RunshawWriters

Magnolia Close. Episode 24. Getting A Result.

2011-11-10T16:28:00.000-08:00

Robert Farrah stepped out of Number 23 and turned to wish Nasreen goodbye for the day.

"I don’t understand why you are going into Hope when you’re on half-term," she said.

"There’s always things to be done. It’s easier to work there than at home some times, especially when the kids aren’t there. As for me, I don’t understand why your parents want to pay us a visit at such short notice."

"I suppose they might have thought with you on holiday you’d have more time."

"Teachers never get a holiday. They made it sound so pressingly urgent, though – ‘must see both of you straight away.’ What was all that about?"

"We’ll find out when we see them," she said. "Now get going and come home early."

As Robert carefully backed his Nissan out of the drive, then turned to drive off, Nasreen noticed several trails of what looked like papers in plastic packets trailing on strings from under the back of his car, and wondered what they might be. Some sort of practical joke, she wondered. Then she put the thought out of her mind and went indoors.

Tricia had heard the telephone ring but Jade had answered it first. When she entered the lounge, Jade laughing over the line.

"Oh, here’s Tricia now," she said with a grin, but still didn’t hand the call over straight away. "Perhaps see you soon," she said at last before parting with the receiver.

"Is it Jonathan?"

"Yes," Jade mouthed.

Tricia took the phone and eyed Jade curiously before speaking into the phone. "Are we still on for tonight?"

Jade still stood there watching, till Tricia indicated with irritated shake of the head to Jade that she should leave the room. She listened to Jonathan’s answer before replying. "Good. Don’t be late."

Tricia hung up and found that, now she wanted to ask Jade a question, she had suddenly made herself scarce.

Martha took a deep breath before knocking on Brooke’s bedroom door.

"What!?" came the irritated reply.

Martha went in. Brooke had her head buried in a school-book. "Is everything OK?" said Martha.

"It would be if I didn’t keep on getting interrupted."

"We’ve left you alone, Dad and me," said Martha.

"You should tell that little twerp of a sister to do the same," said Brooke.

"Brooke, I do wish you would try to get on a little better with Celine."

"And I wish I could get on with revising – my resits are just a few days away."

Martha bit her lip. "There was something else I wanted to ask you about."

"Oh for goodness’ sake," said Brooke, bouncing off the bed, snatching up her study things.

"Where are you going?"

"I’m going into school – at least they let you study in the library and I can get some peace and quiet."

Martha wished she had handled that better. There was something she had to talk to Brooke about, resits or no resits.

"Mr Farrah!"

Robert was half way down the corridor to the staff room when he heard a familiar voice call out. "Yes, Mrs Groves."

"Your car appears to be trailing some sort of litter behind it. I would be most grateful if you would go and remove it. Your car looks like you have just been the groom at a wedding." Robert winced at this – soon he was going to be the groom at a wedding, and the thought of what tricks his friends might play on him gave him cause for concern. Mrs Groves, as headmistress of Hope Academy, was all very keen to be one of the gang with other teachers when it suited her. On other occasions, she definitely liked everyone to know she was boss and wanted things run her way.

When Robert got to his car it was almost as if his worst fears had been realised. The streamers dangling from under the car were poly-packets – the sort pupils put their homework in before handing it in to be marked, but the papers inside were anything but homework. They were photographs of a young girl who appeared to be wearing very little clothing. He looked at them appalled, then he felt his blood run cold. This was not just any young girl. They were pictures of one of his pupils. Just as he hurriedly gathered them into his arms, viciously snapping the string that held them to the vehicle, that very girl appeared on the opposite side of the car.

"Hello, Mr Farrah," said Brooke Ames.

"What are you doing her?" he asked, rather abruptly.

She gave him a "d’ur" kind of look, and said, "It’s school. I’ve come to study." Her face became oddly blank and she walked past him into the school. Robert waited till she had gone inside before giving the photos one more look. He screwed them up into a ball, unlocked the back door of the car and stuffed the pictures under the seat. Then he followed Brooke into the building.

"Brooke," he called, catching her up. "You haven’t… been anywhere near my car, have you?"

Brooke looked puzzled. "What do you mean, sir?"

"You haven’t tampered with my car in any way?"

Brooke dropped her voice and was far from deferential when she hissed, "I wouldn’t go near anything of yours. But, if I were you, I’d remember our little deal about my re-sit marks."

"I can’t do anything about the exam scripts – I can’t get near them."

"But you can alter the marks on my assessed modules. Or would you like Mrs Groves or my Dad to find out what you’ve been up to?"

Celine burst into the kitchen where Martha was preparing the evening meal, in floods of tears.

"What’s the matter, darling," said Martha, concerned.

"Look at this text I just got on my phone," she cried.

Robert Farrah was alone in the staff-room when he found Brooke Ames assignment work. It would be the work of a moment to alter the grades.

End Of Episode 24.

Magnolia Close. Episode 23. In The Clear.

2011-11-01T12:04:00.000-07:00

“Bob, you old rascal!”

“Nice to see you again, Mark. You had no trouble finding the place then.”

“There's not that many Stormy Petrels that Google knows about. Just what exactly is a petrel?”

“It’s a kind of bird. I see Mark’s already made a start on the ale.”

“Howdy, Bob. How are you doing?”

Robert settled down with a drink. “So what brings you two reprobates here? I’ve not seen you since teacher training college.”

“Mark’s visiting family nearby and I’m here for work. We thought we could combine the two and get the old gang back together.”

“Where are you stopping?” said Robert.

“A hotel called Merlin Court. Big soulless place, quite posh but no character. We’ll be here all week.”

“Fur coat and no knickers, I’d call it,” said Andy.

“So what’s this about you being up in court?” said Mark. “You haven’t got one of your pupils banged up, have you?”

Robert grimaced. “Why don’t you say it a bit louder, Mark?” he said quietly. “I think somebody at the back of the pub didn’t quite catch that.”

At the bar, Sammy, hearing his place of employment mentioned, craned his neck to listen more carefully.

Back home, at number 23, Robert’s fiancée, Nasreen, was answering the telephone.

“Hello, Dad. How are you and Mum?”

“Never mind about us,” said Nasreen’s father, “what has that ‘boyfriend’ of yours been up to?”

“What do you mean?”

“We saw his name in the papers. It said he had been in court.” Nasreen’s mother called out to the phone over her husband’s shoulder.

“Is here there? I want to speak to him.”

“No, he’s gone out for a drink with some old college mates.”

“He leaves you alone, and goes out drinking alcohol? Are you sure this is the man you want to marry? We have been very tolerant so far but there is a limit.”

“It’s just two fellahs from his student days. He hasn’t seen them in ages. Remember, Dad, you said you were alright about this.”

“I am beginning to wonder if we are,” said her father. “It said something about misconduct with schoolgirls. I think we shall come and visit you and discuss this.”

Monday morning, and in the Ames household in number 24, Martha was helping Dennis get ready for work.

“Have you told them at work what happened?” said Martha.

“They know I was in court, because I had to take the time off. They don’t know the outcome.”

“Surely they wouldn’t sack you over just a bit of a punch-up. It’s not dishonest.”

“I’ve now got a record, thanks to him next door. And a sentence.”

“Three months prison suspended for two years,” said Martha. “There’ll be no problem as long as you stay out of trouble.”

“If I catch him looking over the fence at Brooke, there’ll be trouble alright.”

“Don’t be so silly,” she chastised him. “It’s all just been a bit of a misunderstanding. Otherwise he wouldn’t have his job at Hope Academy. Remember, I’m starting night-school classes there next week.”

“I don’t know why you’re bothering. Anyway, where is Brooke?”

“She had some breakfast and went back to bed to do some studying. Her resits are only a week away.”

“Why is she not at school?”

“Both the girls are on half-term,” said Martha, surprised. “You’ve been too wrapped up in yourself to notice even when they’re on holiday.”

Foster, Daisy and a rather forlorn-looking Luther shuffled in to Maplewood Surgery and approached the reception desk. Tricia was busy filing so Jade greeted them.

“It’s Mr and Mrs Woods, isn’t it?” Jade hazarded – she was trying to get used to knowing patients by name.

“That’s right,” said Daisy. “It’s about Luther, to see Dr Fry.”

“You’re booked in for a nine o’clock appointment.”

Daisy leaned forward to speak. “Hello Tricia.”

“Hello – I didn’t see you there. Not opening the shop this morning?”

“This comes first,” said Daisy.

Under his breath, Foster added, “It’s not as if we’re turning away that many customers.”

Sammy spotted the two guests he had seen with Robert Farrah at The Stormy Petrel, as they walked down a corridor of Merlin Court. “Could I have a word with you two gentlemen?”

“What is it?” said Mark.

“It might be delicate,” said Sammy in a hushed tone. “I couldn’t help overhearing what you were saying the other night.”

“Saying about what?”

“You mentioned – forgive me for taking an interest – something about the attractiveness of young ladies of college age?”

“You were eavesdropping?” said Andy, infuriated.

“Just thought you’d like to know – if you wanted, I might have some pictures that you might appreciate. Here’s a sample.” Sammy produced a postcard-sized photo from his pocket.

“Go away, you horrid little man!” said Andy.

“Hang on a minute,” said Mark. “If we got some of these, we could play a great prank on Bob.”

“What sort of prank?”

Celine fidgeted at the top of the stairs. “Come on, Brooke – I want to pee! What are doing in there all this time?”

Brooke snatched open the bathroom door. “Shut, up you little drip! What do you think I’m doing in here?”

“I dunno – tarting yourself up for a date with your boyfriend?”

“If you don’t shut your mouth, I’ll put seats in it. Buzz off.” Brooke stormed out on to the landing and went to her bedroom.

Celine at last got the bathroom to herself. As she was finishing up, she noticed some packaging that Brooke had evidently left by the sink.

“Mum?” said Celine, finding Martha in the kitchen, “has Brooke got something wrong with her teeth?”

“No, I don’t think so, dear. Why?”

“She’s always crabby with me these days,” Celine sighed. “I wondered if she had toothache.”

“I’ll ask her, just to check,” said Martha.

“Ask about her new toothbrush too. She had it in her hand,” said Celine. “Here’s the wrapping.” She held up some card and plastic. “Is Clearblue a special make of brush?”

END OF EPISODE 23.

Magnolia Close. Episode 22. Trial and Tribulation.

2011-10-25T04:48:00.000-07:00

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you.”

The Ames family gathered around to sing good wishes to its youngest member, Celine.

“Here you go, kiddo,” said Brooke to her sister. “Got you a little present.”

Celine unwrapped the package. “What is it?”

“It’s a pencil case. Full of pens and stuff. Mum and Dad got me the same thing when I started at secondary school.”

“Thanks.”

“And we’ve got you this.” Martha nudged Dennis forward to hand over their gift.

“A mobile phone!” Celine shrieked with delight. “Cool! I am so going to need this at Hope.”

“Now then – we’ve got your number so we can always find out where you are,” said Dennis, “and ‘Mum and Dad’ are already programmed in on speed-dial so you can always get us.”

“Wait till my mates see this,” said Celine. She started pressing buttons and within seconds had the little device playing tunes.

Martha spoke in a hushed voice to Dennis. “Let’s just hope we can afford it.”

Brooke’s present lay forgotten on the sofa. Celine was already trying to call a friend. “You’d better let me have your number,” Brooke said.

Dennis, his voice also lowered, said to Martha: “We’ll know better after my court case this afternoon.”

“Now what are you spying on?” said Walter to Gladys.

“Just the Ames girls, both going off to school together. It doesn’t seem five minutes since they were born.”

“The older one looks a bit sulky.”

“You know what kids are like at that age. Remember how ours were.”

“Oh I remember alright,” said Walter, looking at Gladys carefully. “You know, if we are going to have a big do for our anniversary, we ought to start inviting them. The whole family, don’t you think?”

Gladys turned to Walter. Her expression was vaguely troubled. “Walter?”

“Yes?”

“I thought you’d asked them already.”

He hesitated. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted to do.”

“I want them all here, of course. You’d better get on with it. I don’t want them missing our diamond jubilee.”

Walter looked at his wife for a second, then gave her a warm hug.

Robert Farrah had barely got into the staff-room at Hope Academy, desperately in search of a coffee, before his colleague, Natalie, grabbed his arm. “Good timing – you’ve got a phone call.”

He took the phone, half-wondering whether it would be a nagging parent, a local journalist about the court case against Dennis Ames that afternoon, or just his fiancée, Nasreen, checking something with him. It wasn’t any of them.

“Robert Farrah.”

“Bob? It’s Mark. How you doing, mate?”

“Mark? Gosh – I haven’t heard from you in ages.”

“Heard about you planning to get hitched. Wondered if I could talk you out of it over a drink. Or several. Andy’s with me as well, so we thought we might hook up. Are you free tonight?”

“Andy too? Blimey! I’m not missing that. Where and when?”

“Where’s easiest for you?”

“There’s a pleasant local we could go to. The Stormy Petrel.”

“What about the old ball-and-chain?”

“She doesn’t drink, Mark. She’s a Muslim. And we’re not married yet.”

“Will she let you out for the evening?”

“No problem. I think she’ll be glad to get rid of me for a while.”

“Wow – romance isn’t dead. Eight o’clock suit you?”

“Just wish me luck in court this afternoon.”

“Eh?”

“I’ll tell you all about it when I see you.”

“How did your modelling with Dad go?” Maxwell had bumped into Brooke in the school corridor and it was the first time he’d seen her in a few days.

“Shh! It’s secret,” said Brooke. “If you play your cards right, I might let you see.”

“I’d like that. We haven’t got together since… you know, results day.”

“At least that bit of the day was nice.”

“Yeah. No problem. Wish things had worked out better for you.”

Brooke smiled. “Thanks. It’s nice to have somebody show me some interest.”

“Like I said, no problem.”

The magistrates court was a drab building of Sixties brutalist architecture. Inside, the court itself was blandly austere. Dennis Ames stood in the dock, with his wife, Martha, looking on apprehensively, and Brooke. She had insisted on being allowed off school to give moral support, as she claimed, but partly she was just curious what might be said about Robert Farrah. He was also there along with his fiancée, Nasreen Siddiqi. Buster Keaton had popped in as well to see what his neighbours had been up to.

“You have pleaded guilty to the one charge of assault,” said the head magistrate. “Have you anything to say before we pass sentence?”

“If that’s allowed, sir. I regret my actions and I assure you it is not my usual character. However, the reason for my behaviour towards Mr Farrah is because I had heard a rumour about what he got up to with girls at his previous school. Interfering with them. I have two daughters at Hope Academy. One is only twelve and has just started there.”

“Is there any substance to these allegations, these rumours?”

“I don’t know, sir,” said Dennis turning to stare at Robert Farrah.

The magistrates conferred in whispers, occasionally glancing at Dennis and, at one point, at Robert. For his part, Robert fidgeted uncomfortably. Brooke was also staring at him, while Martha watched Brooke. Could there be any truth in all this?

“The courts take a dim view of anyone taking the law into their own hands,” the head magistrate was speaking. “Especially when this results in violence. Such allegations are a matter for the police.” He turned again to his colleagues.

“See what trouble you’ve got your father into,” Martha whispered to Brooke.

“Why does nobody believe what I say?” Brooke hissed, infuriated.

“It’s up to the police. Your father might lose his job because of this. Then what are we going to do?”

“Silence in the court!” the magistrate snapped.

“Here it comes,” Martha mouthed.

“The sentence is as follows.”

END OF EPISODE 22.

Magnolia Close. Episode 21. Showing The Money

2011-10-18T18:25:00.000-07:00

Robert Farrah had a free period in his timetable and, instead of the bustle of the staff-room, he found an empty classroom to do some marking. He had just sat down when there was a knock at the door.
“Yes?”
Brooke Ames entered. “Can I see you for a moment, sir?”
“What about?”
“I’ve got this homework about MacBeth and, but I just don’t get it.”
“Listen, Brooke, I’m not your English teacher. Why don’t you go and see her?”
“You promised that I would pass my re-sits.”
“I’ll help where I can, yes.”
“So start helping. Otherwise, you might find being a teacher isn’t as much… fun as before. And if my kid sister starts hearing rumours about you again…”

“So what happens now, Dr Fry?” said Walter.
“We run some blood tests on Gladys just to check the obvious, Mr Ashton. You promise me you don’t have a sherry in the afternoon, do you, Gladys?”
Gladys glared at Dr Fry but didn’t answer.
“What else?”
“I can send her for some screening tests. They’re like intelligence tests, and need expert interpretation.”
“What will they do?”
“They will show that Gladys is still as sharp as a button, hopefully.”
“What if she’s not? The other day, she kept on insisting I wasn’t her husband.”
“Do you mind,” said Gladys, icily, “not speaking about me as if I’m not in the room? Of course you’re my husband, you old crank. You’re just no George Clooney, that’s all. Not sharp indeed!”

Sammy slid his way on to a bar stool in The Stormy Petrel and started hunting for change for a drink.
“Another afternoon off?” said Douglas.
“Finished early,” said Sammy.
“At least you’ve got a proper job. Anyway, allow me. I owe you one.”
“What for?”
“For your suggestion to Maddy the other day. If she can get a few quid modelling for Benson Fairhurst, we’d all benefit.”
“Would we? Did she?”
“Only some practice poses. But she asked him about doing something a bit, more, you know, racy. Do you know anyone else who might do a bit of modelling. Some cute receptionist at Merlin Court? For a finder’s fee. Cash is always handy.”
“I don’t know about that. But we get all sorts of business visitors – there was a chap the other week – somebody who might want to buy ‘em.”
“There you go.”

“Hey, Max!”
“Hey, Brooke. How’s it going?”
“Oh, you know. Hey, is it true your Dad’s looking for models?”
“Good grief! How did you hear about that?”
“Sammy was blathering about it down the shop. Must have been one of his more sober moments.”
“It was only Maddy Weston. She was just helping Dad out get some practice. He’s a bit of a dinosaur with technical stuff. What’s it to you?”
“I thought there might be a few quid in it. I’m going to need all the cash I can get when I go to Uni.”
“If you get into Uni.”
“Shut your gob! Anyway – do you think he would be interested?”
“I can ask, I suppose.”
“Do.”

“Good night out?” said Jade.
“OK, thanks. We went to a movie then had a meal,” said Tricia.
“You don’t sound too enthusiastic.”
“No, no – it was fine.”
“But he’s not exactly swept you off your feet.”
“Give him time.”
“But keep looking, eh?”
“Are you still looking?”
“Course! I think I know more what I’m looking for.”
“Lucky old you.”

Martha was laying out the tea things as Brooke got home.
“You’re late – where’ve you been?”
“Just getting some help with homework.”
“She’s been seeing that creep Farrah,” Celine piped up. “Creepy, creepy Farrah,” she started to sing.
“I’ll batter you if you don’t belt up.”
“Is this true?” said Martha. “He’s not your subject teacher, is he?”
“He ain’t. But sometimes you need a bit extra for the modules as the proper teachers get, what d’you call it? – tunnel vision about you when they’ve seen you all year. Don’t give you a fair chance.”
“Well, don’t let your Dad hear about it. He’s got enough on his mind as it is.”
“What have I got on your mind?” said Dennis, entering the lounge.
“Your court case next week, for a start,” said Martha. “I do hope they’ll be understanding and realise it’s not like you – you just lost your temper.”
“I know. And I might lose my job, too. I’ve been thinking about that. If the worst happens, how do you feel about me trying to set up my own business? You know, house-hold repairs, that sort of thing?”
“Gosh!” Martha was surprised. “Do you really think it might be that bad? I mean, being your own boss might be good some day, but with things the way they are now?”
“It might be either that or look for another job, which could be just as hard. This might be just the right time. Hey,” he turned to Brooke, “where are you off to?”
“I’ve just realised how late it is. I’ve got to see someone.”
“What about your tea? And who’re you seeing?”
“I’ll get it later. It’s more help with homework. I’m determined to pass with flying colours.” Before her parents could argue, Brooke was out of the door.
“Bet she’s off to see creep Farrah again,” Celine muttered.

“Did Max tell you what I want?” said Brooke, as Benson Fairhust shut the door of number 22.
“Not exactly. Something about money.”
“People will pay a lot of money for the right sort of pictures, won’t they?”
“What sort of pictures are you talking?”
“What do you think? And I promise you, I’ll be a good model. Money for you too. You just tell me what you want.”
“Right now I want you to go home before Ashleigh gets in.”
As Benson led Brooke to the door, he said, “But if you can come here tomorrow around half-three, we could give it a try.”
“Remember,” said Brooke, “it’s all for money.”
“I’ll remember.”

END OF EPISODE 21.

Magnolia Close. Episode 20. This Year’s Model.

