The Best Black T-shirt

Lucy was sixteen and a half years old and not happy with her life. Since leaving school in June, the only work she had been able to find was washing dishes in the local hotel during their busy summer season. It was not much better there than at school. She still got shouted at, and if anything, her self confidence had taken a further nose dive as a result. With nothing to write on her CV, job offers were non-existent.

She was at home during the week while her parents went out to work, going out only occasionally  to the job centre or to buy some groceries for her mother. The three of them lived in a modest estate house surrounded by identical houses, only differing by the colour of their front doors. She spent her time in front of the television, snacking on crisps and chocolate, and the weight was piling on. The few friends that she had previously were all attending  sixth form college now and she no longer fitted in with their social group.

Her parents were very worried about her. They tried to gently coax her into new activities but the years of bullying at school had left an indelible mark and she always found excuses not to join in. Lucy had only just scraped through her GCSE examinations, and had needed extra tuition to achieve that.

One fine Thursday in early September, Lucy's mother called to her from the bottom of the stairs,

"Lucy, could you do me a favour today, please? I have a parcel that needs to be posted."

"Ok, Mum," she replied sleepily, and heard the front door slam as her mother rushed out to catch her bus.

 She got up and dressed in her usual black trousers, black T-shirt with a black sweatshirt over the top. She was always very conscious of her size and tried to cover up the bulges in loose fitting black clothes. Her hair was pulled back awkwardly in a pony-tail. She had some cereal for breakfast, thought about lingering longer to watch morning television, but as it was already after eleven o'clock , reluctantly picked up the parcel from the hall table and began to walk into town.

As she approached the centre of town, she heard some singing. It was a choir singing Beatles songs.

"Love, love me do , you know I love you,"

She walked towards the sound and as she turned into the square, they started singing a different song.

"Cellophane flowers of yellow and green towering over your head , look for the girl with the sun in her eyes and she's gone. Lucy in the sky with diamonds."

Lucy smiled. She knew this song. Her mother used to sing it to her when she was little , soothing her to sleep.

As they came to the end of the song, one lady walked away from the group and started handing out leaflets to the people who were standing around. Lucy took one, and without stopping to look at it, shoved it to the bottom of her shopping bag.

Later that night, she found the leaflet and glanced at it. The Bellhouse Community Choir were looking for new members, it said. Meeting every Thursday evening at 7o'clock in the Community Hall. Just come along!

All weekend Lucy thought about it. She had loved to sing in Primary School, but there had been no time for music in Secondary School because of the extra lessons she had needed. She woke up each morning  with the song repeating in her head, tempting her to take this new opportunity.  When Thursday evening came, she dressed in her best black T-shirt, butterflies in her stomach, hands shaking, and walked anxiously towards the Community Hall. I can turn back anytime, she thought to herself. Before she even reached the hall, she could hear singing. Taking a big breath, she pushed open the doors and was welcomed immediately by a young woman who was handing out song sheets.

"Hallo, come to give it a try?", she said, and smiled at Lucy. "Take one of these sheets and join the women over there."

No time to back out now. Lucy joined the group and the pianist commenced the introduction to 'Dreaming of a White Christmas'. The choir mistress raised her arms and the voices began to harmonise. After a few minutes, Lucy realised that she was actually enjoying this and her anxiety  began to lift as she allowed her voice to blend in. Her immediate neighbour was an elderly woman with a quavery voice who failed to hit the higher notes more often than not. It did not seem to matter as no-one commented, and as the evening continued, she realised that everyone was there because they enjoyed it, and not necessarily because they had any talent for singing.

Lucy found herself beginning to look forward to Thursday evenings. The choir mistress, Miss Hardy, taught singing during the day at a local music college, and had begun to notice Lucy. Her clear  soprano voice was pitch perfect. Miss Hardy approached Lucy following one of their rehearsals and asked her if she would like to have a short lesson after the choir meeting. Lucy was taken aback by this request and embarrassed, answered yes almost without thinking.

The choir continued to learn and perfect their Christmas songs for a concert in December, and Lucy stayed on for half an hour for her private lesson in the weeks that followed. Leaflets were printed about the concert and Lucy brought one home to her parents.

The day of the concert arrived. All the choir wore black t-shirts and the ladies each had a colourful scarf. Lucy wore her best black t-shirt. She was very pleased that her parents would be there and felt both excited and anxious about the evening. Lucy went ahead of her parents for the final rehearsal. As the choir took their places on the stage in the Community Hall, she glanced quickly around the room to locate her parents. They were sitting in the third row and smiled back at her.

The choir began with a medley of Christmas songs and Lucy gradually lost her nervousness and began to enjoy the evening. In the interval, as the choir was re-grouping, Miss Hardy singled out Lucy and asked her if she would sing one of the songs she had been practising in her private lesson.

"Are you sure, Miss Hardy?" she asked. "Do you really think I am good enough to do that?"

"I have every confidence in you Lucy", replied Miss Hardy.

