off you or anything, bad, I mean, I don’t want to be haunted by your Gran’s ghost.’

‘Gran’s not going to die.’ I said. I glanced sideways at her. I was suspicious. Would Lauren return after I’d gone to investigate the bag if I put it in a bin? I could not allow that. I owed it to Gran.

We turned into the Park, through the gates, still open. Ahead of us was a group of boys. Normally I would have given them a wide berth, especially at this time of the year, when they were likely to be tossing fireworks at what they considered to be attractive targets.

‘They’ve got fireworks,’ I said. ‘I’m going back home. I don’t like fireworks.’

‘Me neither,’ said Lauren and began to run. She reached the gates well before I did and when I got to the road she was a fast-vanishing speck, almost at her home.

Now I could return to the Park, even facing the boys and their fireworks. I had feared Lauren returning more than I feared fireworks.

Rubbish bins were situated at frequent intervals along the pathways round the Park. The boys soon saw me and came towards me. There were five of them, one of them, probably their leader, spotted Gran’s bag. He was grinning. I took a couple of paces backwards. There was something in his hand which he half-heartedly was attempting to hide or avoid me seeing, a cigarette or a firework, I was not sure.

‘Nice bag,’ he said indicating Gran’s bag with a grubby finger.

‘It’s an old lady’s bag,’ I said.

‘Why you got it, then?’

‘I’m on an errand for her.’

‘Let’s see,’ he said, coming closer.

‘No!’

I spun the bag over my head and then with all the skills acquired as Shooter in the Netball Team at school, I lobbed it towards the nearest rubbish bin, some eight feet, or two metres anyway.

With a loud metallic clunk and the sound of breaking glass, it landed squarely inside the bin. An aroma filled the air, that of the scent I had given Gran for Christmas. Disappointment washed over me. Had Gran not used the scent which I had given her last year? It sounded as though the bottle had smashed on hitting the metal of the bin. I rushed towards the bin, peered in and froze. The bag was there, soaked in the scent, but an ominous buzzing came from the soggy depths. The bag appeared to move, too, odd jerks. Was it alive, whatever was moving about in the pretty bag? One of the boys rushed forward, eager to find out what was causing the noise and the movement.

‘It’s alive!’ I yelled but all they did was to look at me and laugh.

I was getting desperate now. I leaned over the bin, anxious to pull out Grandma’s pretty bag, but one of the boys lunged towards me, ready to shove me aside.

But I shoved him aside. He tumbled to the ground and prepared to have another go at me, but I hit out at him, hard on his nose, causing it to bleed, great gushes of red blood pouring down his face. I stood there, frightened at what I had done, but unapologetic.

Now I had achieved desperation. I screamed, ‘It’s a bomb!’ and took several paces back.

Two of the boys rushed forward. ‘Nah! It ain't!’ shouted the biggest one and, to prevent further exposure of whatever was now emitting smoke from his fingers, chucked it in the bin with the bag.

I ran. An almighty flash, and a boom followed. I fell over.

By the time I’d picked myself up and was on my shaking legs, the boys had disappeared and a plume of smoke billowed from the bin.

Walking at an innocent speed, in case someone came to investigate, I returned home to hide in my bedroom for the rest of the evening.

A month later, my poor Gran died never knowing what caused the boom in the Park that day. Neither did I. At least, not until I was much older and wiser.

Oh, and Gran bought another pretty bag and left it, with a note, for me.

Have you seen the Invisible Woman?

Magenta Wise is this week's guest writer. She's kindly given us permission to use this powerful poem. Here's what she told us about it: 'This poem came about when I was writing a book of short stories, one of which is called I’m Invisible. It’s about a woman who, throughout her life, was never noticed because she was not attractive, yet she had a great talent. This, of course, is one of the ways the patriarchy treats women: we are judged by our sexual attractiveness to men, but oppressed and blocked from reaching our true individual greatness. Once we "lose our looks" we are disregarded, by men who no longer desire us, and even by younger women who no longer see us as a threat. When women do create great things, their achievements have frequently been stolen by men or ignored altogether. This theme led me to express these thoughts in a poem about the invisibilities of women in society. I have read it out at poetry gatherings, and it’s amazing how many women say they’ve heard it before, even though they haven’t. “That’s about me, it’s my story,” they say. It could resonate as almost every woman’s story, I think. It’s time we rose up: the world needs the input of women if we are to create a fairer and happier society, based on cooperation rather than competition. We are needed now more than ever. It’s time to shout our truths, to show who we are, to come together and sing our soul songs, that they may they be heard, that they may heal, that we may be seen and no longer be invisible.'

 

Have you seen the Invisible Woman?

 

You might catch glimpses of her peeping

through art galleries, creeping behind

the crowd of artworks done by men. Then

here and there you can catch sight of her,

the light of her, until she sinks once more

into token representations. Her creations

in the past may last, but she herself has

tarnished, vanished behind many

a man’s signature.

 

Have you seen the Invisible Woman?