2011-10-11T07:06:00.000-07:00

Sammy shuffled up to the bar of The Stormy Petrel and ordered another scotch off Maddy.

"Are you sure?" she said. "You look like you’ve had enough already."

"It’s just a night-cap," he sighed, none too clearly.

"I don’t know how you can afford it. Working at Merlin Court must pay better than here."

"I don’t have any family to keep, do I?" He stared off into the distance. "Not any more."

"All the same," she interrupted him before he got started on his life story, "I wish I had money to spare."

"A pretty girl like you? With a face like that you should always be able to find work."

Douglas, who had been sitting a little distance away watching his partner deal with customers, now spoke up. "Hey, Sammy. Maybe it’s time you did go home. Stop bothering the staff."

Sammy turned, unsure who had spoken, until he saw Douglas’s face. "I’m sorry, Doug. I didn’t mean to make a nuisance of myself." He slung back the scotch in a single gulp. "I’ll be going then," he said and set off.

When he had gone, Douglas said to Maddy. "He might have a point though, don’t you think?"

"In what way?"

"You’re a good looking woman. You’re wasted here."

"What I’m wasted by is having someone like you as a partner."

Foster put down the information sheet from the surgery that he had been reading and turned to his wife, Daisy. "So what happens now?"

"You’ve read the leaflet. Luther has to go for more tests. Then, if it’s confirmed…"

"If it’s confirmed, it says here, they can treat him."

"But our child – on drugs for the rest of his life!" She was close to tears."

"It’s not the same as a drug." Foster was trying as rapidly as he could to catch up with the situation. "It’s just something his body should produce normally but it’s stopped working properly." He could see she wasn’t convinced. "It says something like fifty million people around the world are on insulin for diabetes."

"Fifty million?"

"Something like that – I can’t remember exactly. But as long as he gets his daily dose he will be absolutely fine. When does he go back for more tests?"

"Now I want you on your best behaviour when Jonathan turns up," said Tricia to Jade. "You start telling him fibs and – and you’re out of here!"

"But it was all a mistake. You wouldn’t throw your house-mate just for a misunderstanding?"

"Do you have any idea how long I have been looking for a boyfriend? Finally I meet someone nice and you have to go and tell him I’m not interested!"

"I’m sure it was a mistake," said Jade. "You wouldn’t make your best friend homeless just for a date?"

"I’d make my best friend homeless just for a snog!" Tricia exclaimed, so dramatically, she then couldn’t help starting to laugh at herself. Jade started laughing also. "Me too," she said with a grin.

"Anyway," Tricia was still laughing, "who says you’re my best friend?"

Slightly more serious, Jade said, "I promise unless you find somebody else. Unless somebody better comes along. Even then, you and I will be best friends."

Maddy arrived at Number 22, Magnolia Close, with daughter Bethany in her arms. Benson Fairhurst opened the door.

"Here’s our little model-to-be," Maddy cooed over Bethany. "I hope you can make her as pretty in a picture as she already is."

"I’m sure I can do something," said Benson. "Come in."

Benson led Maddy into the living room which had its curtain drawn, but was amply lit by two umbrella floodlights. He had improvised a backcloth of vague pastel-colours with a small chair in front. "I hope she won’t get camera-shy. Some children hate having their picture taken and cry all the way through."

"I’m sure she won’t do that. You’ll get a smile out of her." Maddy picked up a small teddy-bear that Benson had obviously got ready as a prop.

Next door, at Number 21, the door-bell rang and Tricia answered.

"Jonathan!" she exclaimed and dared give him a peck on the cheek. "It’s lovely to see you again. Come in."

She led Jonathan into the lounge. "This is my house-mate, Jade. I gather you and her have already had a bit of a chat on the phone."

Jonathan looked rather awkward. "I’m sorry about what happened. I must have misheard you or something. These mobile phones, eh?" He attempted a grin.

"Can you just hang on a moment while I finish getting ready?" said Tricia. "Don’t go trying to steal him now, will you, Jade."

"That could have gone better," said Benson with a sigh. "I’d forgotten how children can be. Camera’s cleverer than me too. At least with digital, you don’t have to spend any money on film."

"I’m sorry Bethany’s played up. I think she needs a nap."

"As I say, don’t worry."

"I wish she had been a better model." Maddy paused while Benson shut down the lights. "I was just wondering…"

"Yes?"

"Could I model for you? I could pay you off instead."

"What sort of modelling?"

"Whatever’s best. Do you think I’m attractive?"

"Of course you are, dear. Do you mean some kind of glamour modelling?"

"Oh! That sounds a bit daring."

"No, no – anything you wish. A model is a model."

Maddy hesitated some more. "If it’s digital, no-one else will see them, will they?"

"I remember you now," said Jonathan. "You were with Tricia the night we met."

"That’s right," said Jade. "She got to you first."

"What do you mean?"

"I thought you were quite nice. I think that was why I was surprised when you phoned and asked for Tricia."

"Why?"

"She’s a bit of an ‘older model,’ don’t you think?" Jade got up from the sofa and pushed a piece of paper into Jonathan’s hand. "If you fancy something with a few less miles on the clock, here’s my mobile number."

End Of Episode 20

Magnolia Close, Episode 19. Down At The Surgery.

2011-10-03T16:28:00.000-07:00

Walter Ashton entered Greenfields Surgery to find an unfamiliar face behind the reception counter – or at least a face he had not been introduced to close-up.

"Good morning, my dear, you’re new around here, aren’t you?"

"That’s right," said Jade.

"Aren’t you Tricia’s new house-mate? Isn’t she in this week?"

"She is later – I’m on the early session today and she was still in the land of nod when I left this morning. Is it something I can deal with?"

"No, you’ll do, I suppose. I want Dr Fry to give my wife, Gladys, a check-up."

"Do you need an urgent appointment?"

"No, no – just a check-up. And one myself while I’m here. Would that be alright?"

"I’m sure it would but I’ll have a word with Dr Fry just in case."

At that moment, the sign that indicated the next patient was due buzzed and Daisy Woods got up from the waiting area and led a rather sullen Luther in to see the doctor.

****

Benson Fairhust did not make a habit of drinking at lunchtime but he was in a buoyant mood. He was, frankly, overwhelmed by Ashleigh’s generosity in getting him a new camera and he was dying to try in out, Meanwhile, he just felt like celebrating.

"Pint of bitter when you’re ready, Maddy." Maddy Weston served Benson his pint, and saw he was fiddling with the new gadget.

"So you got a camera, after all?" she said.

Benson stiffened – he hadn’t meant to show the prized object off, especially to the partner of Douglas Gormley, who had had his own method for supplying merchandise that had very nearly got Benson in trouble with the police in the form of Detective Constable Liam "Buster" Keaton.

"Yes, I er…" Benson hesitated. "I decided business demanded I keep up with the times.

"Look," said Maddy, "I’m sorry what Douglas did – the mess he nearly got you in. But he was caught out too. He was just trying to make the best of what seemed like a bit of luck. We’re both short of money – Bethany costs a fortune and she’s only two. Goodness knows what it will be like when she gets older."

"Your Douglas ought to think of getting a proper job. I don’t suppose, if you’re short of cash, you’d be interested in having some portraits of your little girl?"

"Gosh, I’d love to," said Maddy, sincerely. "I just don’t think family budget would run to it. You out looking for business, I take it?"

Benson noticed the heartfelt tone in her voice, and softened. "I know Douglas didn’t mean anything by it. He was just trying to do me a favour. Tell you what – I haven’t got any customers at the moment – how about I come and take some pictures of Bethany anyway – for practice’s sake. She could be my model and I could learn how this new-fangled thing works. And it would show there’s no hard feelings."

"Really? You’d do that? That would be lovely."

"Just don’t let my Ashleigh find out! She still isn’t keen on Douglas and she’d have my guts for garters if she knew."

"It will be our little secret. Oh, I would so love some pictures of Bethany. She’s so cute. Thanks so much."

"Our little secret," Benson said.

****

At Greenfields, Jade was just getting ready to go off duty when Tricia arrived.

"I was beginning to think you weren’t coming in today," Jade said. "You were out ever so late last night."

"That’s because I had a date," Tricia said with asperity. "No thanks to you."

"To me? I don’t know what you mean."

"So you didn’t tell Jonathan that I’d left a message saying I didn’t want to see him?"

"Who’s Jonathan?"

"Don’t give me that – you don’t even sound like you’re telling the truth."

"Oh – er – is Jonathan that guy you met the other week when we went out? What’s… what’s he like?"

"As if you are ever going to find out. What were you thinking?"

"I’m sorry, Trish, but I think somebody’s got their wires crossed here. There was some stranger phoned you up but he clearly didn’t know you that well and I didn’t want to give out private information. I just said I didn’t think you were interested in seeing someone. You don’t know what creeps and weirdos – "

"I specifically told you that if someone called Jonathan rang, I wanted to meet up with him again."

"Is that what he told you? That I said you weren’t available?"

"Precisely," Tricia almost hissed the word.

"He must have got hold of the wrong end of the stick, this Jonathan chap. Look – who are you going to trust? – a comparative stranger or the person you share a house with. I’m your friend. I’d never do anything to upset you."

Tricia took a breath and paused. "This isn’t the right place to discuss it. But I want a word with you when I get home."

"Trish, I – " But Tricia was already dealing with someone at the reception desk. "Damn," said Jade to herself. "Let’s see how long this Jonathan lasts when I’ve dealt with him."

****

Daisy called in at her husband’s shop, Paws For Thought.

"What are you doing here at this time of day?" said Foster.

"I just thought you’d like to know what’s wrong with our son, seeing as you haven’t been taking much of an interest."

"Do my a favour, lady, I’m as concerned as you – I just didn’t notice the way a mother does. So what is the news?"

Suddenly Daisy began to cry.

"Daisy – what is it? What’s wrong with Luther?"

Daisy couldn’t stop sobbing. She handed Foster a leaflet she had got from the surgery. "This is what the doctor thinks it might be."

Foster looked at the leaflet. "But this is not possible."

"The doctor’s going to do further tests. But he’s pretty sure already. This is what’s wrong with our son. And it will affect him for life!"

End Of Episode 19.

Magnolia Close Episode 18. Crossed Wires.

2011-09-27T07:36:00.000-07:00

"So you are going to school today, after all?" said Martha.

"Of course," said Brooke, "why not?"

"You weren’t so keen a few days ago."

"I want to get my A levels. I’ve got resits in two months."

"I’m glad you’re sounding more confident."

"Yeah. I think I’m going to do well this time round," said Brooke.

"It’s good you approve of Hope Academy now. I’ve been thinking I might enrol there on a night-school class."

"Doing what?"

"They run a course in business administration. Advanced secretarial, word-processing and so on. I thought it might be a good idea if I’m to get back the world of work. Help out with the pennies. We could always do with a bit extra."

"That’s true enough. We don’t know what trouble Dad will be in yet after his caveman behaviour."

"Let’s not dwell on that," said Martha.

Celine, looking on, was horrified. "You’re thinking of going to that dump of a school too?"

"Why not?" said Martha. "You’re never too old to learn."

"I think it will do Mum good to see what we have to go through," said Brooke to Celine.

Celine collapsed on the sofa with a long face. "I think everybody in this family has gone nuts."

"Keep you eyes closed," said Ashleigh. "OK, here’s your surprise – you can open them now."

Benson did he was told and gasped in amazement at what he saw. "A digital SLR!" He picked up the camera and handled it almost as if it were a religious treasure. He spoke in quiet awe. "Where on Earth did you get the money to buy this?"

"I got it from the magazine. Women Talk give discounts to their staff sometimes on second-hand bits and pieces. I played up being a graphic artist and said how it would help me in my work and they offered it to me. Plus I’ve got a bonus this month for finishing my probation there."

"You’re permanent staff now?" Benson was delighted.

"You betcha!" Ashleigh beamed.

"Wow – things are certainly looking up for this family."

"Well… I saw how disappointed you were when you had to hand back that other camera. Promise me you’ll never have anything to do with that Douglas again. He’s as bent as a dog’s hind leg."

"I promise. No problem."

Walter carried two cups of tea into the lounge. He handed one to Gladys and sat down beside her, taking a sip.

"You do realise – this wedding anniversary coming up will be our Jubilee wedding."

"What?" said Gladys.

"I know – it’s hard to believe – fifties years of ‘bledded wiss,’" he joked. "Doesn’t seem a day over forty-five."

"What our you talking about?" Gladys looked vaguely shocked.

"Our wedding anniversary. I suppose we’d better make it a big do. Invite all the family. We don’t know when we might get the chance again to be all together for a celebration."

"Fifty years? It’s not that long. I’ll have to check with my husband."

Walter was startled. He put down his tea. "Gladys – what’s the matter? I am your husband."

"Oh no," said Gladys, gravely. "My husband is a much younger man."

As Daisy Woods entered Greenfields Surgery she was pleased to see the familiar face of Tricia McAndrew behind the desk. However she was somewhat surprised by her expression – she seemed to be just staring into space.

"Hello, Tricia. Is everything alright?"

"What? Oh, I’m sorry – I didn’t see you there."

"I gathered that. You know, the French have a phrase for that – ‘Your mind was on the moon.’ Is anything the matter?"

"No… no," Tricia hesitated. "I think I’m just finding it’s taking me longer than I expected getting used to a house-share."

"Is it going alright? I thought Jade worked with you here."

"It’s her day off today. We cover some different shifts. Perhaps it’s just as well – I think I still need a little time on my own."

"So you wouldn’t be interested in meeting up at The Petrel tonight for a drink?"

Tricia managed a grin. "Now I didn’t say that. The only thing that would stop me is if I had a date with a fellah."

"You likely to get a date?"

"I was thinking I just might. But it seems to be turning out to be only wishful thinking," she sighed. "Anyway, what can I do for you?"

"I need to make an appointment with Dr Fry. I’m still worried about Luther. He’s still losing weight. Even his pants keep slipping down like they’re a size too big. I want him to have a check-up."

"OK – when would suit you?"

Jade was relaxing at home in Number 23 when the telephone rang.

"Hello?"

A male voice answered. "Hi. Is Tricia there?"

"Who’s speaking, please?"

"My name’s Jonathan. We met the other night. You’d be the friend she was with, I guess."

"Ah Jonathan. Tricia said you might call. She left a message – she said she was not interested in seeing you again. I’m sorry."

"Oh. That’s a bit cold. Are you sure?"

"Definite. Those were her exact words."

"Goodnight, everybody," said Tricia as she was leaving the surgery.

"You not doing anything tonight?" said Helen, the on-duty receptionist.

"No – chance would be a fine thing. Just meeting a friend, that’s all."

As Tricia stepped outside, her mobile rang. She didn’t recognise the number.

"Hello, who’s that?"

"I’m Jonathan," came the voice. "We met the other night and you gave me both your numbers. Is that your house-mate on your land-land?"

"I suppose so."

"I’m just checking – did you tell her to say you didn’t want to see me again?"

"No! Definitely not. I've been hoping you would call."

"So you wouldn’t mind going out for a drink – say this Friday?"

"That would be lovely. When and where?"

"That’s a relief," said Jonathan. "Your house-mate must have got her wires crossed."

"She must," said Tricia. After the call, arrangements made, Tricia said to herself, "I think it’s about time I uncrossed them."

End Of Episode 18.

Magnolia Close Episode 17. Negotiations

2011-09-19T13:44:00.000-07:00

As the postman approached number 24, Magnolia Close, that morning, he could hear raised voices. All female, an adult and, he presumed, two children. He didn’t need to get that near to hear them either. He certainly knew better than to hang around. He dropped two items of mail and beat a prudent, hasty retreat.

"I am not going to that school again!" Brooke was shouting at her mother, Martha.

"Me neither," Celine added.

"How are you going to pass your re-sits if you don’t go to school? And now look what you’ve done? You’ve upset Celine!"

"I’ve upset Celine? What about me? Doesn’t it matter if I’m upset? Never mind that little twit."

"Brooke!" Martha was really mad now, and she meant it. "You are not to call your sister things like that. I’ve warned you once. I will not put up with it and you are going to be in serious trouble."

The doorbell rang. Martha could not say what serious trouble Brooke would be in. Embarrassed, she gave a side-long nod to her two daughters. "The pair of you – get in the kitchen." Martha straightened herself and attempted to hide the anger from her face before opening the door.

"Mrs Ames? I’m Robert Farrah. I was wondering whether I could have a word with you."

Jade shuffled into the kitchen still in her dressing gown to find Tricia already there sipping a cup of coffee.

"Gosh – you’re up with the lark."

"I know. I woke early and couldn’t get back to sleep."

"But it’s Saturday – our day off. No sick people bothering us at the health centre. It was a good night, wasn’t it?"

"Not bad, I suppose. I got some guy asking me for my phone number."

"Never! Really? Lucky old you. What was he like?"

"OK, I suppose."

"Think he’ll call?"

"Do they ever?" Tricia sipped at her coffee. "Well sometimes they do. Sometimes, when you see them a second time you wish they hadn’t bothered!"

They both laughed. "Tell me about it," said Jade.

"Did you get any chat-up lines?"

"No. I struck out. It must have been your lucky night."

Tricia paused. "Listen, Jade." She hesitated. "Don’t take this the wrong way, but we might both have done better if we’d split up a little – given the guys more of a chance."

"Was I crowding you? Oh, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to."

"No, not at all. But perhaps if we had some secret signal we could give each other – you know – if one of us is getting a bite – then the other would realise to, sort of, leave some space."

"Of course," said Jade. "Whatever you like."

"And the same would go for me if you had someone showing interest – then I would know to back off."

"Gotcha. Absolutely."

"And if some guy called Jonathan phones, hand him over to me!" Tricia forced a laugh.

"Yeah. Right."

"I am sorry about what happened to your husband," said Robert Farrah. "There’s nothing I could do."

"Couldn’t you just drop the charges?" said Martha Ames.

"I wish. The headmistress, Mrs Groves, is insisting on a prosecution, I’m afraid. It’s all part of a policy of zero tolerance of violence towards teachers. A sign of our times, I’m afraid."

"I understand," said Martha. "The thing I’m really worried about is if this gets back to his employers. He could lose his job."

"Has he ever been in trouble with the law before."

"No," she was shocked. "I don’t know what has come over him."

"You’ve no idea?"

"None. Celine’s been difficult, but what do you expect with a new school? Dennis had a word with Brooke to keep an eye on her because she’s back at Hope Academy doing re-sits. I don’t know whether it was something she said that made Dennis so angry but whatever it was, it’s no excuse."

"Hmm." Robert reflected. "I was wondering – would it be possible for me to have a word with Brooke? In private?"

"In private?" Martha hesitated. "I’m not sure that would be a good idea."

"I quite understand. It’s just that, sometimes, school children have things that they won’t open up about in front of their parents. You know the sort of thing – not handing homework, struggling with some topic."

"Where were you thinking?" Martha still wasn’t sure.

"If we could just go for a walk – out in public. I wouldn’t want to whisk her away where no-one could see us, if that’s what you’re thinking."

"Very well," she said. "I’ll go and ask her. She may say no."

"Of course."

Robert Farrah and Brooke Ames had walked in a tense silence to the gardens at the end of Magnolia Close.

"Brooke, what’s wrong?"

She didn’t answer.

"Have we ever met before? Have I ever done anything to you in a past life that I’ve forgotten about that makes you want to spread stories about me?"

"No."

"Then what is it? Whatever you told your father has landed him in trouble with the police, and your mother says that it may even affect his job. If you are going to go to university you are going to need all the financial help they can give. Why are you telling tales about me?

"They’re not tales! My best friend told me about what you got up to at your last school before you came here!"

"And you believed her, just like that?"

"Why not?"

"Because they are just tales. Something somebody made up. If you check you will find I left that school without a blot on my character. Coming to Hope Academy was for a better job, that’s all. Now I’d like you to stop spreading rumours before they cause any more harm. Can you do that?"

"Perhaps," she sulked. "What’s in it for me?"

"I see, It’s like that, is it?"

"Why not?"

"You’ve got re-sits coming up, haven’t you. Maybe I could help."

"Get me through?"

"Yes. Sort something. Deal?"

She hesitated. "Deal."

End Of Episode 17.

Magnolia Close Episode 16. Motives And Secrets

2011-09-13T14:54:00.000-07:00

Dennis Ames marched up to the reception desk of Hope Academy with a look on his face that no-one should cross him. The receptionist, Mrs Cooke, looked up.

"Can I help you, Mr… er…?

"Ames. I’m Dennis Ames. I’ve come to see the headmistress."

"Do you have an appointment to see Mrs Groves, Mr Ames?"

"I’ve not taken time off work just to mess about making appointments."

"I’m sorry, but Mrs Groves is very busy – "

"Either she can see me now or I’m going to the police!"