With that, she hurried Lucy back to her place in the choir and announced to the audience that there was an extra item on the programme. She lifted her arms to signal to the pianist and nodded to Lucy to stand up. Lucy could feel her heart beating wildly and her hands were shaking so much that she had hold her arms tight against her legs and pinch her thighs. The soft notes from the piano began the introduction.

"We're walking in the air,

We're floating in the moonlit sky,"

Lucy's bright soprano voice , clear and haunting, took the audience by surprise. There was an extraordinary silence in the room. Even old Mr Roberts in the corner, who had been coughing throughout the concert, sat quiet as a mouse. As she reached the last phrase, the audience erupted into applause, standing up spontaneously and whistling. Lucy could not believe what had just happened. She felt like she was two feet taller, as if the words of the song had truly lifted her into the air.

 Lucy had not dared to look at the audience as she sang, but had resolutely kept her eyes on the ceiling lamp in the middle of the room. She looked over to where her parents were sitting and saw her father and mother standing, and tears pouring down her mother's cheeks. A huge smile transformed Lucy's face and she ran from the stage to give her mother a hug as the audience continued to clap and shout exuberantly.

 

CP October 2013

A Childhood Incident

It was 1959 in Dublin. A doctor and his wife lived in a large red brick semi-detached house in a suburban area of the city. They had three children ranging in age from seven to two years. Also living with them was the children's maternal grandfather.

It was before the time of central heating and the living rooms had open fireplaces. There was no heating in the bedrooms. Everybody took a hot water bottle with them up to bed and wore warm pyjamas or long nightdresses. Woolly slippers sat under the beds and thick dressing gowns hung on hooks on the back of the bedroom doors.

At seven o'clock every morning, the grandfather woke up and looked forward to a visit from the older two children who would join him in his bed for a short time. He made certain that they were tucked up warmly and then, as was his habit, went down to the kitchen to make a cup of tea for himself and the two other adults. The eldest child, a girl, would always bring a book with her; while the younger boy would usually bring some of his favourite toy model cars.

On one particularly cold morning, the children woke early, saw that the light was on in grandfather's room and ran excitedly into his room.

"Good morning Grandpa", they said almost in unison. He gave them each a hug and settled them into his bed.

"What are you reading today?" he asked his granddaughter. She did not reply, already engrossed in her book. He looked at the title. Another Enid Blyton book. He smiled and felt very proud of his eldest grandchild. She was well ahead in her class on reading skills. The lad had brought his pride and joy, a yellow model truck, which he proceeded to push up and down the bedclothes.

Leaving them comfortably ensconced in his bed, the grandfather put on his dressing gown and headed downstairs to the kitchen. All was quiet in the rest of the house. He fed the cat, and waited for the kettle to boil.

Upstairs in his bedroom, the young girl continued to avidly read, but her brother was becoming bored and got out of bed and went to look out of the window. Somehow, he had picked up a box of matches, and in an instant, he had lit a match. Perhaps a little scared at what he had done, he attempted to throw it away, unfortunately into a wicker wastepaper basket.

The basket suddenly burst into flame. The flame rose up towards the curtain and the lower portion of the curtain began to smoulder. A whiff of smoke must have reached the parent's bedroom as the children's mother rushed into the room with a look of sheer panic on her face. She was dressed only in her nightdress. She tore down the curtain, threw it on top of the burning wastepaper basket and stamped the fire out with her bare feet.

Grandfather came up the stairs carrying a small tray with tea cups, having heard a commotion, wondering what had happened. Horrified, he surveyed the damage and the guilty looking small boy trying to hide himself in the corner of the room. Thank goodness no-one was hurt!

Addressing her daughter, the mother said " Sweetheart, did you not see what your brother was doing?"

The little girl, shaken by what had happened answered tearfully,

 " No, Mum, I am sorry but I was reading my book and I didn't see anything".

 

October 2013 CP

Expecting to Cry

The homeless Syrian children,

With hunger in their eyes,

Pleading for attention.

Expecting to cry.

 

Crowded round the flagpole,

The flag descending,

For the lost brave soldiers.

Expecting to cry.

 

The bride in ivory silk,

Whispering her vows,

Starting a different life.

Expecting to cry.

 

Gathered round the grave,

The coffin with brass corners,

Slowly lowered down.

Expecting to cry.

 

A mother once caring,

Lost in her muddled world,

Unrecognising.

Expecting to cry.

 

October 2013. CP.

 

Apology to a grapevine

When I became your owner, I resolved to care for you, despite having no skills in viniculture. You are probably much older than I am, well-established as you are in your Victorian greenhouse.

Next-door's tabby cat likes to sprawl on top of the seed cabinet beneath your green canopy, and the occasional bee or butterfly ventures into the greenhouse to enjoy your verdant growth. A young robin practised nest building this year in the seed cabinet when I had inadvertently left the door open, but soon gave up, leaving an untidy bundle of leaves.

I have no idea what variety of vine you are. I asked several people including two landscape gardeners, but none of them knew. You have distinctive globular shaped grapes hanging in loose bunches, pale green and sour to the taste; unlike your companion vine with its tight bunches of deep purple, sweet flavoured grapes.