 

Have you heard her music, composed,

transposed, morose now, played by a

man’s name, the notes of her being drowned

by a cacophony of false identities,

enemies singing from oppression’s

song sheet.  Her Siren’s wail, her chants,

her symphonies of meaning lying forgotten

under the famous. She chants her mysteries

to ears deafened by explosions of war

and pain and anger.

 

Have you seen the Invisible Woman?

 

Have you read her wise words, she of the first

autobiography, the first novel, now a fossil,

dreaming lots and scheming, her plots, her poetry

ancient, silently recited in the desolation of

stone circles, languishing in the dust, no longer

published, her stories, her nouns and verbs,

Her literature bound in a ligature of the choked,

yet still reciting her tales, biting through the gag.

 

Have you seen the Invisible Woman?

 

Open a newspaper, is she in there? Very little

but a report of her murder, plunder or rape.

Oh wait, there she is, decoration, naked  breasts

displayed for his pleasure, to enjoy at his leisure,

boobs and a hand or string over her pubes,

pictured next to fully clad men doing important

things like running the world, shunning the world,

conning the world. Cunning clay kings.

 

Have you seen the Invisible Woman?

 

You’ll see bits of her from scaffolding, building sites,

cat calls from ugly dogs, what a sight, whoa, great tits,

look at that arse, don’t pass, I could give her one,

hey beautiful look at me, fuck you then you whore,

you slag.  She walks in space men call their own,

turns her face, not safe, no place for her, so smile,

it may never happen, it has just happened, it happens

everyday in fearful ways. The night is dangerous,

don’t walk alone, stay at home.

 

Have you seen the Invisible Woman?

 

Rape culture, victim blaming, slut shaming, wearing

the wrong clothes, drunk, teasing, not pleasing when

she says no, short skirts, long skirts, trousers, burkas,

dresses, medical dressings, children, old women,

sinning for being female, not about sex, it’s power over.

Even when sober she is accused, responsible for the

aggressor’s pride, she tries to hide as they hide

behind lies and mad eyes that see an object

and fail to respect her.

 

Have you seen the Invisible Woman?

 

We spot a sprinkling of her in parliaments,

But she may not last long, her hair will be wrong,

Her dress sense called into question, a session

devoted to her shoes and the pitch of her voice.

Assassinations of character or shot by bullets,

She is little seen in politics although recently,

increasingly she stands, so catch her while you can,

promote her, vote for her, remember suffrage.

 

Have you seen the Invisible Woman?

 

She’ll keep running and jumping and throwing

and be the best in the world and enjoy temporary

praise, and they raise her, cheer and count

her medals but it’s clear they don’t count

her opinions, rape-threatened for speaking

against sadists, told to shut her mouth or else.

Otherwise she goes unsportily unreported

on the sports pages, paid little, no interest,

it’s only women after all, chasing a ball,

no one cares.

 

Have you seen the Invisible Woman?

 

Where is her credit, due for her brilliant inventions,

in your computer right now, the intentions to steal

her work, in the sciences, in medicine, engineering

and design, disappearing, in psychology, in every field

plus cooking, cleaning, shopping, washing,

childbearing, caring, a servant and a grow bag,

always working, earning less, cracked red hands,

no equality, her human rights neglected,

but bright, young and blonde on television.

 

Have you seen the Invisible Woman?

 

She is cloaked in age, grey and lined,

maligned, ignored and bored with ignorance,

wrinkles of wisdom of no seeming worth on earth,

no longer ripe for sex or breeding, too tired

to be a housework prostitute, a good-for-nothing

hag. Her years of experience pouring into

incontinence, shrivelled and fading,

a walking corpse, courage in her bent spine,

despair in her heart.

 

Have you seen the Invisible Woman?

 

Amidst the carnage, bandaged as she is,

eyes blood red, masked behind blue, purple,

black bruises, limping and weeping, I seek her,

bid her come forward, onward, to wear her

bright colours and be seen, to sing her music,

loud, proud, insistent, making its way into

closed ears, to push her way, be visible,

let her views be news, let her run swiftly

round the arena, waving her victories aloft,

reclaiming her activity, her creativity.

 

How much we owe to her yet do not know her.

I see her, I’d free her, I recognise her achievements

and bow to her, adore her, beg for more from her,

and tell her how very much she is needed with all her

findings, to remove her bindings and cast them windward,

to rise in all her glory to scream her story.

She has always been here, near, creating, waking,

making, aching, baking, quaking, shaking,

but not breaking.

 

Now do you see the Invisible Woman?

Biographical Note
Magenta lives near Brighton, England and has had several careers and interests, including psychic skills, teaching healing, Tarot reading and related subjects. She has been a web designer, video producer and active in the performing arts with One-Woman shows. She has published three books, one of short stories, one of poems and one on evolving human consciousness. She is also an artist, committed vegetarian, ecologist and Feminist.

Website www.magentawise.com

Books: Short Stories, ‘Kill and Cure’

Poems: ‘Messages are Dancing in the Rain' mybook.to/MessagesareDancingintheRain

‘Live From Your Centre’ - mybook.to/LiveFromYourCentre