"What’s it in connection with?" Mrs Cooke tried to remain calm.

"It’s in connection with," Dennis Ames said, mocking her, "the fact that you’ve got a pervert working here as a teacher!"

Foster looked up as the shop door to Paws For Thought opened and his wife, Daisy, came in. "Oh," he said, "I was half-hoping you were another customer."

"So we’ve had some then?"

"Yes, sort of. In body, if not in spirit."

"How do you mean?" Daisy said, donning an overall coat as she slipped behind the counter.

"I dunno," Foster hesitated. "That old dear, Mrs Ashton, was in here to buy some millet for her bird."

"I didn’t know she still had a bird. I thought her budgie died some time back."

"So did I. But she insisted she still had him."

Daisy started unbuttoning her husband’s overall to hurry him home. The sooner he got back from lunch, the sooner she could leave. "Odd," she said.

"That’s what I thought. Then there was that woman from the health centre –what’s-her-name?"

"Tricia, you mean?"

"That’s her. She came in looking half lost to collect her regular order."

"The cat-food? What was wrong with her?"

"Nothing. Only looked like her mind was on another planet."

"Don’t be like that! I like Tricia. I went to see her about Luther the other day. She’s very nice."

"What’s wrong with Luther?" Foster bent to pick up his coat. Even autumn in England still felt cold to him.

"You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said about him lately, have you?"

"Well, what then?"

"The fact the he’s always eating yet he’s as thin as a rake."

"He’s a growing boy. You worry too easy."

"And here’s you, worrying about your customers. Tricia’s probably got a lot on her mind."

"Such as what?"

"Having a new house-mate for a start. It must take a bit of getting used to."

"I know who you mean now – that new young woman who’s just moved in."

"Keep your eyes off her," Daisy said, catching a note in his voice. "She’s nearer Luther’s age than yours."

"That wasn’t what I was thinking," Foster countered.

"Well, what then?"

"Just that – if business here doesn’t pick up soon, we might be looking for a lodger."

"And where would we put Luther?"

"In the shed, maybe?"

Tricia had arrived at the surgery early despite her shopping trip. As much as anything she had wanted to get out of the house before Jade was up. There would be no avoiding her at work however. She deliberately busied herself with double-checking the phoned-in requests for repeat prescriptions, even though one of the practice nurses would go through them anyway and prepare them for a GP’s signature. She just needed to be doing something by the time Jade got there.

Sure enough, Jade arrived, bang on time. I can’t fault her for punctuality, Tricia thought.

"Good morning," said Jade.

"What? Yes. A good morning. Fine." Tricia stared even harder at the requests.

"What are you doing?"

"These."

"They’re repeat requests, aren’t they? I thought you said we only noted them down then passed them on?"

Tricia stopped. This was no good. She would have to think of something else. No – that wouldn’t work either. She would have to face this head on. "About the other night, she said at last.

"Yes?"

Tricia stared hard into the middle distance. "I just need you to know that… that I don’t do that sort of thing."

"What sort of thing?"

"You know."

"Kiss?" Jade looked genuinely shocked.

"Not with – with other girls!"

Jade’s jaw dropped. "Goodness! I didn’t – I mean I’m not –"

"Now if there was a nice boy around, then that might be a different story."

Jade continued to look horrified with shock. "Well – the same goes for me too. I didn’t mean to make you think I was coming on to you."

"It’s just not right."

"Of course not. I’m boys only too." Jade looked up to the ceiling as if seeking help. "I can’t believe you thought that I was… it was just a goodnight kiss. Perhaps it was a bit too much. But I’d had a lot to drink. It wasn’t meant as anything like that. Honestly."

"Really?"

"Really!"

"Now I feel even more stupid. You just seemed to be a bit too affectionate."

"I know I can be a terrible flirt especially when I’ve had a drink or two. But that’s all it was. But don’t feel stupid. I’m the one who’s made a fool of herself."

"Oh no, you’ve not. Let’s just call it quits. What I’d really like is too meet a half decent fellah. I’ve been trying for so long, but always seem to get the useless ones."

"Tell me about it," said Jade. "Tell you what – this week-end let’s go uptown and paint the place red. Go man-hunting."

Tricia sighed with relief. "OK. Let’s."

"Good. Sorted." said Jade. She took a side-long glance at Tricia.

Pity.

"Mr Ames," said Mrs Groves, the headmistress of Hope Academy, "Mr Farrah is on his way to my office right now. I don’t know why your daughter, Celine, has been getting so upset in her lessons, but I am sure we can sort this out."

Dennis Ames nodded without speaking. There was a knock at the door and Robert Farrah came in. "Mrs Groves? How can I help?"

"I’ll show you how," said Dennis, and promptly punched Robert in the face. "Kiddy-fiddler!

End Of Episode 16

Magnolia Close Episode 15. The Awful Truth.

2011-09-07T06:30:00.000-07:00

Foster Woods was opening up Paws For Thought, the pet shop that his father, Zachary, had left to him and which Zachary himself had started many years ago, after he had come to England from The Caribbean.

Zachary had emigrated hoping for a better life, with all the economic opportunities the centre of The Commonwealth had to offer. But the streets had not been paved with gold and jobs were erratic. Finally, he decided to become self-employed. All in all, it had been a good move. Success in business was said to depend on location and he had picked a good place selling pet supplies in a reasonably affluent area.

Foster reflected that another piece of good luck was needed now. Customers had become increasingly scarce in the current economy, and takings had been dwindling for some time. He was therefore grateful to see a familiar customer already waiting at the door.

"Good morning, Tricia, how are you today?"

"What?" Tricia seemed startled by the question. "Oh, I’m… I’m fine, thank you."

"Now there’s a face that hides a few thoughts. It’s not Moxie, your cat, causing that frown, is it?"

"No," Tricia shook her head. "No. It’s… it’s nothing really."

"That’s a relief. Your usual order, is it? I’ll take it out to your car."

Just at that moment, a less familiar figure entered the shop.

"Hello, Mrs Ashton. Long time since you been here."

"Is it?" Gladys said, a little surprised. "I just want some millet for my Joey."

"You’ve got a new budgie then?

"Joey? No. We’ve had him for ages. What a thing to say."

Foster shot a glance at Tricia and was about to make a comment, but he could see he was not likely to get much of a response. Sometimes customers could be baffling. Interesting but baffling.

Sammy opened the door to find Buster Keaton on the step. It was unusual for him to have callers on his day off and preferred not to be interrupted in what had become his routine.

"Mr Carter? I want to have a word with you. May I come in?"

"Is it important? I was just about to have a nap? Sorry – that was rude. Of course – come in."

Sammy showed Buster into the lounge. "Excuse the mess," he said, removing discarded take-away food cartons from a chair. However, Buster did not sit.

"Mr Carter," Buster pulled out a sheaf of paper printed off from a computer. "Can you explain these photographs? That is you isn’t it?"

Sammy looked at the first two pages and turned white. "Where did you get these?"

"I think you know where. What I want to know is how they got on Mr Farrah’s camera in the first place."

"Oh God…" said Sammy. He moved away and, picking up a bottle of scotch and a glass from the floor, poured himself a very stiff drink.

"It was really, really stupid of me," said Sammy.

"I don’t doubt that. What did you think you were doing?" said Buster.

"You’ve got to understand. It’s ever since the divorce – you knew my wife and I had split up?"

"I think I heard something."

"I thought it would be a trial separation. Then it got to two years, and she sent me the papers… the papers that…" Sammy took a hard drink from his glass.

"What’s this got to do with dirty pictures of yourself?" Buster asked, softly.

"It’s just nuts." A thought struck Sammy, and a look of horror crossed his face. "The hotel doesn’t need to know about this, does it? I’d lose my job. Without that, I’ve had it."

"That depends," said Buster. "Just tell me what happened."

Sammy took a deep breath. "I was doing the round of the rooms. I think I may have had a couple of drinks. Things haven’t… you know? I saw the camera. I just thought it would be, well, be fun, to take a couple of pictures of myself. I’ve been so lonely… it’s been a long time… even before we split up. I just thought it would be fun. I was only borrowing the camera."

"Go on."

"Well, I must have sobered up a bit and tried to delete the pictures but I didn’t know how. I saw the Farrahs coming back. I panicked and put the camera back. I hoped they wouldn’t notice. Afterwards I realised that was … wishful thinking."

"Somewhat," said Buster.

"When I saw them moving in, I decided to see them and own up. When I called on them, though, I just couldn’t. Then I saw the camera, just lying there. I grabbed it and cleared off. But I still couldn’t figure out how to work the bloody thing."

"What did you do then?"

"I didn’t know what to do. I really didn’t want anyone seeing me… abusing myself. I just wanted to get rid. It wasn’t funny anymore."

"You were never planning to post these, say, on The Internet?"

"Good God, no! I wouldn’t even know how."

"So what did you do?"

"Really stupid. I just chucked the camera in a bin. I thought – they’ll be insured. No loss."

"You didn’t know Douglas had seen you?"

"Of course not. If I’d known that little tow-rag was about… It’s not like I tried to sell it to him or anything. Do you believe me?"

Buster rubbed his chin. "As a matter of fact, I do. I hope I’m not going stupid my old age."

"So you’re not going to tell anyone."

"It’s not a crime to be stupid. I think that’s all you’ve been. The Farrahs are getting their camera back – without the smut-fest. No-one else need know. But I’m warning you – I’ll be keeping a very close eye on you from now on."

Sammy saw Buster to the door. "One last thing," said Buster. "You might consider getting some help. Try speaking to your doctor."

Sammy nodded and promised he would do that. After closing the door, he poured himself another very large scotch.

END OF EPISODE 15

Magnolia Close Episode 14. Exposed.

2011-08-29T03:15:00.000-07:00

Celine Ames was letting her mother Martha get her ready for the newcomers’ visiting day at Hope Academy. “Looks like we’re going to be at the same school after all, if you’re doing re-sits!” said Celine to her sister.
“Not if I can help it.”
“Have you still not got an offer of a place?” said Martha.
“No I haven’t. The last college said they would call me back if they turned up anything.”
“I thought that Track website run by UCAS was going to help get you a place?”
“They said they’d run out of courses like mine.”
“You should have got on it earlier, instead of messing around,” said Celine.
“Oh shut up, you!”
“What does she mean?” said Martha.
“Brooke’s got a boyfriend, Brooke’s got a boyfriend.”
“You will have a boyfriend if you get in that pervert’s class, you little freak!”
“Brooke! Don’t you talk to your sister like that!”

****

“What are you staring at?” Walter asked his wife Gladys. When she didn’t speak, he looked out of the window in the direction she was staring.
“There’s that Sammy Carter, coming home early from work again.” She said at last.
“What’s that got to do with you, you nosy old bag?”
“He’s always coming home early these days. I wonder if he’s not well. He doesn’t look too well. And there’s Martha, taking Brooke off to school.”
Walter looked again. “That’s not Brooke, that’s her younger sister, Celine.”
“Oh, of course. If she’s going to a new school, you’d think Dennis, the father, would be going to check it out.”
“And take a day off work? That’s a mother’s job. He’s more old-fashioned about that kind of thing than we are old.” Walter chuckled to himself. Gladys didn’t seem to hear him.
“There’s that Sammy Carter, coming home early from work again,” she said.

****

“Here’s that written description you wanted,” said Robert Farrah, handing over a slip of paper.

“Thanks,” said Buster. “But if this doesn’t work, I’ll have to make it official. Or drop it.”
“Whatever you think best,” said Robert. “Now I’ve got to and meet some of next year’s new pupils.”
He left Buster at the entrance to Hope Academy and went down to the corridor to the junior assembly hall where children about to join the school and their parents were gathering.
“Hello and welcome to you all from Hope Academy. I can see a lot of faces I’m going to get to know in the coming year,” he said, looking round, “and one or two that are familiar to me already.” He spotted Martha Ames with her daughter and smiled.
Celine screamed and ran out of the room before Martha could stop her.

****

“Mr Fairhurst?” Buster said, “Can I come in and have a word with you?”

“What about? And what’s he doing with you?” Benson indicated Douglas, who was standing, looking somewhat reluctant to be there, at Buster’s side.
“Let us in and I’ll explain.”

Buster was sitting in the lounge of Benson Fairhurst’s house with a digital SLR camera in his lap and a slip of paper, with two unhappy looking men facing him.
“So – to me, this looks like the camera that went missing from number 23, Magnolia Close earlier this summer. Would you care to explain how you came to have it, Mr Fairhurst? You are aware that it is a criminal offence to receive stolen goods?”
“I – I bought it off him – Douglas Gormley. But it was in good faith. He told me he’d bought it from a business that was closing down.”
“That’s we he told me,” said Buster. “It didn’t strike you as odd that it didn’t come in a box? Mr Gormley,” he turned to Douglas, “where did you get this camera? Didn’t you steal it from Robert Farrah, as he was moving in? You were there that afternoon. I saw you myself.”
“No, honestly…” Douglas shook his head. “I found it.”

****

“What was that all about?” said Martha to Celine when she finally caught up with her at home.
Celine, in floods of tears, was hardly able to speak, when Brooke came into the room. Suddenly, Celine pointed at her sister and through sobs yelled, “It’s all your fault, you big sod!”
“Celine!”
“Don’t you talk to me like that, you little creep,” said Brooke.
Celine turned to her mother. “She told me. She told me that new bloke at number 23 is a pervert and he’s going to be teaching at Hope.”
“Is this true?” said Martha.
“And the only reason,” Celine butted in again, “that she’s going to have to go back and do re-sits is because she didn’t get in touch with the University after she got her crap exam results. She didn’t get in on to Clearing because was fooling around with a boy!”
“Shut it, you little dirt-bag!”
“Boy?” What boy?” said Martha.
“Max. Maxie Fairhurst.”

****

“You found it!” said Buster. “I cannot believe any crook is still using that daft excuse.”
“But it’s true, Mr Keaton, I swear. It was in a litter-bin. I even saw the bloke who threw it away.”
At that moment, Maxwell Fairhurst came into the room.
“What’s up, Dad?”
“That damn camera you wanted me to buy – it was stolen!”
“It wasn’t!” Douglas insisted. “I actually saw this bloke throw the camera into a bin. I thought, ‘waste not, want not’ so I took it.”
“What bloke?” said Buster. “Don’t give me that.”
“He could be telling the truth,” said Max. “Wait there a moment.”
“I’m going to jail over a damn camera,” said Benson to no-one in particular.
Max returned with his laptop computer. “Here,” he said to Buster and Douglas. “Look at these pictures. Mr Gormley, is that the bloke you saw throw the camera away?”
Douglas craned forward to look at the laptop’s screen. “Yeah, that’s him. He lives round here, doesn’t he?”
“That’s Sammy Carter!” said Buster. “But what the bloody hell is he doing in those pictures?”

END OF EPISODE 14

Magnolia Close Episode 13. Results.

2011-08-22T05:00:00.000-07:00

Brooke Ames found herself unable to get out of the car. Her mother, Martha, had driven her to Hope Academy on the most fateful day Brooke had ever known in her life. The day when she found out whether all the effort she had struggled to make over the last two years were going to pay off. Or prove to be just an over-ambitious waste of time. The day that would change all of her life, forever.

Results day.

Her mother got out of the car, walked round and opened the door on Brooke’s side.

"I can’t get out, Mum. What if I’ve not got my grades?"

"Well the results aren’t going to change just because you stay sitting there."

"But I so want to go to university."

"The other week you were saying you wanted to stay at home."

"That’s not true!" Brooke snapped. "Why would I have worked so hard if I wanted to stay at home?"

Martha realised that she was not being particularly sympathetic. She had hated school and back in her day she was just glad to leave and didn’t care about qualifications. She had been quite content to be a home-maker. But now, she too was thinking of going to night-school to see if she could get a part-time job, something in an office perhaps. "Come on," she said softly, "whatever you’ve got, you’ve got to find out some time."

Just then Brooke noticed across the car park a familiar figure going into the school building. "What’s he doing here?"

"Who?" Martha looked at where Brooke was staring. "Isn’t that that new chap who’s just moved in to number 23? He’s going to be a new teacher here, isn’t he?"

Brooke suddenly snapped upright and quickly got out of the car. "Whatever I’ve got, I’m not coming back here to do re-sits."

****

Inside, the corridor was cool and oppressively familiar, and bustling with activity. The results were being handed out in envelopes by some of the staff at a desk set up in the foyer. Disturbingly, there were cries of jubilation mixed in with faces blank with disappointment and, either way, everyone seemed to be hugging everybody else like they had just survived an air-crash.

Brooke got to the desk and gave her name and was handed an envelope.

"What did you need again?" said Martha.

"Two A’s and a B. Someone said I might just get away with two B’s."

"Well – go on – open it!"

Brooke took a breath. Here she would see in black and white officially what her worth was, in the eyes of the academic system. She looked down at the slip of paper. She could not believe what she saw.

****

"What you doing this afternoon?" Benson asked his son, Maxwell, who was sat at his new laptop computer and reading Facebook.

"Dunno. Nothing much. Why?"

"I thought you might like to come along with me and see put the new camera through its paces."

"You mean you want me to help you figure out how to use it."

"I’m open to advice. It wouldn’t hurt you to show some gratitude for me getting you that – " he indicated the laptop.

"I still don’t know how you afforded both a computer for me and a new camera for yourself."

"Well… they were a bargain. And they were both second-hand. I’m sorry if it’s not the latest model. Not that you seem to be doing that much school-work on it anyway."

Maxwell bridled at this remark. "I was wondering when that was going to come up. And another thing, where did you get that camera from?

"What’s it to you?"

"This is just a cheapy machine but that camera’s top of the range. You always were going on about how you had no money."

Benson sighed, disappointed. "Like I said, they were both a bargain. It wouldn’t hurt you to show a little gratitude, all the same."

Benson snapped the lid of the laptop shut. "Oh for God’s sake…" he said, and walked out.

Kids, Benson thought. What were you supposed to do to please them?

****

Brooke got back into her mother’s car, unable to speak.

"What was it again?" said Martha.

After a pause, Brooke said, "Two Bs and a C."

"That’s nearly good enough, isn’t it?"

"‘Nearly good enough’ isn’t good enough!"

"Don’t you raise your voice to me! What did that nice lady say you should do?"

hone my first choice and see what they say, which will almost certainly be ‘no,’ then phone up Clearing and see if I can scrape in anywhere else."

"That will be something," said Martha. "Not all hope is lost, eh?"

"You don’t understand," said Brooke. "It’s not the same as getting your first choice. I might not even be able to do the course I want."

"But you will still be at university."

Brooke looked at her mother with a mixture of anger and frustration. Why couldn’t she understand? Then she saw Robert Farrah again, this time coming out of the school building. It was all too much. Brooke leapt out of the car and hurried off.

****

It was some time later that Brooke happened to meet Maxwell as he was wandering, seeming equally lost in thought, down the end of the close.

"Hey, Brooke. How’d the results go?"

How many more times she was going to be asked this horrible question. "Max! I’ve failed."

"Don’t be daft. Of course you’ve not failed. You must have got something."

She handed the fateful slip of paper to Max.

"What was your firm offer?"

"Two A’s and a B," she found herself saying yet again.

"There’s still a chance then. And there’s always Clearing."

"Not you and all," she said bitterly. This time, she began to cry.

Max gently put his arms around her. "We’ll sort something out."

"I don’t think so," she sniffed.

"Come on. I’ll take you back to mine. Dad’s out, so we’ll have the place to ourselves."

End of Episode 13

Magnolia Close Episode 12. Looking For Clues.

2011-08-18T17:13:00.000-07:00

"Where are the pamphlets for tomorrow’s conference guests?"

"What pamphlets?" said Sammy.

"The conference of wholesale confectioners – they sent us a pack of leaflets that were to be put out in each delegate’s room." This was Donald McClintock, Sammy’s deputy at Merlin Court.

"Oh. Er, Sorry. I knew there was something…"

"Look," said Donald quietly, standing close. "I’ll sort it out. Why don’t you go home and sleep it off?"

"Sleep what off?"

"And take that bottle with you. There’s no point in putting back a half-empty. I’ll put it down as a breakage."

****

"My Dad’s not in," said Maxwell Fairhurst.

"It’s not Benson I’ve come to see," said Buster Keaton. "It’s you I’ve come to see."

"What about?"

"The other night – when you were with Brooke Ames."

"Yeah. So?"

"What were you up to?"

"What’s it got to do with you?"

"What were you doing?"

"Homework."

"Don’t give me that," said Buster. "See this face. You don’t lie to it, right? You’re both on school holiday for the summer."

"Well… we were just spending some time together. You know? It’s not against the law, is it?"

"No, it isn’t, but that doesn’t make it alright. And did Brooke buy some alcohol?"

"She got some cans of beer in."