Last year, I treated the scale insect infestation which was affecting your gnarled old branches. I wonder if that treatment might also have halted the damage to your main trunk caused by a variety of woodworm.

A few years ago, I made wine from your grapes. It was a sweet, syrupy drink, not unlike Spanish fortified wine. It was surprisingly good, but not at all like the kind of wine I was expecting.

There are very few bunches of grapes on your branches this year. The spring was cold and there were few insects about to pollinate your tiny flowers. I now know that I should have used a small paint brush to hand pollinate them. I will be more attentive to your needs and will not neglect this task in the Spring of next year. I hope that you will reward me with a more abundant crop as a result.

 

October 2013 CP

Hot Water

Mark was pleased to be getting back to work after a week's break. It had not been much of a holiday.  He had spent the week clearing out his father's house in order to put it on the market. Unearthing forgotten memories among the junk. The vestiges of a happy family life.

His father now comfortably settled in a near-by residential dementia home; the previously brisk and efficient businessman, shrunk to a pathetic shadow of his former self. Mark was confident he had 'done the right thing' by him as it was blatantly obvious that he could no longer look after himself in his own home. Ever since his wife, Mark's mother, had died two years ago, his mental decline had been accelerating.

Mark called in to the main office and picked up his work sheet for the day. He was a boiler engineer and he enjoyed being out and about visiting people in their own homes. Usually they made him welcome with a cup of tea and a chat, and Mark felt he was performing a useful service, and took pride in his work.

He completed the first two jobs in record time and around mid-morning set out to find a new customer, Mrs Jane Morris, living at 35 Longfield Crescent. He knew the area well and remembered most were smart bungalows with tidy gardens. When he arrived at the front door, she had obviously been looking out for him as she opened the door before he had time to push the bell. She was probably in her mid eighties, fine silver hair tidily arranged, bright blue eyes in a tanned lined face. She smiled warmly and invited him in. They proceeded towards the kitchen through the lounge.

"I am so pleased that you could come today," she said. "I have been without hot water for almost a week."

"No problem Mrs Morris," he replied. "If you can just show me where the boiler is, I'll get on and have a look at it."

She took him to the corner cupboard where the boiler was sited and gathered up the freshly dried laundry to take to the linen cupboard. She was a little embarrassed to have her under garments on view.

"While you are doing that," she said " I will put the kettle on for a nice cup of tea , and you can join me later in the conservatory."

"That would be very welcome," he answered.

Mark identified the faulty component, replaced it with a new item and tidied up his tools. He walked through the small living room into a bright, sunny, conservatory to find Mrs Morris seated in a comfortable wicker chair with a pot of tea on the table in front of her, next to a plate of chocolate biscuits.

" I don't allow myself to eat chocolate biscuits unless someone comes to call, so it will be a nice treat," she said with a smile. " And after all your hard work, you certainly deserve a few minutes to sit down with a cup of tea! Have you managed to find the problem?"

"Yes, Mrs Morris, it is working fine now and you shouldn't have any more trouble", he said. "I  have replaced the faulty part."

"Help yourself to milk and sugar," she commented, as she poured the tea.

Mark sat down opposite her, next to a small bookcase.  His eyes strayed to the books and he was surprised to see that many were very academic titles.

"Are these all your books, Mrs Morris?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered. "After my husband left me in 1972, I put myself through University and became a teacher."

He stood up to take a closer look at the books. On the top of the bookcase was a framed photograph. As he peered at it closer, he recognised a young Mrs Morris coming out of a church on the arm of her equally young husband. Mark felt a sudden stab of uneasiness as he looked closer at the photograph. The colour drained from his face. Trying to control the tremor in his voice, he asked nonchalantly, "What was your husband's name?".

"William," she said. "He disappeared and I never heard from him again. Even the police couldn't find him."

"I am sorry to hear that," Mark said, trying to compose himself. "I need to get going to my next appointment. Thank you for the tea," he blurted out, and picking up his tool box made his way quickly to the door. With shaking hands, he opened the door of his van and sat in the driver's seat, his thoughts in a turmoil. There was no doubt in his mind that the photograph was of his father.

The gaps in his father's early history now began to make sense. Mark had thought he had been in the army and  did not wish to discuss his experiences in combat. The discovery that he had made today almost certainly identified his father as a bigamist. Should he tell anyone? Should he tell the police?  His father was now too confused to be able to contribute to a sensible conversation, and would it help Mrs Morris to discover the truth?

Mark put his head in his hands and sighed. After a few minutes , he sat up, clicked his seat belt into position, turned the key in the ignition, and drove on to his next appointment.

September 2013. CP

Laughing Leaves

Laughing leaves swathe the warm brick walls,
Bursting with rich reds,
Gleefully awaiting
The final solo pirouette to earth.

The start

 

Having left the constricting world of evidence based medicine, protocols, and stifled original thought, I am making a new beginning. Using the stimulation from ordinary daily life, impressions, memories, dreams and the natural world, I will endeavour to write.

Like the dandelion head, past its flowering beauty, the seeds will scatter. Some may fall on arid ground, others may flourish and create fictional moments or snippets of poetry.

 You are welcome to join me on this journey.