"Now she’s old enough to drink. But you’re not."

"Not in public. But I can in private, with an adult."

Buster knew he had a point. He didn’t trust him. But that was probably only because he was a teenager. "Just you make sure you don’t get her to buy it for you from the off-licence. I would take what we adults call ‘a dim view.’ Do you get my meaning?"

"Don’t worry, Mr Keaton. I didn’t touch anything. Either Brooke or anything alcoholic."

Buster suddenly noticed something, past Maxwell’s shoulder, hanging from the coat-rack by its strap. "Has your father got a new camera at last?"

"Goodbye, Mr Keaton." Maxwell closed the door.

Buster had had doors closed in his face before. It never reassured him. It only made him want to come back and ask more questions. And, usually, he did.

As for Maxwell, he leaned with his back to the door and let out a long, deep sigh. He knew what had been on that camera, before he deleted it all for his father. But he’d kept copies on his laptop too. Just in case he needed them. He had a feeling he might.

****

"How was work down at The Petrel?" Douglas asked Maddy.

"Oh, the usual. Mostly quiet. That new couple were in again, but I think they’ll soon get bored. And Sammy had to be helped out the door again."

"Why don’t you ask old man Spencer for a night off?"

"Because we need the money."

"Well, it just happens I’ve got a bit of money to spare at the moment."

"You have?! Have you been in my purse?"

Douglas looked hurt. "No! This is my money. Made it, fair and square. I was wondering whether you fancied an evening out. We could go up town."

"Not on the horses. Don’t tell me you got lucky."

"I got lucky. But not on the horses. How about it?"

****

Brooke Ames opened the door of number 25, Magnolia Close to Shannon Cahill, a friend of hers from Hope Academy.

"You nervous about results tomorrow?"

"A bit," said Brooke. "You?"

"A bit," said Shannon. "But I’ll tell you what’s worrying me most."

"What?"

"Having to stay another term to do re-sits at Hope Academy."

"Yeah, it would be a real drag."

"Not just that, – I’ve got a friend, Clare, who goes to Eastfields. She says she knows that new teacher they are just about to get. A bloke called Farrah."

"Robert Farrah?"

"Oh, you’ve heard of him then?"

"Yeah. You could say that. What about it?"

"Turns out he was a teacher at Eastfields. But he had to leave ‘cos it turns out he’s a bit of a pervert. Specially with schoolgirls."

"What?!"

"No lie. He was a new teacher there just a year ago but he got up to something and they had to give him the heave-ho."

"What did he get up to?"

"You’d have to meet Clare and ask her for the gory details. We’d better just hope were leaving this summer and we get the grades we need. Where you hoping to go?"

"Aston in Birmingham. I want to do media studies."

"Well… here’s hoping. Hey, isn’t your kid sister Celine supposed to be starting at Hope in the autumn?"

****

Robert Farrah knocked on the door of number 29 and was greeted by Lucille Keaton.

"Mrs Keaton?"

"That’s right."

"I was wondering – is your husband at home? I could do with having a word with him."

"Business or pleasure?"

"I’m afraid it’s probably more business than pleasure. Though it is nice to meet you."

"That’s alright," Lucille said coolly. "Please come him. Buster’s through there."

Buster was watching some cop drama on the TV.

"Sorry, I’m interrupting your relaxing."

"That’s alright. Real police work is nothing like most tele shows it. What can I do for you?"

"I don’t want to make it official. But, you know that day we moved in and you came to introduce yourself? You said we should keep an eye on whatisname? – Douglas?"

"What about him?"

"Well, we had a camera when Nas and started unpacking – a digital SLR – but afterwards – after he’d been – we couldn’t find it. We haven’t seen it since."

"Really, if you think someone’s taken it, you should report it."

"I know, but if you could have a discrete word…"

"Hm. If I had a pound for all of them, I wouldn’t need to work as a detective." Buster paused. "Alright. I’ll see what I can do. "

After Robert Farrah had gone, Lucille came up to her husband and put his hand on her shoulder. "That’s him. That’s the one we were talking about at social services. He’s a bad ’un, by all accounts."

End of Episode 12

'The Deadline', for Grazia and the Orange Prize competition

2011-08-15T05:30:00.000-07:00

The Deadline

She stood looking up at the house. At the blank grey walls, the shuttered windows with empty boxes on the concrete sills, the stern front door. The house said nothing about what it was or what took place inside, it was unassuming and nondescript and uninviting. She’d come here several times before, but never got the courage to go in. Now, there was no choice. The deadline was today, no last chance of a reprieve or change of heart. If she was going to do it, it had to be now. She shivered, chill from the sudden drop in temperature now the light was fading, or from excitement or from fear, she didn’t know. Also, the sense of possibility that, by pressing this suburban doorbell, her life could – would – alter for good. But still she lingered on the unwashed step, picking at a thread of wool come loose from her glove, caught between the girl she was and the woman she might be. A deadline she never thought she would face…

(Introduction by Kate Mosse)

She walked up stone steps into a long corridor. A bare light bulb flickered and spluttered. Sporadically it popped bright; a burst of white light showed up damp stains on the walls, like the slick shell of a snail, speckled black and brown. The place reminded her of a fairground haunted house. Mushrooms had sprouted from the edges of cornices; delicate grey heads curled out of the wood, bursting from a tangle of slim white stalks. The wallpaper was shredded in places, and strips fell away like origami swan wings. Black and white photographs, chewed and mouldering, hung crookedly here and there. She felt eyes and claws, beaks and noses, straggling out of the frames.

They reminded her of walking along the streets of the city. The reason why the deadline pressed upon her. There was something smarmy that followed her in the crowd, as people jostled for pavement space. It was an insidious filth that crept into the lining and wound around the stitches of her clothes; hot dust that settled on her skin and crystals of dirt that rubbed under her fingernails. Faces became evil and whorish, they snapped at her with tigerish grins. The desire to be lifted up was too much. Tomorrow she would be twenty-four, and her life would be an empty smoke dream: all those listless nights numbed with wine and puffed up with chips sodden in vinegar. She lay catatonic in the darkness, tangled in stale sheets, the distance that yawned between her and the person next to her growing wider. Every day when she came home she rubbed herself raw with little bars of yellow soap, but it was never enough. After a few moments she felt people crawl and clamour at her again, and her skin itched right down to the bone. She wanted her body to be carved away to a neat sample size, her eyebrows to flick into perfect arches, and an eternal red bow to paint over her lips. She had made a call, and fixed an appointment.

The glare of the bulb in the corridor had faded as she reached the doorknob at the far end; the light contracted to two glowing red filaments. As she blindly entered the room beyond, her head filled with an infernal whizzing and whirring: she felt the bones of her skull jarred by the sound of some inscrutable machine. Furniture glowered in the corners; in the gloom she could just make out tables that held some kind of industrial apparatus. As she approached them she saw greasy coils of wire, and test tubes that dripped with a treacly sludge.

‘Hello?’ she called out, wondering where he was.

‘Are you ready?’ a voice replied.

She was led by him to a battered old sofa, where he sat her down and slipped the heels from her feet. He talked her through the different stages once again, all the while unbuttoning and unzipping her clothes. He held her hands as she stepped out of her underskirt, speaking softly:

‘The fifth stage of the process will be signalled by a sound, like the chiming of bells…’

‘And after that?’ she murmured.

‘There will be no more fear, hesitation, or messiness. You will never be ugly or clumsy again!’

‘I’m so glad.’

When she was ready to start he held out a preparation for her to drink. It tasted like a milkshake that had been left out in the sun, thick and powdery, with a slimy translucent film on top. The noise of the room became muffled, as if she had been pushed underwater, and she found it difficult to focus on the objects around her. He guided her up a curving staircase to a small room with a dentist’s chair in the centre. He talked quietly about how things were going to go smoothly and how there would be nothing to worry about anymore. As metal cuffs clinked around her wrists and ankles, she became aware of a sound like the running of a finger round the rim of a water glass. It grew and grew; a pressure inside her head that splintered her thoughts. A sticky drop of blood ran down from her nose to her lip. There was a voice calling in the distance, and then a sensation of cold water slithering down her throat, as if there was a hand reaching deep inside her. Electric lights whizzed and spat in her eyes. Thoughts spun and danced away, until she no longer cared to know them.

After what felt like a long time she awoke to a dark room. She was flawless, he told her. He had scythed away silky layers of fat beneath skin, and cauterized the dimples from her thighs. Bone and leather were fissured into the exoskeleton of a thoroughly modern woman; her stocking seams, tracing down her legs like exposed nerves, would be forever straight. The zip of a pillar-box red skirt crackled, little metal teeth nipped her flesh.

‘Carving out your identity, and your place in the world, is so much easier when your inner self is bound up in ropes and gagged with scarves,’ he laughed as he led her out. He smiled, glanced over the new mask, and checked the stitches one last time. He handed her the manual, which he assured was only for emergencies. The door shut, and she was left alone in the corridor.

As she walked back to the street entrance, she noticed that the glass of the framed pictures on the walls had been smashed. Splinters crunched beneath new patent heels, and she saw herself reflected in the long claw like shards. A girl looked back at her from a glossy world, with a grinning red mouth that split her face in two. The thick mascara made her eyelids droop like a sleepy doll. She bared her teeth at the reflection. This was what perfection felt like.

Magnolia Close Episode 11. Call of Duty

2011-08-15T02:04:00.000-07:00

Liam "Buster" Keaton’s night out didn’t go quite as he had planned. He had dropped in at The Petrel intending just to put the day behind him and relax with a couple of pints, maybe have a chat with some of his neighbours. He was definitely not "on duty," as it were. The only thing was, he was the community officer for Magnolia Close and surrounding parts of the estate, a job he took very seriously and with some pride – he liked to think that he was in some way looking after his neighbours and was grateful for the opportunity to do so – but it did mean in effect that he was never really off-duty, in his mind. It was always in the back of his head that he had a certain responsibility to the people and place where he lived.

He was also aware that, while people always welcomed a policeman when something was the matter and that he might be able to help – a lost bike or a child late home – and that most of his neighbours were kindly disposed towards him, there were always some folk for whom the police represented some kind of threat. At very least they felt uncomfortable. He was used to this. The way some characters would not catch eyes with him, and would look away if he glanced in their direction. And they would never even think of engaging with him in conversation. It wasn’t everybody who was like this, but he was used to the ones who were.

"They sound happy," he remarked to Maddy, behind the bar and putting away glasses from the washer.

"Who?" For a moment, Maddy didn’t follow his drift – she herself was so used to customers gradually getting louder and more boisterous as the night went on, she tended to filter it out of her mind. This was not least because, given the choice, she would have been with them and having some fun herself, rather than stuck serving drinks and working. She, too, felt herself trapped by her duty at times. "Oh, Tricia, you mean? And her new house-mate."

"Seems like they are going to get along well." Buster took a long draw on his beer.

"Hmm." Maddy was non-committal. She knew that not all friendships lasted outside the halo of an evening’s drinks. "She seems to be getting her feet under the table, as they say."

Buster caught the note of caution in her voice, but chose not to remark on it. "Wasn’t that your Douglas just dashing off as I came in?"

"Yes. He said he had some – " she broke off. "He just wanted a quick one, one for the road."

Douglas was one of the characters with whom Buster would never get a chat out of. He was also aware, however, that Douglas’s erstwhile drinking partner was avoiding his gaze. He continued to study Benson Fairhurst even while carrying on talking to Maddy. Benson was not one of the types that habitually avoided eye-contact. But he was doing so tonight. "So who’s looking after your Bethanytonight?"

"Oh, don’t worry," said Maddy, as much as anything to reassure herself. "That nice Brooke Ames volunteered to baby-sit."

Buster digested this snippet of information also, and remained silent. Something was amiss here. He was reasonably sure he had seen Brooke hurrying across the car park just as he was pulling in. After some reflection, he said, "Maddy, would you mind keeping this under the counter till I get back?" He handed her the glass of beer. that, up till now, he had been enjoying, with a slight sigh of resignation. Never off duty, he thought to himself. "I just have to run a little errand."

"No problem," said Maddy. "Will you be wanting a top-up when you get back?"

"Better make it lemonade," he said. "I wouldn’t want to have to arrest myself for being over the limit."

Even as he was about to leave the bar, he was aware of the newcomers, Robert Farrah and fiancée, approaching him in that way people did when they wanted to ask a police-type question, rather than just say hello. It was something in the body language and, again, he was used to it and could spot it a mile off.

"Mr Keaton!", Robert Farrah began, cheerfully enough. "I was hoping we might run into you. There’s something that Nas and I wanted to ask you about."

There it was. Buster could always tell.

"I’m awfully sorry, Mr Farrah. I’ve just got to pop out for a moment." Buster always wanted to be helpful to everyone, but sometimes it was just not possible. Sometimes, one thing took priority over others. He nevertheless could sense the slight shrug of disappointment in Robert Farrah’s shoulders. He was a body-language expert. Whatever it was, he would have to get back to it later. He made a mental note – clearly something was up that was disturbing Mr Farrah’s peace of mind. But it would just have to wait.

Buster hurried out of the door before he was stopped by anybody else needing favours.

"Well! That was a bit disappointing," Robert said. "He was more helpful this afternoon."

Maddy said, "Don’t worry – he’s coming back. I’ve got his drink here."

"He did look he had something on his mind," Nasreen added. "I hope it wasn’t something too important. I suppose, being a policeman is one of those jobs that isn’t nine-to-five. How would you like it if pupils kept coming up to you when you went out for an evening."

"Don’t worry about him," said Maddy. "Takes himself very seriously sometimes. I think he just wants to feel important, like he’s the town sheriff. Anyway, welcome to Magnolia Close. Can I get you anything?"

Buster knocked on the door of number 25, Magnolia Close. He found himself waiting for some little time, and was already drawing his own conclusions about the reason for this, when The door opened and there stood Brooke Ames. For her part, she looked surprised.

"Mr Keaton. What’s up? Is something the matter?"

"Oh, no… no I don’t think so." Buster attempted to sound very relaxed about everything. He often found this helped those he dealt with relax also and sometimes drop their guard a little. "I just heard that you were doing a spot of baby-sitting and thought I’d swing by, make sure you were alright."

"Why shouldn’t I be?" Brooke answered, but without rancour. "Are you checking up on me?"

"Yes, I am in fact" he laughed. "Bad habit of mine, sticking my nose in other people’s business. Seriously though, a young lady in on her own – it’s part of my job, just to keep an eye out."

"But I’m not on my own. Mr Gormley’s here."

"Is he really?" said Buster, genuinely surprised. "I thought you were baby-sitting for him."

Behind her, Douglas Gormley appeared behind her from the living room. "Oh. Hello," said Douglas. Still wasn’t prepared to get into conversation.

"I was for a while, because Mr Gormley had to go out. But he’s back now, so I’ll be getting off."

"I’ll walk with you," Buster said. This was not just his being solicitous. There were a few questions he wanted to ask her.

"There’s no need." At the moment, Behind Douglas Gormley, Maxwell Fairhurst stepped out into the hall-way.

"I’ll see her home, Mr Keaton." Buster stepped aside as the two youngsters set off.

"Were you wanting anything else?" Douglas asked, when Buster appeared reluctant to leave.

"No," Buster sighed. "Oh, Just one thing – have you been to the local off-licence tonight?

"No. Why?"

"On the floor there. Isn’t that one of their carrier bags?"

"Must be an old one," said Douglas, closing the door.

End Of Episode 11

Magnolia Close Episode 10. Unwanted Exposure

2011-08-07T16:33:00.000-07:00

Brooke closed the inner door and was trapped in the vestibule for a moment. Should she just get out, maybe try the off-licences in the village instead? But it was a long walk and all she wanted was a couple of bottles. She opened the door a crack and sneaked another look. Benson was taking the camera from Douglas, who appeared to be whispering instructions to Benson. Almost reluctantly, she saw Benson slide the camera inside his own pocket. Why did that camera look so familiar?

Just at that moment, the outer door of the pub opened and in stepped Robert Farrah and his fiancée. And at that instant, she realised where and when she had seen that camera before.

Brooke turned and ran past the two newcomers and fled out into the night.

****

"I wonder what the matter was with her?" said Nasreen, watching the retreating sight of Brooke Ames.

Robert was already trying to get Maddy’s attention in order to be served. "Goodness knows," he said without even bothering to look. "I’ve spent enough time teaching young girls to not worry what makes them tick."

"That’s not very professional of you," said Nasreen, mock-serious. As Robert was getting their drinks she looked round at the other customers of The Stormy Petrel. It was a fairly quiet night, at least so far. But it was not an interest in how well business was doing – she had some time ago developed a consciousness of how white people sometimes reacted to her in various surroundings, especially pubs. On this occasion, however, she could see no reaction, just a few people sat around chatting and having drinks. In particular, she noticed Douglas, whom she remembered meeting earlier that day, and another man, in animated conversation, paying her no heed whatsoever – somewhat to her relief. She even noticed pass the other man an expensive-looking camera that the latter swiftly slipped into an inner pocket. Why, the camera reminded her of fiancé’s own camera, the one he said he couldn’t find… Just ordinary people going about ordinary things.

At that moment, two other women, one somewhat younger than the other but both less than middle-age, entered The Stormy Petrel. At least, though Nasreen to herself, there seemed to be no left-over of the old-fashioned notion that nice women didn’t go into bars alone. She thought she might get to like living in Magnolia Close.

"What do you want to drink?" Jade asked Tricia.

"No, no – my treat."

"Well, I was going to have a white wine. But if you’re paying, do you think I could have a vodka and tonic?"

Tricia hesitated. "Why not? It’s not every day you start a new job. Maddy?"

"Yes, Trish. And this is? – "

"Jade," she announced herself.

"What will it be?"

"Two vodka and tonics."

"Large ones," Jade added.

****

"You took your time," said Maxwell.

"I couldn’t go to The Petrel. I had to go all the way to the ‘Offy.’"

"Why?"

"Douglas and Maddy for a start. We’re supposed to be baby-sitting for them."

"Yeah, well. Douglas broke that deal. There weren’t any beers in the fridge all along. And I bet he knew it. Couldn’t you have got the landlord, old man Spencer, to serve you while Maddy wasn’t looking?"

"And there was your Dad, too. Talking with Douglas."

"What for?"

"How would I know what for…" Brooke bit her lip. "Was your Dad planning on buying anything off Douglas?"

"Such as what? He hasn’t even got the money for a pint half the time."

"I dunno. It looked like Douglas was giving him a camera."

"And where would somebody like Douglas get a camera from?" said Maxwell. He was also wondering what his father might do with a new camera.

****

Meanwhile down at The Stormy Petrel, Maddy was getting agitated. "Mr Spencer?" she said to the landlord – she always called him by his formal name whenever she wanted a favour – "Can you spare me for just a minute?"

Alan Spencer looked at his watch. "Make sure it is only a minute. We’re having quite a busy night for a midweek."

Maddy slipped from behind the bar and hurried over to Douglas. "Don’t you think you ought to be getting back to Bethany at this time of night?"

Douglas was about a third drunk. "There’s no need to rush back just yet. Brooke Ames and that you lad Max are looking after her."

"And who’s looking after them?"

Douglas ignored her point. "Besides, I’ve got a bit of cash to spare. I was thinking of making a night of it."

"How about making a night of it when we can both enjoy it?" She hissed.

"But everybody’s having fun," he protested. "Look at those two." He nodded in the direction of Tricia and Jade, who seemed to have their heads together sharing a huge joke. Although, to be fair, Jade was doing more of the laughing. At that moment, Liam ‘Buster’ Keaton also entered The Petrel. Douglas’ expression changed in a flash. "On second thoughts, maybe I ought to get back home. See what those young’uns are up to." Barely draining his glass, he was gone, leaving by the car-park exit.

Maddy was quick to get back behind the bar. "Yes, Mr Keaton, what can I get for you?"

Buster might have paid more attention to the sudden departure of Douglas, when Jade again burst out with girlish laughter.

"Whatever they’re having," he said with a grin. "On second thoughts, better make it a pint of bitter."

****

Some time later, Tricia and Jade staggered back into number 21, Magnolia Close. Jade seemed rather the worse for wear and Tricia had to help her upstairs.

"Oh I feel so… silly…" Jade sighed as she sank down on to her bed. "Can you help me take my shoes off?"

"Moxie," said Tricia.

"What?"

"Moxie. My cat. I must feed him before I go to bed. And don’t forget, we’ve both got to get up for work tomorrow." She lifted Jade’s feet on to the bed.

"Tomorrow’s a million miles away," Jade sighed, her eyes closing. As Tricia tried to draw the duvet over Jade, Jade put her arms around Tricia’s shoulders. "A million miles away." She pulled Tricia gently to her and kissed her on the lips. Tricia pulled back, disentangling herself.

"Moxie. Must go and feed Moxie," she said.

End Of Episode 10

Magnolia Close Episode 9. Snappy Business

2011-08-01T05:45:00.000-07:00

Jade Sweet stood in front of the bathroom mirror, studying her reflection. She pulled a face, turned her head slightly one way and then the other, then pouted her lips in a kiss. She was always very conscious of appearance – her own and other peoples – and she felt she needed a ‘look.’ Some special kind of way to set herself off that would get her noticed. By whom she wanted to be noticed, she wasn’t quite sure. She was sure that it was something she needed to work on. She put her hands to her face and pushed back her cheeks till her cheekbones stood out, and made another kiss expression.

"Well? Do you like yourself?"

Jade nearly jumped out of her skin. "Good God, Tricia – I didn’t hear you come in!"

"Apparently," Tricia smiled. "I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you."

Tricia was retreating down the stairs as Jade followed. "I didn’t know what time to expect you in. I thought we would be coming home from the surgery together and then you said you had to stay late and I thought you might be ages."

"There were just a few things I needed to do."

"Should I have stayed on too?" Jade was anxious.

"No, of course not." Tricia tried to laugh off Jade’s apparent discomfort. "After all, it was your first day."

"Did I make a good impression?" Jade was still ill at ease.

Tricia reached the bottom of the stairs then turned. "I think you did OK for your first day as a receptionist."

"I want the doctors to feel I’m doing a good job."

"I don’t think, to be perfectly honest, that they noticed you." Tricia gave a conspiratorial wink.

"Really?" Jade was disappointed.

"No," said Tricia, "that’s a good thing. Trust me. Have you eaten?"

"Just a sandwich. That packet of ham."

"Fine. Help yourself. I think I’ll have the same."

Jade followed Tricia into the kitchen as she set about preparing her own food.

"I’m sorry, I’m just a bit nervous, with me just starting and being new here and moving in with you, and…"

"For goodness sake, Jade, you did fine. Why don’t you try to relax a little."

Jade turned away. "I’m being foolish now, aren’t I?"

Tricia put her arm across Jade’s shoulder. "Everybody’s nervous on their first day. It’s perfectly reasonable." Tricia studied Jade’s face for a moment. "I tell you what – let me have some tea, give me time to get washed and changed, then how about I take you out for a drink to celebrate your new job?"

"Really?" said Jade. She suddenly broke into a smile. "That’d be great. And I’ll treat you."

"We’ll treat each other," Tricia smiled back.

Jade was aware of Tricia’s arm still round her shoulder. She was aware of how nice it felt.

****

It was still quiet in The Petrel. Benson saw a few faces he vaguely recognised but none belonged to anyone he’d ever said more than "hi" to before. He studied his pint, wondering whether he should try to strike up a conversation. Where was the harm in that? He got on well with most people. On the other hand, he had things on his mind that didn’t fit sharing with relative strangers.

His thoughts eddied about how well Maxwell was doing at school, or not, as the case may be, and his comments about buying better equipment if he was going to get more photography business, but how money was tight. Ashleigh was doing her best. Perhaps he should have invited her along too for the evening, though, truth to tell, she was not that keen on going to pubs and she had treated his evenings out as "his time." He wondered what Douglas Gormley wanted to see him for and half-wished he’d return. Not that he was a close friend or anything, but someone to chat with at least.

Benson was just about to drain his pint and was thinking of heading back home to Ashleigh, when Douglas abruptly appeared from the side exit to the pub car park.

"I’ve been looking for you," Douglas announced with a mixture of cheerfulness and satisfaction that their acquaintance hardly merited.

"So I gather."

"Well, if you’re having another pint, mine’s a lager."

Benson did not appreciate having to shell out for two more drinks, when in another minute he would have been on his way home. But on the other hand, Douglas was company of sorts. "Why am I paying for your drinks?" he asked.

"Because I’ve got something for you. Something of a favour. Hey, Maddy," he called out to his partner working behind the bar.

"What are you doing here? Who’s looking after Bethany?"

"I got Brooke Ames to go and keep an eye on her."

"How? Anyway, I thought you were skint?"

He gave a sideways nod in Benson as if to say, not in front of strangers, and said, "Man here needs a drink."

Benson got the drinks. "What sort of favour?"

"How’s the old photography business going?"

"What? Well, I can’t say I’m rushed off my feet."

"Still using the old box Brownie? Still making money for Mr Kodak?"

"What are you on about?" This reminded Benson too much of the discussion he’d had earlier with his son, Maxwell.

"Well," Douglas continued, drawing on the pint Benson had paid for, "isn’t film a bit – what’s that posh word? – passé? – these days."

"Film’s been around a long time," Benson countered.

"Exactly! Time for something new! How would you like a new digital camera?"

"Where would I get one of those? Or should I be asking, where would you get one of those?"

Just at that moment, Brooke was trying to enter The Stormy Petrel as unobtrusively as possible with the money Maxwell had given her for drinks for what was not turning out to be the scintillating night she had had been hoping for. She was hoping that the Landlord would be serving, not Maddy, and that Douglas would not be at the bar, which was why she was using such caution. She was about to be disappointed. There was Douglas, right in her way, talking with Benson. She gasped, took a step back half-closing the inner door. She opened it a crack and watched the two of them in conversation. Benson was standing stoically, while Douglas seemed excited about something. Then she saw.

Douglas pulled an expensive-looking digital camera from his pocket, in such a way that it was concealed from anyone else in the pub by his jacket, while showing it to Benson. Benson, for his part, suddenly perked up, as if Douglas’s shiny new possession was of great interest. There was something about that camera…

End of Episode 9

Magnolia Close Episode 8. Greasing the Wheels

2011-07-25T06:10:00.000-07:00

Brooke Ames said goodbye to her parents and set off for the evening. She was carrying a rather unflattering shopping bag that didn’t suggest she was heading for a night on the town.

"Hang about," said a voice. She turned. It was Maxwell Fairhurst.

"Huh," she said. "What do you want?"

"I was wondering whether you fancied going for a drink."

"What if I did? You wouldn’t be coming."

"Why not?

"Because you’re under-age."

"Only just. And I’m big for my age." Realising the double entendre in what he had just said, he added, "if you know what I mean."

"And where would we be going for this supposed drink? Down The Petrel? Nearly everybody there knows who you are."

"They don’t know when my birthday is. I could be turned eighteen already. You turned eighteen in your final year at Hope."

"But you’re not even in your final year yet."

"Oh, come on – you could go to the bar – I’d give you the money. Nobody’d bat an eyelid."

"I can’t," she insisted. "I’m going to my mate, Sasha’s, to do some revising together." She raised the bag, as if to suggest it was full of study texts.

"Oh, yeah? Revising what?" He grabbed the bag from her before she could react and pulled out a piece of clothing. Some kind of spangly top. "Revising going clubbing and how to pull on the dance floor?"

She snatched the bag back from him. "Just a bit of fun first. Then we come home and do some work."

"You mean before her parents get back from wherever, I’m guessing."

"All work and no play…"

"Exactly," Maxwell pounced. "You don’t want me becoming a dull boy. Come on – just the one drink."

"Get lost."

"What if I told your parents where you were going? What you were studying?"

This impasse in negotiations was interrupted by the arrival of Douglas Gormley. "What are you two arguing about?"

Brooke was unable to speak. "School work," said Maxwell, attempting to be helpful.

"Hey! – we can help each other out," said Douglas.

"In what way?" said Brooke.

"Well, if the two of you were looking for somewhere peaceful to do your swatting, how about at my house? Plenty of quiet there."

Brooke gave Douglas a look that would have withered a cactus. "You mean except for your baby daughter, Bethany."

Maxwell liked the idea of an empty house. "That would be very nice, Mr Gormley. No distractions."

"He means," Brooke turned to Maxwell, her tone matching her expression, "that he wants me to baby-sit."

"Just for a while," said Douglas, as lightly as he could. "Max, is your Dad going to be down The Petrel tonight?"

"‘Spect so. He’s there most evenings."

"Great! Well, we could do each other a favour. I want to do some work for your Dad, and I could pay you, Brooke, for keeping an eye on little Bethany. And it would be good for your experience for your college course."

"In what way?" Brooke’s voice dripped with derision.

"What is it your going to be doing again? Nursery care, isn’t it?"

"Media studies and sociology."

"Well. There you are then." Douglas hadn’t the faintest idea what media studies were, nor did he care. "And remember, Max, you owe me a favour already."

"I do?" Max tried to recollect.

"So we all scratch each other’s back," Douglas concluded. Max was still slightly tangled in trying to recall what favour he owed Douglas Gormley. However, he was alert to the opportunity presented by an empty house shared with Brooke Ames and a hopefully-sleeping infant.

"Just one thing," said Max. "I don’t suppose you’ve any beers in the house have you? Pay me in kind instead of the money."

Douglas was desperately trying to work out the cheaper option between cans of supermarket beer and hard cash, when Max added, with a nod towards Brooke, "baby-sitters get, what, a fiver an hour these days?"

"A fiver?" Douglas was still struggling with the sums. "What do you need beer for if you’re studying?"

"It’s brain-food," said Max.

Douglas caved. He had bigger fish to fry and he had to get to The Petrel to do it. "There’s some cans in the fridge I was saving for a special occasion." There was a note of wistful hurt in his voice. "You can have them."

Max led Brooke away towards number 25 as Douglas hurried off to The Stormy Petrel. Looking round, he murmured, "How can you be saving a can of beer for a special occasion? Tell you what – if I give you a fiver, you can pop in The Petrel and get a couple of take-outs.""

Brooke was less than impressed herself, but for different reasons. "‘Brain-food’? You should have told me you’ve been on a starvation diet."

Maddy had arrived at The Stormy Petrel and installed herself behind the bar for the evening. She didn’t dislike bar work – it meant you got to meet people and have a bit of a chat sometimes, which in her book put above being stuck in an office, but it wasn’t the sort of work she would have picked if she’d had a choice. For one thing, it didn’t pay that well. For another, despite knowing there was nothing wrong with it – it was honest work – she still felt it slightly demeaning to be at people’s beck and call like a servant. Also, there was being on your feet all evening after perhaps a long day and above all, she got to see other people having a good time and spending money when she couldn’t. But a job was a job and it wasn’t all bad. Occasionally she got bought a drink and the landlord didn’t mind. Her first customer of the evening was Benson Fairhurst and she wouldn’t bet on him having the money to spare for a tip. Times seemed hard for nearly everyone.

"Pint of bitter, Maddy, when you’re ready."

She placed the glass under the tap and flicked the leaver. "Douglas Gormley stuck his head around the door just a moment ago looking for you. Have you seen him?"

"Looking for me? And he didn’t even stop for a drink?"

"No, he said he would try again later. Seemed really keen to find you."

"I wonder what he wants. Nothing useful, I’ll bet."

"Nas?"

"Yes?"

"You haven’t seen my camera while you’ve been unpacking, have you?"

"No, Rob – I haven’t been doing your things."

"Well it wasn’t actually packed – I had it out earlier to take some pictures of our new home. Moving-in day. I can’t find now."

"Why don’t we knock this on the head for the day? We’ve done enough."

"Good idea. I tell you what – let’s go and check out this Stormy Petrel place. I’ll by you a scotch and some pork scratchings."

"I may be about to marry you, Robert Farrah, but I’m still a good Muslim."

"Glass of coke then. And we can get to see some more inhabitants of Magnolia Close."

"You’re on."

End of Episode 8.

Magnolia Close Episode 7. Occupational Therapy

2011-07-18T03:56:00.000-07:00

Maddy entered the living room of number 25, Magnolia Close. “Right, Bethany’s gone down, so I’m off.”
“Off where?” said Douglas drowsily. He had been dozing in the armchair since he had returned home from introducing himself to the Farrahs. And having a look round number 23.
“Off to work, behind the bar at The Petrel, where d’you think, you pie-can?”
“I didn’t realise is it was that late already,” he said, trying to raise himself in the chair.
“Time goes faster when you’re sat on your backside all day.” She busied herself loading her handbag. “It would go a little more slowly if you were working.”
Douglas fidgeted. It was not the first time they had had this conversation. “Jobs are hard to come by the way things are. You know that.”
“Oh, they are. I can see that. When you’re waiting for them to come to the house and find you. How many jobs have knocked on our door recently? Oh, let me think… None, right? You have to go out and look for work.”
“I have been looking for work,” he protested.
“When?
“Just today, as it happens.”
“‘As it happens’? How’d it happen? You haven’t stuck your head outside all day.”
“That’s all you know. I went to see those new people at number 23. Moving in and all. I thought they might need a handy-man.”
“And you thought you’d offer your services instead.”
“There’s all sorts of things that need doing in a new house.”
“And?”
“They said they’d get back to me.”
“Them and Santa Claus.” She slipped on her jacket and was nearly ready to leave. Before she got to the door he put his hand on her arm.
“Do you know whether Benson will be down The Petrel tonight?”
“How they hell should I know? Besides, you’ve got no money for booze and you can’t leave Bethany on her own.”
“But I might have some business with him.”
Maddy stood in the doorway as if she intended to block it for as long as it took to get Douglas to give up all hopes of going out for the evening. “What business could you have with him. I don’t think you’re the photographic model type.”
“Just a proposal I wanted to run past him. Bring some people together perhaps.”
Maddy wrinkled her nose at him. “You’re not thinking of starting a dating agency, are you.”
“Not that sort of proposal.”
“Just as well. I’ve seen bunions with more romance in them than you’ve got.”
From upstairs came a faint cry. Douglas took it as a hint. “We had some romance once.”
She gave a pained smile. “If you can call the back seat of a clapped-out Astra The Tunnel of Love.”
“Hey!” Douglas risked trying to be stern with her. “I don’t regret us having Bethany. I hope you don’t either.”
To his surprise, she seemed oddly mollified. “No, of course not. But we can’t feed her on fresh air.”
“That’s why I want a word with Benson Fairhurst.”
“So why didn’t you go and see him before I had to go to work?”
“I wanted a business drink with him. Catch him in the right mood.”
“Whatever,” Maddy shrugged, as if feeling her breath wasted. “Just don’t leave Bethany on her own.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll work something out.”“Mum, I’m hungry.”
“Dinner’s nearly ready,” said Daisy. “We’re just waiting for your Dad to get back from the shop.” She busied herself preparing a traditional Caribbean dish of curried goat.
“And I’m thirsty.”
Daisy halted. She recalled the conversation she had had with Tricia at the surgery earlier that day about Luther’s apparent constant thirst and loss of weight. She had looked in at the local chemist’s to check the price of a set of scales, but, seeing again how dear they were, she had decided to delay making a decision about buying them. She would speak with her husband, Foster, about it. “What would you like to drink?”
“Doctor Pepper!” he answered with glee. It did seem to be his favourite drink. Sadly, she could not oblige.
“Would some orange squash do?”
Luther pulled a face and groaned a little.
“You can make it with fizzy water, if you like. I’ve got some bottled water from the supermarket.”
Luther’s expression brightened. Daisy poured him the drink and he gulped it down. Just then, Foster let himself in.
“Dinner won’t be long,” she said. “How was the afternoon?”
Foster sighed. “They say this is a country of animal-lovers. I wish they would come and show some of their affection by buying something from the shop. Do you know how many customers I had after you went home?”
“Go on.”
“Just two.”
“What?” Daisy exclaimed. Business had been quiet, but not to this extent.
“Two – one for some rabbit-straw and one for some millet for their budgie. She was an awkward customer too. Said her little bird didn’t like just ‘any old millet.’ I mean, how many kinds of millet are there? I talked her into buying one of those rings she can fit on a perch. This is no way to make a living. I’ve gotta think of something else to expand the business.”
She turned to him and put her hands on his shoulders. “Maybe I can show you some ‘animal-loving’ later on.” She winked.
“What are you after, girl?” Foster was on his guard.
“Nothing!” she said, feigning hurt. “And I got some good news – we’ve got new neighbours.”
“Why’s that good news? They got a pony or something?”
“You never know.”
“So what were you after, girl?”
“Who says I was after anything?”
Foster gave her a look.
“Alright. I want to buy some scales. From the chemist’s. But they’re a bit dear.”
“You don’t need to lose weight,” Foster protested.
“It’s not for me,” she responded, with a hint of outrage. “My weight’s just fine.”
“Well then?”
“It’s for your son. He’s skinnier than a bean these days.”
“So? He’s a growing boy.”
“Haven’t you seen? He’s growing ups but he ain’t growing out. I’m concerned for him.”
“If you’re so concerned,” he said, putting hands on her shoulder in an echo of her gesture, “you’d have dinner on the table already.”

END OF EPISODE 7

Magnolia Close, Episode 6. Hope for the future

2011-07-11T02:11:00.001-07:00

Brooke and Celine entered the house in response to Martha, their mother’s, call.

"What’s up, mum?" said Brooke.

"We’re having tea early tonight," she said, retrieving three ready-meals from the freezer.

"How come?"

"Have you forgotten? We’ve got that parents’ evening at the Hope Academy this evening."

"It’s a bit late for making career choices for me isn’t it?" Brooke remarked. "I’m already registered for my ‘A’ levels."

"We can still discuss which university you’re going to."

"I already know." Brooke was querulous. "I’ve already put in my UCAS form."

"Just in case you don’t get your first choice," Martha said, trying to cover her previous remark.

"You mean if I don’t get my grades. Thanks a bunch."

"It’s not just you," Martha still trying to rescue herself,. "I’m hoping when I finish this secretarial course I’m on, I might be able to get a job at Hope. I’ve been a full-time mum long enough."

"What about me?" Celine piped up, picking up her school-bag. "I’m still going to be a full time kid for a while yet. Or are you packing me off too?"

Martha began to feel she was losing the debate to both her children. "No – you’re going to Hope as well. I’ll still be looking after you, and you would get to see me during the day too."

"Gee, thanks," said Celine. "‘Mommy’s pet,’ that’s what they’ll call me. What if I don’t want to go to Hope?"

"What’s wrong with the Hope Academy?"

"She’s worried about boys," Brooke taunted.

"You’re the one who should be worried about boys."

"What do you mean?"

"I’ve seen that Maxie Fairhurst looking at you. He was spying on you this afternoon. I don’t know what he’s doing home at this time of day anyway. He should be at school. I’ve a good mind to speak to his father."

"He was spying on the new neighbours moving in, not me!" said Brooke with some disdain. "Besides, he’s too young for me!"

"I’m very glad to hear it!" said Martha. Another thought occurred to her, and she would welcome changing the direction of the conversation. She unwrapped the frozen packages and pretended to be studying the cooking instructions. "By the way," she said as casually as she could, "what are the new neighbours like?"

Celine threw her bag down on the floor and stomped out of the kitchen.

"What was that about?" said Martha, puzzled. The older her children got, the less she seemed to understand them.

Max returned from his self-imposed exile in his bedroom. He hadn’t the slightest intention of doing any study, and had quickly become bored.

His father, Benson, was sitting at the desk that had effectively turned the lounge into a study, looking through wedding photos from his last commission.

"Has that Keaton woman gone?" Max asked.

The pictures Benson were looking at were old ones, no longer of any real value, and he was actually slightly relieved to have Max distract him. Without looking up, he said, "Have you done enough of being the nosey-parker for one day?"

"I’m not from the social, poking her nose into everything."

"I wasn’t talking about us. Was it Brooke Ames you had your eye on or the family moving in at number 23?"

Not for the first time Max wondered how his father knew what was going on outside when he had the curtains drawn. "Who says I was looking at either?"

Benson looked up. "You know, I think you are right. I really ought to think about getting a digital camera and a computer. If you got yourself a part-time job, perhaps we could afford a little more."

"I’m studying for my Mocks, Dad. How could I find the time for a job too?"

"Other kids do. And a computer could help you with your homework."

Maxwell wandered around the room restlessly before fiddling with something on his father’s desk. "It looks like Brooke was right – it is a new teacher for the Hope."

"How could she have know that? And leave my filters alone or you’ll get finger marks on them."

"She’s a woman, dad. They all gossip to each other. Motor-mouths. That’s why they always know everything."

"Don’t you let you mother hear you say that."

"Ashleigh’s not my mother." He put down the filters and started to push index cards from his father’s filing system around on the desk.

"I know, but I think she likes to hear you call her that. Gives her a sense of respect."

"Yeah but she’s only ten years older than I am."

"And do you prefer it when she calls you ‘Max’ or ‘son’?"

"Dad," Max shaded his eyes with a hand as if solving a difficult problem in his head, "I really don’t care."

"Still," Benson glanced up, "respect is respect."

"And I do respect her," he said, looking towards the window as if he might see Brooke, even though the angle was impossible. Unless she was standing outside in the front garden. "But she’s your girlfriend, not mine."

Benson turned away from his desk to face Max. "I’d like to think of us more as a family." Max said nothing. "And as for girlfriends, don’t you think you might be wasting your time a little with Brooke Ames when she’s just about to go to Uni? How are you going to compete with all those college boys?"

Max folded his arms across his chest, then raised a hand to his mouth and bit a knuckle. "Who says I’m after Brooke Ames?"

"Sometimes we men know some things too." He paused. "But perhaps you could tell me something. They have computers at school these days, don’t they?"

"Gosh, I wonder," Maxie mocked, "is this the 19^th or 20^th century – I can never remember."

"Do they ever sell any old ones off."

Max, realising this was not another veiled slight from his father, changed his attitude. "Yeah, sometimes, I think they do. I could ask them about it."

"There you go. If they’re cheap enough, it would help us both out, don’t you think?"

Max nodded. "If I could download porn with it, that’d be great."

Benson sighed. What it was like having a teenage son. "And next summer you’ll be getting your exam results and turning your back on Magnolia Close." There was a hint of anticipated relief in his voice.

End of Episode 6

Magnolia Close, Episode 5. Medical Matters.

2011-07-04T04:13:00.000-07:00

Tall and slender as her Nigerian forebears, Daisy Woods was still well capable of turning heads wherever she went, even though into her thirties and with a son just entering his teens. From men, black or white, she was more or less used to it, found it tedious from time to time and occasionally even useful. However, as she entered Maplewood Surgery, she saw an unfamiliar female face at the reception desk.

"Hello – are you new here?"

"Yes, it’s my first day. My name is Jade Sweet."

"Pleased to meet you. I’m Mrs Daisy Woods." Just at that moment, Daisy was aware that someone else had entered the surgery and had taken a place in line behind her. "I was wondering – is Tricia McAndrew about?"

"The practice nurse? I should hope so – she’s my new landlady."

"Oh – so you’re moving in to Magnolia Close too. We’ll be neighbours."

Jade looked at the computer terminal showing appointments. "She got someone in with her just now. Is there anything I could help you with?"

"It’s something and nothing – I just wanted to have a quick word with her. I don’t want to go to all the trouble of a doctor’s appointment."

Jade looked at the terminal again. "I’ll just see if she’s free before her next appointment." Jade looked Daisy up and down, and smiled. "I think I might be able to sneak you in for a minute."

"Thank you, that’s very kind of you." Daisy turned away and took a seat in the waiting area.

Jade watched her as she walked away from the reception counter before turning to the next visitor. "Can I help you?"

"I hope so. My name’s Nasreen Siddiqi – well, it is for the moment – um, until I get married that is – I want to register myself and my husband – I mean, my fiancé – with a doctor."

"Are you new to the area?"

"Yes. We’ve just moved from the Midlands."

"Snap! Well, not the Midlands bit. I mean I’m new here too. Were you both registered with the same doctor before?"

"In the same practice. We were at college together."

"Ah, how romantic." Jade was apt to get dewy-eyed at the thought of going away to college and meeting up with their true love. She had studied to be a medical receptionist while still living with her parents. All that was changing now though. She searched around under the counter until she found what she wanted. She hated being the newcomer, not knowing where everything was kept, but was determined to ask for help from her fellow receptionists as little as possible. "Here we are. You’ll both need to fill in one of these forms and sign them, then drop them off back here. If you specially want a female doctor you’ll have to say."

"No, that’s no problem," said Nasreen, though in the back of the mind she had a slight niggle of doubt. The doubt being what her relatives might have had to say on the matter, given the chance. "We’ve all got nearly all the same parts, and I don’t think diseases make much of a distinction."

"No," Jade hesitated. "There’s just… the odd thing, though, isn’t there?"

"All doctors study the same thing, don’t they?" Again Nasreen didn’t feel as confident as she was trying to sound.

"You don’t need to see a doctor straight away, do you?"

"Good heavens, no. At least, not quite. Ask me again when we’ve finished unpacking!"

"And let us know when you change your name. When you get married, that is. Have you picked the happy day?"

"Soon." Nasreen looked at Jade. They were about the same age, but there was something about Jade that made Nasreen want to keep her at a distance. She turned to leave. "Thanks a lot."

Just at that moment, Jade spotted a patient come out of the treatment room, where Tricia McAndrew worked. She slipped from behind the desk and poked her head around the door. "Tricia, can you spare a minute to have a word with a Mrs Woods?"

Tricia, prim in her nurse’s outfit, a little older than Jade, looked round from her desk, cluttered with various medical bric-à-brac. "Daisy? Yes, send her in."

Jade beckoned Daisy over. "Thank you," Daisy said. Jade wanted to say something in return but could think of nothing, the moment passed, and the door closed.

Tricia got up from her desk. "Hello, Daisy. First of all, I’ve just got to thank you for that cat-food you recommended. Moxie loves it. He’s not looking so skinny now."

"I’m glad. I’ll tell Foster – he’s being trying to sell that stuff in the shop for a while now but I think the price has been putting people off."

"How can I help?"

"It’s about our son, Luther. I don’t want to go bothering the doctor over something and nothing, so I was hoping you could let me have some advice."

"I’ll try. If there’s something worrying you, you should really let the doctor see him, but I’ll do my best to put your mind at ease."

"You know what they’re like at twelve – they say it’s the new fourteen! I’d have to bring him in here kicking and screaming."

"Is he ill in any way?"

"That’s just it," Daisy shrugged. "He seems OK, but there’s a couple of things I’ve noticed. I mean, it might just be that he’s growing up. They all do, in time."

"What sort of things?"

"Well… the main thing is he seems to be drinking a lot just lately."

"Alcohol?"

"Lord, no! Foster would tan his behind if he caught him on booze at his age. No, I mean just soft drinks – squash, pop – he’s never without a can of cola – even just tap water. Then he’s going to the loo every five minutes. Can’t even sit through The Simpsons sometimes. He never used to be like that."

"I see," Tricia said. Her earlier levity was now replaced by her professional voice. "Anything else?"

"He seems tired all the time. He still eats OK, but I can’t help thinking he’s loosing weight. Of course, he’s getting taller so it’s hard to judge."

"Do you know his weight?"

"No. I’ve been thinking of getting a set of scales from the chemist’s but they’re a bit pricey."

"But worth it. You can get cheap, trendy ones from those big furniture shops, but the chemist scales are a lot more accurate."

"What do you think it might be?"

"It’s not for me to say. Above my pay-grade, as they call it. But I would recommend you get him an appointment with the doctor right away. And maybe get those scales too."

"Really?" Daisy didn’t like the sound of this.

"Really. After all, you can’t put a price on peace-of-mind, can you?"

End of Episode 5

Magnolia Close, Episode 4. Dark Room

2011-06-27T01:39:00.000-07:00

Benson Fairhurst had not witnessed the arrival of his new neighbours. He had had the curtains drawn and was studying photo negatives on a small panel light, like a miniature of the kind of thing doctors used to put x-rays on in days gone by. He was so absorbed in this that he didn’t notice the infant behind him reaching out a sticky hand to pull more strips of negatives from one of a collection of storage boxes on the coffee table, until he heard the front door open and slam. He turned just in time.

"Dylan! Don’t touch those! Keep you little fingers off!"

Just then, his other son, Maxwell, elder by fourteen years, came into the room.

"What are you doing at home at this time of the afternoon?" Benson asked.

"We’ve finished early."

"Early? What are you on about?"

Maxwell went over to the curtains and pulled them wide, letting in a tide of daylight.

"Maxwell," Benson persisted, "since when has school finished early?"

"Since we’ve all got our exams coming up. We have periods time-tabled for private study."

"Private study? Well what are you doing here?"

"I can study at home, can’t I?"

"But aren’t you supposed to study in class or go to the library?"

Maxwell slung a sports bag full of school things on to the sofa. "How would you know? You never took any exams."

"Don’t take that attitude with me – " Benson checked himself, taking a deep breath. "Look, Max… I’m not having a go at you. Just because I left school with no qualifications… I’ve had to work hard ever since."

"You don’t call taking photographs a proper job, do you? You just sit around all day looking at pictures in the dark!"

"Being a photographer is a proper job."

"Then why don’t you get me that new mobile I’ve been on about then? All my mates have got ‘em. If you’re making so much money…"

"Well… business hasn’t been so good lately. But just you wait till the wedding season takes off."

"Haven’t you heard," Max sneered, "marriage is out of fashion these days. You should know – you’ve never married." He gestured at the negative strips. "Like film – out of date. You should go digital."

"I can’t afford a new camera. If you get your qualifications then you can get what you call a proper job and you’ll have all the money you need for things like that. That’s why I want to finish your day at school properly."

"I don’t know what you’re going on about any – it’s only three o’clock. It’s not like I bunked off for the day or anything,"

"Three o’clock?" Benson was surprised for an entirely different reason. "Oh, God - Lucille’s due here at three to see Dylan."

"Lucille Keaton? That social worker bird? What’s she still coming to see Dylan for?"

Benson was dashing around trying to put away all his photograph materials. "Here, Max. Just keep an eye on Dylan while straighten up."

Max did no such thing. As his father gathered up boxes of prints and negatives, he too picked up a strip and held it to the light. "Flipping heck, Dad, who’s this bird in this picture?"

Benson snatched the strip from him. "She’s just a model we had down at the photography club. We hire ‘em in occasionally so we’ve got something to do when work’s slack. Learn new techniques. Keep your hand in."

"Are you sure it was just your hand?"

Benson was interrupted by the door-bell. "That must be Lucille."

"Are you sure? She’s never normally on time." He looked at the box his father had stuffed the negative into. "Perhaps she’s trying to catch you out at something."

Benson picked up the sports bag and stuffed it into Maxwell’s arms. "Do something with this."

"Alright, Dad," he said with faint sarcasm, "I’ll go to my room and get my nose stuck in a book."

Benson didn’t open the door until Maxwell had stomped slowly to the top of the stairs and disappeared.

"Hello, Mr Fairhurst, how are we doing today?"

"Hello, Mrs Keaton. Same as usual, I guess. Yourself?"

"Same as usual," she said, stepping inside, "overworked and underpaid, like all public servants." Cheerful but with a sigh.

It was part of their ritual, to get the ball rolling. Even the formality of Benson’s greeting was put on, as Lucille Keaton was a neighbour from the opposite end of the Close. "Has that husband of yours been catching villains lately?" He used the word with comic relish.

"Stuck behind a desk, most of the time, if you ask me." She gave a laugh. "Now then, how’s this little chap?" She bent over to address Dylan who, at the sight of a relative stranger stuck his thumb in his mouth. "You’ve not much to say for yourself, have you?"

There was a pause. "His mother was hoping to get off work early and perhaps catch you, if you were running a little late."

"How’s Ashleigh’s new job working out?"

"It’s going great, as far as I can tell. She’s already made an impression on senior editor in the art department. I’ve got to tell you again, thanks for getting her that job experience placement at the magazine. It’s really paid off."

"How about yourself?"

Benson sighed. "To be honest, freelance photography work at the moment is a bit on the quiet side. There’s not much call for paparazzi round here. The local rag’s not really interested. I could do with a Phoenix the Cow picture or a good train wreck with exclusive pics."

"Well, you never know. There could be a plane about to crash on Magnolia Close."

"Oh, gosh." Benson covered his eyes with his hands. "I didn’t mean to sound such an ambulance-chaser!"

"Oh, I know you don’t mean it!" Lucille tried to gee him up. "Seriously, are you having any money problems at the moment?"

Benson shook his head. "No, not really. Not like the bad old days when we first had Dylan and neither of us were working. It’s just that things are a bit tight."

"Ah, well. I’m sure things’ll turn around soon. In fact I was thinking of recommending to my team-leader that there is no need me to visit Dylan any more." She turned to the little boy. "But I love seeing him so much."

"Don’t speak too soon – he needs new shoes and I might have to beg or steal to get them."

"Hey, don’t do that, or you’ll have constable Keaton after you."

End of Episode 4

Magnolia Close, Episode 3 The Old Guard

2011-06-20T04:34:00.000-07:00

Gladys brought in the tray with the fine china on it, the pot and tea-cups, and the plate of scones, as she did every day at around four o’clock. The only variation in this ritual was that, in winter, the scones were replaced with hot toasted tea-cakes. Either way, they were always thick in butter. It was their one real luxury.

"What have you been staring at all afternoon?" she said.

"Our new neighbours."

"And why is that your business, Walter Ashton? You nosey old tramp. Sit down right now and get on with your tea."

Walter moved away from the window slowly – in their small house there was no need to hurry, no corner of it unseen a thousand times – and lowered himself into his usual armchair.

"Well?" said Gladys.

"Well what?"

"What are they like?"

"I though you said it was none of our business."

"Walter! I said it was none of your business." She poured his tea.

He took a purse-lipped sip.

"So?"

"She’s a coloured lass," he said, revealing a note of surprise in his voice.

"So what? You’ve seen coloured folk before. There’s that family at Number 28 for a start. You’re not becoming a racist in your old age, are you? Though it is about time you did something in your life."

"But he’s not."

"Not what?"

"Coloured."

She sat back in silence, interrupted by an "Oh…"

Walter reached for his scone. "I was thinking."

"There has to be a first time for everything."

"How long have we lived here?"

She stopped to consider. "Did we have a colour tele when we moved in, or did we get it after?"

"I dunno. That’s why I was asking. But it’s just crossed my mind. We’ve seen kids outside grow up from nippers and move away or some have stayed. And they’ve have had nippers and we’ve watched them play outside. Now some of them will be moving away soon."

"That’s what crossed your mind? How long did that take?"

"How come we’ve never moved away?"

"Because we live here, you pillock," She sunk her dentures into her scone.

He was silent for a while. He took another sip of tea. "Something else crossed my mind."

"Good grief – with all that traffic in that head of yours, they’ll have to put up lights."

"Have you ever wondered which of us’ll go first?"

"You." She was definite about this.

"Oh, thanks very much."

"Then I’ll have parties night and day and get back to enjoying my life."

"You heartless old harridan," he said, mildly.

Gladys put her plate down on the tea table, loaded it with another scone, then retreated back into her chair. "I know what you were really wondering."

"What was that?"

"You were wondering, if they had kids, what colour they would turn out to be."

"Was I?"

"It’s funny how you worry about other people’s children and don’t give a thought to your own." She sipped again.

"But they’re in Australia. Assuming," he added acidly, "that they are mine."

"Don’t start that again, you dirty-minded tripe-hound." She managed a smile, but a weary one.

"Well! I write and they don’t reply."

"That," Gladys replied from her throne behind the china, "is because they’ve got better things to do with their lives."

They were silent for a while, save for the faint noises of consuming their afternoon tea. It was Walter who interrupted the near-silence.

"I suppose they’d turn out half and half."

"What the devil are you rambling on about now?"

"The children. Of the mixed couple, I mean. I suppose they would be half way between white and coloured."

"Thank goodness for that. For a moment, I though you meant they’d end chequered like a flag or a draughts board."

Walter was amused, laughing enough for some tea to spill in his saucer. When next he raised the cup to his lips, it dripped down the front of his cardigan. "Just imagine – it would be fun if they did."

"Walter, you’re getting tea down your front. You’d better give me that to sponge when you’ve finished.

Walter stopped laughing and fell back into reflection. "Are you sure," he said at last, "that I’ll go before you?"

"You’ll have to."

"Why?" he said, innocently.

"Because there’s no way you’d ever cope on your own."

****

Nasreen and Robert were just sitting down on two of the more robust cardboard boxes – robust because they were labelled as filled with books – and were enjoying their tea from the teabags and cups Sammy had brought them – enjoying up to a point. They still hadn’t found their teapot and kettle.

"Hotel courtesy catering," said Nasreen, wrinkling her nose. "I’d rather have had a cup, brewed with real tea-leaves in a proper pot."

"Still, it was very kind of Sam to come and help us out."

"Was it really? I just got the impression he was short of a bit of company."

"Do you think so? In any case it was thoughtful of him."

"And to take another, closer look."

"A closer look at what?" For once, Robert’s thoughts hadn’t been keeping up with hers.

"Do you think he’s married?"

"I suppose so. I don’t know. Why?"

"We may have to meet Mrs Sammy. So that she can give us the once-over as well. I thought Magnolia Close was going to be a place with a little more class than that."

"What do you mean?"

"The way the curtains keep twitching. Haven’t you noticed we’re being stared at? Being mixed race and all?"

"Nobody used to stare at us when we were at university together."

"That was different," she said. "You know, I never thought I’d say this, but sometimes we were still back there."

He got up, placing his arm round her shoulder. "Well, we’re here now, in Magnolia Close, and we’re here to stay."

End of Episode 3

Anyone who wants to write for Magnolia Close, please get in touch.

Magnolia Close - Episode 2

2011-06-13T04:53:00.000-07:00

Maxwell Fairhurst had been observing the house-moving from the opposite side, number 22. He wished that a fit bit like Brooke Ames, whose head he had seen popping over the fence from number 24, was not leaving Hope Academy in the summer. He still had another year to go. Finally, he tired of watching the parade of boxes going into Robert Farrah’s new home and wandered over to the young black kid sat on the wall of number 28.

"How’s it going, brother?"

"I’m not your brother, Max."

"I thought we was all brothers under the skin, Luther."

"Why aren’t you going in your house?"

"My old man’s gonna be there and he’ll give me grief if I turn up this early."

"How do you know he’s home?"

"Cuz the curtains are drawn. He’s at what he calls work. What about you? Where your folks be at?"

"They’ll both be at work at their pet shop. And stop trying to talk like some black rapper. I don’t know anyone who talks like that."

Max looked down at his shoes. "OK. I’m sorry. I just thought it sounded cool."

"Well, you’re the wrong colour and in the wrong neighbourhood."

"I said I’m sorry." Max was still embarrassed. He wanted to ask how come Luther was also home from school so early in the afternoon, but didn’t like to ask. He tried to think of something else to say. "That Brooke Ames, she’s alright, isn’t she?"

"Her sister Celine’s not bad either."

The two boys laughed and touched fists. "My man," said Max, with a grin.

"Do you want and come and wait inside for a while before your dad sees you?"

"That’d be cool."

Luther heaved himself off the wall and Max followed him. "When are your parents due home?" he asked. "I thought you was locked out?"

"Not till they close the shop for the day, which won’t be for ages."

"So how come you’re home so early?"

"I dunno. They said the teacher wasn’t coming in at the last minute and they couldn’t get cover. They told us to go to the library."

"You got books in the house?"

"‘Course."

"Well then – your home is a library."

****

Douglas was hovering at the end of his drive at number 25. He was relieved when Sammy finally left the Farrahs and returned to his own home next door. He wiped his palms nervously on the front of his pants then stepped forward to meet the new arrivals.

"Hello?" He called out. "Anybody about?"

Getting no answer, he moved further into the lounge, examining the few things that had spilled from boxes or been placed on window sills. He was studying a large hi-fi unit when Nasreen came in the room.

"Oh!" she said.

Douglas jumped and spun round. "Good grief!" He pointed to the doorway. "I did call out but nobody answered. I didn’t realise you were… er…"

"Asian?" She tried to help him.

"Ah. Er, well… that too. No… what I meant was, I thought you had disappeared."

Robert appeared and stood next to Nasreen. "Darling, who’s this?"

"I’m not sure just yet."

"Oh – I’m Douglas." He extended a hand like giving away a dirty rag. "Next door but one," he was pointing again, "that way. You’ve got a new job in the area, I take it?"

"Yes," said Robert, "I’m going to be teaching IT courses at the Hope Academy."

"Oh, excellent. Mint."

"And what do you do?" said Nasreen.

"Well, I’m a bit between jobs at the moment, to be honest. Which was why I was calling. New house and all. If you’ve got any odd-jobs, Douglas is your man. I got good hands, see. I can fix just about anything."

"That’s nice to know."

"You don’t learn skills like this at school, I can tell you. Tell you what, come down The Stormy Petrel tonight and we can talk about it."

"‘The Stormy’ what?"

"‘Petrel’ It’s a bird of some kind. And also the name of the local pub. You can buy me a drink, and you can meet my Maddy. She works behind the bar."

Another figure appeared in the doorway, this one almost blocking out the light.

Douglas looked at the newcomer. "I’ll be off," he said, and unceremoniously vanished.

"Has this house got a number or did we rename it Piccadilly Circus?" said Robert to no-one in particular.

"Please forgive us all crowding round. Nothing much ever happens in Magnolia Close. I’m Buster Keaton."

"What?" Robert exclaimed.

"Liam Keaton," he corrected. "But everybody calls me Buster. You’ll get used to it. I’m a copper down the local nick."

"Is there much crime round here? The estate agents said it was very quiet."

"Telling the truth for once. If two doormats went missing it would constitute a crime wave. But I would just suggest one thing."

"What’s that?"

"Keep you eye open for me-laddo there who just left. You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but he’s still living, by all accounts."

"And?"

"He’s a light-finger beggar who wouldn’t know a decent day’s work if it bit him."

"Tell me one thing, constable," said Nasreen,

" – detective constable – "

"Do you keep files on all the residents of Magnolia Close?"

"Only on the interesting ones," he winked. "Anything you want, call in on my wife, Lucille. We’re number 29."

"Doesn’t she work?"

"Care-worker – looks after children at home. So she’s always in, and she can always tell you where you can find a policeman. E’ening all." With that, he was gone.

End of Episode 2

“Reids’ Morning Room” Sonnet Jackie Hutchinson

2011-06-07T02:42:00.000-07:00

Light falls through folds of lace.
Elegantly she glides, with tight pin curls,
Demurely across the room, her dress twirls.
Virginia holds herself with grace,
Freckles fall on her porcelain face.
Across her slender neck are rows of pearls,
She reminisces as to when they were girls.
The breeze ripples at a slower pace.
She sips from her cup of Earl Grey,
Piano notes play subtle tunes.
Waiters float along with their trays,
A warm ambience fills the afternoons-
As the morning slips to midday,
Gracious ladies chatter away.

(Posted on behalf of Jackie Hutchinson)

Magnolia Close - Episode 1

2011-06-05T13:22:00.000-07:00

Robert put down the cardboard crate of possessions that had been more or less dumped by the removal men and looked imploringly at Nasreen. "Any chance of a cup of tea?"

"Is that the last box?"

"Yes, I think so."

"What’s in it?"

Robert strained to read the marker pen label scrawled on the box. "It just says ‘kitchen’. You think those removal guys could have written something a bit more specific. It would have been helpful."

"Perhaps they can’t write," said Nasreen. "Educational standards are slipping in this country. I don’t know why my parents ever wanted me to grow up here in the first place."

"So you could meet a wonderful man like me." Robert put his arm around Nasreen’s shoulder. "And I’ll do my best to raise educational standards when term starts at the Academy."

"Be careful – you don’t want to do it all on your first day," she grinned.

"What about that tea?"

"Do one thing first."

"What’s that?

"Find the kettle."

Robert looked round wearily. Besides the cardboard packing case he had just set on the floor, he had seen at least three others, all labelled in the same unhelpful way.

Nasreen disappeared into the kitchen: "I’ll see if I can find some cups as well."

Just at that moment, there was a knock at the door. "So you’re finally in then?"

"Good heavens," said Robert. "A vaguely familiar face! It’s Sammy, isn’t it?"

"That’s right."

"Where do I know you from?"

"Where I work – the Merlin Court Hotel. You were staying there waiting to move in here, weren’t you?

"Of course! I remember."

"And I live at number 26. Which – because of the funny way the houses are numbered round here, makes me your next door neighbour-but-two."

"Funny way – what do you mean?"

"Consecutive – not all odd on one side of the road and even on the other."

It dawned on Robert what he meant. "Which is why this is number 23, an odd number, is on the same side…"

"Three houses down – there, you’ve got it. Doesn’t half confuse visitors though. So – you settling in OK?"

"If living out of cardboard boxes is your idea of being settled. We can’t find anything."

"I had the same trouble when I helped somebody move a couple of years ago. Which is why I’ve brought you these." Sammy dug out of his coat pocket some plastic cups and cutlery, and little one-serving sachets of coffee, tea, sugar and milk. "So long as you can heat up some water, you’re laughing."

Robert was genuinely touched. "Nas – look what this kind gentleman has brought us."

Nasreen came back into the room. "Oh, hello. Good heavens, where did you get all those?"

"From the hotel you’ve just been staying in. I’m the catering manager there, so I thought it was the easiest way I could do you a favour."

"Sammy’s an expert at moving house," said Robert. "Thought this might be a priority till we get unpacked."

"I’ll say," said Nasreen, gathering up the little packets.

"One condition," said Sammy, "if I can join you."

"Of course, just as soon as I find a pan. Thank you ever so much."

"No problem. Welcome to Magnolia Close."

****

"Well? What did you hear?" Celine, being only eleven, had to rely on her big sister, Brooke, for guidance sometimes. Not that she was that close to her sister, but a sister nevertheless, and so sometimes helpful. Sometimes, though, she could be a right snotty little cow. Right now, Celine needed Brooke to be in ‘helpful’ mode.

"Pipe down," said Brooke. "I’m not standing on this bin for the good of my health. I don’t want him to catch me ear-wigging."

Celine bit her lip and tried to contain herself. Her resolve finally failed. "Can you hear anything or not?"

"Button it!… I’ve just heard him saying something about term starting at the Academy."

"What else?"

"I’m not sure. He was going on about something to do with kettles then you opened your gob."

Brooke abruptly climbed down off the wheelie bin. "Shush!"

"What’s up?"

"Sammy was just coming up the drive so I had to lay low. I think it’s him though."

"The pervert?"

"I think so. That’s what Judith Collins said at school anyway."

"Then why is he being allowed to start a new job at Hope Academy?"

"I dunno." Brooke pushed her hair back from her face. "Perhaps they let him off. Anyway, I’m not going to worry about it."

"Really?" said Celine. "Why not?"

"Well, I’m leaving this summer. It’s you who’s just about to start. Poor little Celine. New school, new teacher, new danger."

Celine was getting close to tears. Hope Academy had a good reputation and she had felt lucky to be in the catchment area when she had had her place confirmed last spring. Now she wasn’t so sure. "How can you be so… I mean, I’m your kid sister – don’t you care what might happen to me?"

"You’ll grow into it. After all, I did. I always thought all the male teachers were perverts anyway. Always trying to look down your blouse in class. ‘Just press the escape key here,’ and have a quick grope of your tits while they were at it."

"All the men were perverts?"

"Except for the gay ones. Then it was the lads who had to keep their eyes open. Thank God I’ll get my ‘A’ Levels this summer and be off to Uni."

Their mother, Martha, called out from somewhere inside the house. "Brooke! Celine." What are you up to?"

Celine blinked. "What if you don’t get the grades?"

Brooke’s face darkened with anger. "I will. But even if I don’t, one way or another, this year I’m going to be leaving Magnolia Close."

END OF EPISODE 1

Femme Fatale

2011-05-15T11:53:00.000-07:00

The barman nodded knowingly, she smiled and said “Bonsoir”
She moulded to a barstool and he brought her café noir.
Her scarlet beret matched the lipstick rosebud on her cup,
I sat beside her, caught her eye then winked and said “Ey up”
I said “hello love, what’s your name” She answered “Femme fatale”
I asked “Well, how’s it going lass?” she shrugged and said “Pas mal”
She pointed to an olive dish and whispered “Voulez-vous?”
“Another Abba fan,” I said, “My favourite’s Waterloo”
“Why not come back to my place, love, for coffee, chat, etcetera”
She raised an eyebrow, curled her lip, murmuring “Peut etre”
“Let me whisk you off,” I said. She muttered “Laisez faire.”
“Well darlin’ it’s you’re lucky night! I’m gonna take you there!”
I said “You want to eat something? I’ve heard it’s Cordon Bleu”
“Naturellement” she replied “It’s simply de rigeur”
“They do good fish and chips” I said “with mushy petit pois”
Looking down her nose she shook her head and said “Faux pas”
I said “Don’t you belittle me, my girl, I know your sort
You’re taking lots of liberties.” She answered “Vive le sport!”
She eyed the menu up and down then muttered “Quelque chose”
“Me too.” I said, confidently “Yes I’ll have one of those”
“It all looks very chic” she said, “Shall we go a la carte?”
“Oh no, we’ll eat right here,” I said, “I’ll have the onion tart”
She leaned towards me whispering seductively “Du vin?”
“Usually I do” I said “They call me white van man”
She finished off a plate of snails and proclaimed “Magnifique!”
I suggested “If you like we’ll do this every week”
A chauffeur stepped in at the door. She said “here is my car.”
“I’ve put the meal on my account so I’ll say au revoir”
“Don’t leave me on my own “I cried” to walk a lonely road”
“How can you be alone?” she winked “You have your chevre chaud”

It's a King Thing

2011-05-15T11:36:00.000-07:00

It’s a king thing.
All this talk of a royal wedding is doing my head in, doing my head in.
Let me tell you about royal weddings.
I've had a few do you know who I am?
I’m Henry Tudor, yes Tudor. Without wishing to be rude or crass
these royal weddings are a pain in my Tudor ass.
Oh yes I’ve had a few, do
you want me to regale you with tales of regalia,
of conquests and failures,
of ladies in waiting, sating
my appetite for mating.
It’s a king thing, all that bling.
With this ring I thee wed
is what I said,
but don’t let me find you in anyone’s bed
or you’ll wind up dead
with a rolling head.
It’s a king thing
to start your own church
if you’re left in the lurch
so arrivaderci to Rome and the pope,
no hopers, cardinal sinners.
You could have backed a winner
with me and Boleyn; are
you still preaching , fools
or breaching rules?
It’s a king thing.
The way things are
it’s better by far
to be one over Parr.
Don’t go looking at my wife
if you value your life;
I’ll see you later,
you traitor at the gate or
behind the stables if it just can’t wait.
I see more than you think,
before you can blink
you'll be in the tower;
cometh the hour,
cometh the man with the power.
Are we clear?
It’s a king thing.
But wait, oh Kates, I’ve had a few,
but then again, not too few to mention;
always my intention
to be the centre of everyone’s attention,
not in a shy way
or a sly way
or even a Howard’s way.
Let history record that
I did it my way!

Acknowledgement to Paul Anka for My Way

Alcoholic Droubble: Cocktail Menu

2011-04-21T01:58:00.000-07:00

Cocktail Menu

Luminous pink wine, and vodka shots that taste of treacle toffee and bubblegum. With every pulse things gets softer and deeper for her; until she throbs along with the dark streets, cracky with light and noise in the places where life happens. Years ago she danced home at four a.m., whipped about in the wind, with the dark knight who propped her up at the bar. Curls drooped, lipstick stained her face. He picked up the rag doll under her arms and told her it was bedtime. She wakes up now to a sharp, sharp pain, glittering and hot, slicing through her thoughts. Dusty lines start to wriggle and wrinkle from the corners of her eyes. The thick sweet sludge that cloys her throat has turned the nights to neon slush. Little flickering nerves are flayed and spliced. With horror she touches the side of her face gone slack.

Two medical students bend over leathery flaps of abdominal skin, groping through gristle for a bloated organ as big as a baby pig, a fibrous knotty mass of tissues. They wrinkle their noses at the acidic smell, hopelessly delving deeper. ‘I can’t stomach this after last night,’ they say.

Ego Poem

2011-04-19T16:06:00.000-07:00

How rude of her.
Will she ever stop talking?
She isn’t funny
Or interesting either.
I’m waiting to talk.
I’m funny
And interesting.
Teach her a thing or two
If she’d only shut up.
She’s telling me secrets
Begs I don’t tell
Who would I tell?
The stories are boring
I don’t know the names.
I’ve got secrets,
Juicy ones
Bout people we’ve both actually heard of.
She looks good at least.
And I told her so.
I look good.
It hasn’t come up yet.

Under the Big Clock

2011-04-19T13:05:00.000-07:00

I was certain, at any moment, the fingers of both my hands would be sliced clean off. The pain had become unbearable. Five full bags of shopping so weighty, the handles cut, agonisingly in to my tense hands like cheese-wire. I started to worry that the rain I felt, dripping down my fingers was actually blood, gushing from a deepening wound.

I had way too much to carry, on account of my old friend Barry, not meeting me when we had arranged, thus leaving me with the entirety of a load I was hoping to have halved with him. This was of no surprise to me, I remembered him being unreliable at the best of times, so the idea of some mild, manual labour probably put him off the meeting no end. The fact that he hadn’t seen me in seven years obviously held no sway on the importance of his punctuality, which under normal circumstances wouldn’t have bothered me, but I was a stranger here and had no idea where I was going.

If I didn’t see him at the supermarket, we had arranged to meet under the big clock, which I assumed would be close by, considering the load he knew I would have to carry. Fifteen, finger-slicing minutes later, I was stood under what I considered to be a pretty big clock.

Overhanging the busy high street, the white clock was supported by swirling black metal, like a full moon through tree branches. Two gold hands pointed out the time, whilst a small drummer-boy stood proudly on top. Quite a nice clock I thought. One might’ve even considered taking a photo, should they be bothered delving through their bag for a camera. It was too rainy for such routing.

I pushed my collection of bags, as well as myself, up tightly against the wall, with the intention of gaining shelter, scouting the faces of the many passers-by for the one I hoped to recognise. The pouring rain made it quite hard to make out anyone’s face too well. Most were huddled closely, under tightly gripped umbrellas, or lost deep inside dripping hoods. I took out my phone to give Barry a ring. I looked through my contacts to find four, separate numbers for Barry, Barry S, Barry1 and Barry New. Barry had always been irritatingly awkward to get hold of. Forever using borrowed phones or battered phones friends had given him out of pity, rather than throwing them in the bin, where they would be better suited. New phone-same sim card, same phone-new sim card, same number, new number, back to the old number. I always had various numbers stored for Barry and any one of them, or often none of them, could prove successful at any given time.
“For God’s sake Barry.” I muttered under my breath when he remained elusive after each number had been tried numerous times, especially Barry1, which unlike the others, was actually ringing. The others led to a variety of silken-voiced ladies from a variety of networks, inviting me to leave voicemail messages that would never be heard.

Having found myself a nice little niche against the wall, in a slight alcove, both me and my bags suitably sheltered from wind and rain both, I couldn‘t help feeling more than slightly irritated when a smiling, old face caught mine and chuckled
“Eh, you‘ve got the right idea there lad, budge up would yer.” before forcing his way into a non-existent gap by my side, seemingly oblivious to the fact I had chosen to ignore his request of budging up.
“Hang on mate, I’m not sure there’s enough… just let me shift my…” Ignoring my selfish pleas, the unwanted visitor‘s irksome lack of patience allowed me no time in repositioning my heaving bags. Hurriedly shoving them across the rough, stone-scattered floor with my foot, forced a tear in the bottom of one, sending an enthusiastic can of beef ravioli rolling, with surprising vigour, out into the rain-drenched stampede of shoppers. I bustled angrily out into the sodden street, grabbing clumsily at thin air as the peripatetic ravioli got kicked about the shiny cobbles by a variety of careless boots, oblivious to my confused fumblings. Any reassurance I needed that I wasn’t totally invisible to these people, unhelpfully kicking my can around, was offered by a group of youths, who seemingly found my ongoing, clown-like antics hilarious.
“Don’t lose your beans mate!” a vocal member of the group taunted, much to the amusement of his minions. I watched in dismayed resignation as the ill-behaved pasta parcels rolled inevitably toward him. The group laughed and cheered in delight as he picked up the can and lifted it triumphantly above his head like he’d won the World Cup.
It was a can of ravioli, I reminded myself rationally, not my wallet, or an expensive vase placed under my care to guard from rowdy youths. It was just ravioli. I waved a hand in defeat and turned to go back to the shelter.
“Aah come on man, we’re only messing with yer!” the ringleader shouted, in a tone of unconvincing guilt. Then to my surprise, he swaggered over and placed the can back in my suspicious hand.
“Here mate, have yer beans, we’re only messin‘ with yer.”
“Cheer up mate” offered another, patronisingly. I strained a smile,
“Cheers” I mumbled pathetically, “It’s ravioli.”
“Haha, enjoy it mate.” he said, amused that I thought he could care less. He laughed loud and boastfully back to his gang who greeted him with a variety of back-slaps, high-fives and general mirth, wandering off down the high street leaving me defeated and belittled, the old man loyally by my side, not feeling too good about myself.
“You need to stand up for yourself pal. You showed ‘em you were intimidated. They were laughing at yer.”

By now, I really wanted to punch the old man. Who did he think he was? Invading my space, judging me as I made a fool of myself and offering me clichéd advice. I desperately wanted him to leave. There was no way I was leaving. Why should I? It was my spot, I was there first. And besides, the rain was showing no signs of letting up and one of my bags had split.

I took a deep breath. The man was only trying to offer some fatherly advice and I wasn’t about to throw it violently back in his face. Besides, it was Barry I was pissed off with. Where the hell was he?

I politely smiled, nodded and mumbled in faux-agreement as the garrulous old man gave me his small minded opinion on every subject imaginable. I leant my head tiresomely on the cold, stone alcove, feeling more than sorry for myself. A feeling that only grew worse when the wind, which had been blowing the rain across the face of our shelter, now changed direction, aiming the downfall straight into our faces.
“Oh well, here we go.” the old man said happily, pulling up his collar and heading off back into the street. I’d been desperate for this man to leave for God knows how long, but now he had, I felt mildly insulted that he didn’t say bye, or that it had been a pleasure to meet me. I suppose I hadn’t been the most accommodating of companions. Anyway, such grievances were quickly forgotten as I was fast becoming drenched. I splashed across the street, bumbling with my bags, swinging and bashing against my legs, the one with the split, in my arms, like an overweight baby. I reached the covered walkway. I couldn’t have been more soaked to the bone if I had stood, fully clothed under a shower. I dropped the bags, cascading to the floor, I didn’t care about them anymore. I’d had enough and wanted to go home.

The more I waited, the more I thought it possible there was maybe a bigger clock elsewhere, with Barry stood beneath it impatiently awaiting my arrival. I asked a passer-by, whom I assumed was a local, if he thought that this particular clock would be referred to as ‘The Big Clock’.
“err I dunno…yeh probably.” he replied with a smirk and a shrug.
Very helpful.

Sat on the cold floor, playing a crudely animated game on my phone, I looked up to see none other than Barry himself, strolling carefree down the street, sharing a laugh and a joke with a friend. I struggled to my feet as my backside had grown terribly numb on the stone floor and held out my hands in a gesture that could only have been translated as “Where the hell have you been?!”
“Hey dude!” Barry called over, jovially. “How’s it going?”
“Shit.” I replied. “I’ve only been sat here about three hours Barry.”
“Sorry dude, you should’ve give us a ring, we’ve been in the pub.” Barry’s amiable tone was in stark contrast with the countenance of sickened disbelief I was displaying.
“It was pissing it down.” he continued, oblivious.
“Yeh, I noticed.”
“So we stayed for a couple while it died down. Ah cool you got the stuff.” He eyed the sorry looking bags splayed across the paving. “Shall we go for a pint?”

Part of me wanted to give him a piece of my mind and storm off back to the train station and go home, but as Barry and his friend bundled the shopping bags into their arms, allowing me to walk freely, it felt good to be talking to my old friend, and the idea of sitting in a comfy seat in a cosy pub was now more than appealing. I glanced down at the can of beef ravioli, packed tightly in my jacket pocket and headed off, merrily enough, down the street.

Lucky Cat

2011-04-19T12:54:00.000-07:00

I took my lucky cat for granted
It had sat serenely, ushering in good fortune
a perpetually wagging paw
Shimmering in gold.
One day, its battery died
The paw ceased to wag
Motionless on the shelf
I didn’t care.
Life seemed good
The still cat, ignored
Unneeded
It waited, watched, wise and knowing
As my life fell apart
Arrogance
Self importance
Complacence
All was lost
I lay alone and undeserving on my bed
Sorrowful and ashamed
I spied the patient cat through tears
Pleading and desperate
And scrambled for a new battery
The paw started to wag
I breathed a sigh of relief
Perhaps good fortune could be restored
Through the fog of bad spirits
I sat hopeful and humbled
Never more grateful
Of my Lucky Cat.

Magnolia Close. Coming soon.

2011-04-12T03:44:00.000-07:00

Benson has a plan
Daisy has a worry about her son
Walter has a lump in his chest
Nasreen has a wedding coming up
Gladys has memory loss
Lucille has an official complaint against her
Buster has his duty. And a suspect

Magnolia Close. Coming soon.

Limerick

2011-04-07T13:13:00.000-07:00

A nuclear scientist's mission
Was to choose between fusion and fission;
His brain overloaded,
Swelled up and exploded;
So no-one found out his decision.

Breakdown

2011-04-07T07:24:00.000-07:00

I need the number for the AA because it's happened again. Car at a standstill, this time in a dark deserted lane, miles from who knows where. I slam the steering wheel with clenched fists, a hiccupping sob escapes, tale-telling my frustration and fear. I grapple clumsily on the floor for my phone. Desperate, I lurch into the sluicing rain unsteadily slipping on the wet mud, I drop like a corpse to the ground. Tears and rain rivulet down my face as befuddled, I jab the buttons of my phone. "Samaritans? Help, I need the number for Alcoholics Anonymous!"

A Dribble of Fear

2011-04-06T15:11:00.000-07:00

The piercing screech of the owl stopped John in his tracks. Beads of sweat crept down his brow as he strained to hear. He crouched behind a hedge and listened; he knew that they were near, but where. A twig snapped. He turned and saw the axe blade and screamed.

Pat Woodcock 20.03.2011

A Drabble of Fun

2011-04-06T15:10:00.000-07:00

‘Stop that noise now,’ yelled Pam up the stairs to her noisy teenagers and their equally noisy music. She needn’t have bothered; it made no difference. She flung her arms in the air in despair then went into the kitchen and made herself a nice cup of tea. Still the music pounded in her ears. She took her drink and a small plate of biscuits into the family room and settled into the big armchair. Suddenly the noise stopped. Pam smiled to herself in smug satisfaction as she looked down at the hearing aids she now held in her hand.

Pat Woodcock 20.03.2011

A Droubble of Mischief

2011-04-06T15:07:00.000-07:00

Trish was sick of Philip and his boasting. ‘Boys are better than girls’ was his most recent taunt. Trish had taken the bait on more than one occasion and been reprimanded. She had to wreak revenge in a way only she knew about. This would give her the final satisfaction to be able to ignore his future gibes.

The plan began to form in Trish’s head early in the afternoon. She smiled to herself as she enacted the scene in her head. She went upstairs and hid a white towel under her pillow.

Trish lay in bed fighting the urge to sleep. She waited until all was quiet. She got the towel and pulled it close to her as she crept onto the landing.

She entered Phillip’s bedroom, knelt beside his bed and put the towel over her head. ‘Phiiiilllipp’, she whispered. He did not stir. ‘Phiiillliiip’, she whispered again. Still nothing. She tried one last time, raising her voice slightly ‘Phiiillliiip’ This time he woke up, saw the shadowy white figure next to his head and screamed.

Philip got into serious trouble for waking the baby, and had to sleep with the light on for quite some time after.

Pat Woodcock

20.03.2011

Magnolia Close. Coming soon.

2011-04-05T10:21:00.000-07:00

Tricia has an admirer
Brooke has her suspicion
Foster has a shaky business
Jade has a new job
Maxwell has a health issue
Douglas has a record
Sammy has too much to drink
And Robert, new to the area, has a guilty secret.

Magnolia Close. Coming soon.

A Siren Calls.

2011-04-05T10:07:00.000-07:00

The call came around tenish. Gregosz. Security job in Acton. Big money but their payoff was my silence.
Next night, I arrived at a disused Baths - an Edwardian ideal of working-class cleanliness and leisure. Nowadays it had become a mausoleum but inside, someone had splashed a lot of cash - excuse the pun.
State of the art, blue tiled pool in which I glimpsed a gliding shadow.
Gregosz beckoned and I noted a huge steel container and a net – the type used to catch wild animals.
‘What is it?’
‘Don’t ask.’ Gregosz smiled. ‘A Russian oligarch’s plaything.’
The water broke and the shadow surfaced. I registered a lithe body, covered in downy hair with a high-cheekboned, human face.
‘A real mermaid,’ whispered Gregosz as I gazed, mesmerised into almond eyes pleading, ‘Save me.’
Twenty four hours later I returned with the lorry. Gregosz’s key let me in and I went to the pool, unsure if the night before had been real.
I only recognised Gregosz from the look of terror on what remained of his face. One eye. Shredded net. Bloodied meat strewn across cobalt blue.
My heart was pounding as I saw her surface.
‘Save me.’

Susanne

Jerusalem

2011-03-31T15:30:00.000-07:00

Stunning Mill Conversion! New to the market and a rare opportunity, one of a select few, original, William Blake inspired dark satanic mills; sensitively modernised with intelligent lighting to dispel the darkness. Why, the old guy himself would want to kick off his cloven shoes in front of these gloriously blazing gas fires. The mills come fully fitted with wi-fi broadband, cable tv and high definition screens, all game platforms supported. Whether its mills in the mind or a new industrial age, this is a must see! Once you are in here you won’t be able to drag yourself away.

Creature#2

2011-03-31T15:29:00.000-07:00

She sucked out the last precious drops of nourishment. Her life was reduced to this moment, she was a container crammed with protein. Afterwards she rested in a quiet corner of the room and drew her legs up underneath her chest, curling in on herself, foetal once more. Her days of hunting were over; the waiting was finished. Her lifetime’s work of weaving delicate threads, of creating beauty in the dawn air, was forgotten. What remained was the bloated bag of her body and a white sack that was already beginning to stir with hungry mouths seeking out their mother.

Creature#1

2011-03-31T15:27:00.000-07:00

She watched as the last bag was attached to the pipe. This time it would work. This time it had been calculated to the last corpuscle, she would be galvanised, reborn. The constant pain and endless surgical procedures, that blankness of waiting, would soon be justified. Precious blood oozed through the tube staining the residual salt solution, clouding it, and then flowed through the needle into her vein. She smiled, willing its life force to the furthest withered cells of her body. Her faced flushed with hope then blanched as she realised that her fingertips were still white and cold.

For Cats' Sake

2010-11-11T09:43:00.001-08:00

FREE CAT CALENDAR 2011 TO DOWNLOAD! PDF OR WORD DOC:

http://dl.dropbox.com/u/4692947/2011%20A%20Calendar.pdf

http://dl.dropbox.com/u/4692947/2011%20A%20Calendar.doc

Happy New Year everybody!

I got a lot of respect for my bitch

2010-07-20T13:45:00.000-07:00

I got a lot of respect for my bitch
She ain’t no slapper
Or no rapper,
She can’t read no map or
Find her way round
Leyland,
No way man,
In the middle of the day man
But she scratch me when I itch;
I got a lot of respect for my bitch.

I got a lot of respect for my bitch;
She won’t text, no
She’s no techno,
Heck no,
But she makes the garden grow,
You know
I like to sit and watch her ass
Through my glass
While she cuts the grass
And strims the ditch;
I got a lot of respect for my bitch.

I got a lot of respect for my bitch;
She’s a female
Without e-mail
But she likes real ale
and retail.
She’s canny
And so funny
Oh man, she
Never ever, ever carries money
But she makes me feel rich
I got a lot of respect for my bitch.

Info on GSOH and The Moon Can't Wait

2010-03-21T05:06:00.001-07:00

The Moon Can't Wait ISBN 978-1-4452-4557-7 (Nicky J Poole)
GSOH ISBN 978-1-4092-0671-2 (Nicky J Poole)
Both Available from Lulu.Com

Bilder an einer Ausstellung

2010-02-19T14:35:00.000-08:00

“Oh, I like to look at your picture, it reminds me of when I had a chance.”

The words of the song run through my head every night as I settle down to sleep. And I stare at your photo on the night-stand. Perhaps not the best time to have an image of you in my mind. It’s not as if I’m likely to forget your face.

I’m certainly not likely to forget the day you told me about Ronald. Your Ron. You and I had been dating just a little while, just long enough for me to feel we were getting into a routine, that this was something that was long-term, that we were “an item.” I remember all of it, the first meeting, the first date, the first cheliceral kiss. Just as I was getting used to you, you told me that you needed to see “other people.” Other people turned out to be just one person in particular, this Ron character. It took you a little time to come out with the truth. That you were seeing someone else. You’d been “a keeper,” yet somehow I had not kept you. Another lyric comes to mind: “All I’ve got is a photograph of you.”

Did you mean to be so cruel?

I try to distract myself. I know I’ve got to move on. So I put on headphones and flick through my laptop’s collection of music. Best to avoid pop songs, they so often tend to have lyrics about losing someone, wanting them back, remembering. I play safe by going for classical music. No lyrics there. By chance, I select Modest Mussorgsky – Bilder an einer Ausstellung. “Pictures at an Exhibition,” with its lopsided meter and varying time. I’m asleep before I realise the irony.

But what a charmed sleep I have. We’re back together again. We’re laughing and joking, enjoying each other and there’s no Ronald. He’s written out of the pages of my fantasy. It’s just you and me. For a while at least. Then, as night-time hours pass, a cloud creeps into my imagination. There he is, there’s Ronald.

It’s like a piece of cinema film being run in a loop through the projector. Frame by frame, I see our time together replayed – the happy part then the sadness, the coming of the depressive epoch of Ronald. But I don’t have to sit through this. I can walk out, like walking out of a movie theatre.

“I’ve had enough of this,” I say. “This is my dream and I am leaving.”

You look hurt, shocked. “I don’t understand. What do you mean, your dream?”

“This is my dream and I am going to wake up.” I rouse and I am gone from the dream-gone-bad and I’m lying awake shaking and sweating and feeling pallid in the dark as I snap on the bedside lamp and see the accusing witness of the alarm clock declaring the smallness of the hour. And, of course, your picture.

Why have I not the wit to remove it? I doze restlessly till morning and it – you – are still there.

The next night is the same. I slip into slumber as a submarine would slip beneath the surface of the ocean, into unconsciousness. The song words, “Dreams of you all through my head,” by Led Zeppelin play over and over like a mantra as theta rhythms take over my brain.

Then it is as if I have come through a tunnel and I am awake once more in the dream of being with you, as we first were. All is happiness, all is fine until, again, suddenly the idyll twists out of shape and Ronald looms.

“This is only a dream,” I tell you, “and I am waking up.”

“What dream, darling? What do you mean?” you ask, dismayed. But I have made my escape and lie awake in the darkness once more. Another night disturbed, reliving pleasure followed by heartache. Morning finds me weary, un-refreshed. Still not able to move on.

And still I do not remove your picture from my bedside. A third night draws on. I will take control, I will dream of us together and that’s how it will be, and Ronald will not appear to corrode the reliving of the dead relationship.

And it all seems to work. At first. We are happier together than ever. All my life should be like this. All my life a dream with you, captured like a postcard, freeze-frame.

Then Ronald appears. I cannot believe it. Surely you can command the imaginings in your own head. I turn on you angrily and swear. “I am going to wake up now, and destroy your photo that has haunted me from my bedside, and I will leave this lost dream and I will move on!”

“Oh no,” you contradict. “You are not going to move on. You are not going to wake up from your dream, because this is not your dream. This is my dream that you are in.”

Did you mean to be so cruel?

“You are in my dream,” you say, “where I am happy and you are not. And you are trapped in it forever.”

THE END

Going Back (The Moon Can’t Wait)

2009-12-07T06:28:00.000-08:00

Friday 1200 Zulu
“We’ve lost contact with South Pole Base.”
This was big news. I could only speculate why Mission Director Lavrov was telling me first – if I was the first.
“Who’s this ‘we’?”
“Both us and Mission Control on Earth. All radio and data contact, telemetry, complete works became silent at 0900 Zulu, Friday.”
“The Sat links?”
“Both Sat links to us and direct feeds to Earth. Whole show went off at once. No warning, no prior emergency, nothing. Just like somebody pulled plug on entire base.”
“What does Mission Control say?”
“Somebody’s got to get ass down there and find out what’s happened.” I don’t know why, but I always find it amusing when Russians try to use American slang. Especially when agitated. “Assuming worst, till we know better.”
“When do we go?”
“We can’t prep a sub-orbital flight in under four weeks – ”
“Four weeks?” I was surprised. “Why the delay?”
“The Selena is undergoing routine overhaul and maintenance. Right now she’s lying around in Engineering Bay in about three thousand pieces.”
“Why is the car always in the shop just when you need it?” I said. Perhaps my levity was out of place. Certainly, Lavrov scowled at me.
“So we are sending team in one of the Marathons,” he added, somehow coping with his bad mood – at least he was regaining his fluency in English – “along with trailer carrying supplies for every kind of eventuality. That’s another reason for going by lunar surface route – bigger load.”
“But the surface trip from here to South Base is over five thousand kilometres – and that’s not counting the detours around craters. Especially as you get nearer – it’s, what? –– like a thousand kilometres of Himalayas.”
“It’s been done before – and that was before rougher sections were bulldozed to make causeways and cuttings,” said Lavrov. “About the same as crossing the Sahara, end to end.” His expression had not improved any, so it still didn’t sound like some kind of picnic he was suggesting. “You can average 40 kilometres an hour which means 140 hours to get there – about six Earth days. Which is just as well as it’s only seven Earth days till Lunar night on the Earth side.”
“So who’s going on this jolly jaunt?” I asked. It was a safe bet I already knew one person who would be going. John Patterson. Me.
“Jim Sellars, Dr Li, Françoise Lagrange from medical and Ajali Ndege. Then there are two newcomers. Dr Ahmed Zubaydi and his assistant, Ibrahim Rashid.”
Newcomers indeed – I recognised their names from a recent passenger manifest, but knew nothing else. “Who are they?”
“They came in on the last trip from South Base before the Selena went for her overhaul.”
“What are their specialities?”
“Apart from having visited South Base and seen how it was just days ago?” Lavrov picked up and glanced at a slim folder for several seconds like he had never read it before. “Dr Zubaydi was expert in geological survey – oil prospecting, I gather – before he joined our team.” A pause. “Rashid is – ah – his right-hand man… been with him for years. Deputy-Directory Kennedy at South will have done a more thorough debriefing, seeing as they were joining his staff. They are visiting North just to get to know whole operation.”
“And who else?”
“And your good self, of course.” He still didn’t stop scowling.
“Why just seven of us?”
His scowl worsened, if that were possible. “If nothing serious has happened, there will be plenty of people there who can take care of themselves.”
“And if it is serious?”
“You won’t need more than seven of you.”
He filled me in on a few other details for my own speciality. “One last thing,” Lavrov added. “Keep in touch with us here at North Pole Base, every six hours. You know the protocol.”
I nodded. I knew the protocol. “Anything else?”
“Get back in one piece.”
I’d kind of planned that already.
Friday 1600 Zulu
Let me introduce you to a Marathon. It’s one hell of a bit of kit. It has twelve wheels, six in the forward tractor unit and six in the so-called trailer which was attached to the tractor by a fully sealed gimballed mid-section, like a flexible bus, although it could be jettisoned in an emergency, such as sliding down a crater wall and the like. It was unfair to call it a trailer, as drive went to all of its six wheels, just like the forward unit, which in turn wasn’t really a tractor in that it didn’t pull anything. In fact, each wheel has its own drive motor which could be cross-linked to any other wheel in case any motor failed. It could carry up to sixteen people, suitably equipped, though, on this occasion the rear unit would be full of stores with no passenger space. The whole thing weighed twelve thousand kilos on Earth, or just two thousand on the Moon. All of them were nick-named the “recreational vehicle” or “RV” by everyone that used them, both at North Pole Base where I normally spent my time, and at South Pole Base. There were five on the Moon in all with at least two stationed at each base and the fifth as a kind of spare. Each one cost one point eight billion dollars. Some RV.
The reason for always having at least two at each base was for contingency. Contingency and redundancy. When you live on the Moon you never adopt the mode of thought, “What if something goes wrong?” It’s always: “When things go wrong, I can do so-and-so.” There’s always a back-up, a spare, of everything from a spanner to a spacesuit. The only exceptions at all were the Selenas – the sub-orbital spacecraft – and the Atlases, the Earth-Moon shuttle/cargo craft – it simply wasn’t feasible to have duplicates of these hugely expensive transporters at both bases – we shared one a piece at each base with at least one either on Earth and one en route – four in all – and this was thought sufficient. That had worked out well, I couldn’t help thinking, considering the current circumstances, but then no-one had anticipated a whole base simply shutting down like a blown-out candle. As for our Selena, giving it regular and thorough maintenance was our way of covering our asses. That had worked out well, too, again given the same considerations. I can be quite cynical when I put my mind to it.
Considering what was about to happen, I was probably justified.

This is the opening of my novella which came out today, December 7^th, available at Lulu.com

Looking for Blues

2009-10-03T00:55:00.000-07:00

Blue greys, blue haze, blue rays, blue jays,
Blue cables, blue tables, blue green, blue sheen,

Blue circle, blue square,
Blue birds over, don’t know where;

Blue Bols - umbrella drink,
Pot the blue then pot the pink

Blue Mondays, Ruby Tuesdays?
Don’t step on my blue suede shoes days.

Blue blokes telling blue jokes
Blew away in a puff of blue smoke;

Midnight men in midnight blue
For a midnight rendezvous

Blue oyster, blue mink,
Blue eye shadow, what d’you think?

Powder blue, Navy blue,
It’s all over baby blue;

Beryl, Cobalt, Aquamarine
Royal blue blood in a blue veined queen

Blue is the colour, what’s your game?
Georgie meets an old blue flame

Blue smarties, blue material,
Blue mints or mint imperial.

Blue with cold, blue with mould,
Blue ribbon, go for gold:

I don’t care if Monday’s blue;
The runaway train she blew, she blew:

Blue flies on blueberry pies and
Blue eyes on blue horizons;

Blue workers, blue collar,
Another day, another dollar

Blau punkt - blue spot.
Blue arrow, blue dot

Blue bellies, blue jeans,
St Louis blues in New Orleans

Bluebottles in my beer,
Blue tooth buzzing in my ear

Blue velvet, blue moon,
Creatures from the blue lagoon

Into the blue, out of the blue,
Up the blues and up yours too!

Sky blue pink with yellow dots on
Elementary my dear Watson.

© Dave Carr

How My Father Saved The World

2009-09-03T12:20:00.000-07:00

Today, as we remember the 70th anniversary of the start of World War II, I can exclusively reveal a little-known fact. Not only did my father fight in the World War, he started it. And I can prove it. Well, almost.

Arthur was raised by Methodist parents in the rural fens of East Anglia. Many of his other relatives worked the land. I’d say they were farmers, but I’m not sure any of them actually owned any farms – in fact I’m not sure they owned anything, they were so poor – but they did do some farming. He left school at the age of fourteen to deliver milk, 14 hours a day from a ten gallon churn, something I would blanche at even now. Not surprisingly, he must have wondered whether there was a better life. He had one abiding interest – football. His parents’ best offer was that he become a Methodist minister.

He was talent-scouted and offered a contract with Peterborough United, then, as now, known as The Posh. The scout duly went to Arthur’s house to obtain his parents’ agreement. My grandfather literally chased him off the premises. Not only did he regard alcohol as a sin, along with sex, stealing and murder, he evidently thought football was the Devil’s handiwork too. My father was denied the opportunity of playing the game he loved, and for money too. Imagine that, today. Some parents probably would sell their children to a football club.

A few weeks later, World War II broke out. Coincidence? I think not. Two days after that, he enlisted.

That this son of the soil, when answering the call to arms, chose the Royal Navy, bearing in mind few duties took battleships into the heart of East Anglia, surely confirms it – he had planned all this to get as far away from his kin as possible.

He was assigned to HMS Dainty and ended up in the Med. The ship’s company, officers excepted, were designated "HX," which meant service, "for the duration of hostilities plus six months." My father later found out that the crew were almost entirely orphans – no family of any kind. They never received letters from home, they never sent letters – indeed some of them could barely read or write. Even at Christmas, they had no parcels or gifts. I bet my father felt he fitted right in. They must have been a tight-knit group.

Less than two years in, the Dainty was hit by a 1,000 pound bomb and sunk in Tobruk harbour.

Earlier on, they called in at Malta, where, to my father’s amazement, left-overs from the ship’s mess were sold as food to the locals. It’s not they were inescapably poor, it’s just that they gave all their money to the Church, who in turn used it buy gold statues for the places of worship. I think my father’s view of religion must have become even more jaundiced at that point.

I once asked him if he was terrified at the state the world was in at the time and what the future threatened. He said, "No, no. It was all great fun, really exciting. I was in charge of the ship’s launch, taking things ship-to-shore and back. I was seeing parts of the world I barely knew existed." It can’t all have been fun though. Not all of his friends came back. But I can see how a lot of it was.

The highlight of every day was the rum ration, served at seven bells, or eleven in the morning to you and me. This was 50% alcohol watered down two to one, which still makes it a heck of sight stronger than a Bacardi Breezer. Perhaps this is where the expression, "to knock seven bells out of someone," comes from. His poor dad must have been spinning in his pulpit. As if this was not enough, there was shore leave and, on one particular occasion, the following occurred. A rating, climbing back on board from a night ashore, inexplicably slipped and cut his head open. The ship’s surgeon was summoned, a new man, unversed in the ways of sailors, who brought his medical kit with all its contingency items to put a bandage around the skull of the injured crewman. When the medical officer went to retrieve his bag, a large bottle of surgical spirit had vanished. He daren’t say anything as he would have been in as much trouble as whoever had appropriated it.

What does surprise me is that not only were this semi-soused lot allowed near guns, and by that I mean artillery, they were actually got to fire them at things from time to time. And on one occasion, they managed to hit a submarine, which had unwisely taken a sojourn on the surface. Fortunately, the Uebi Scebelli was Italian, and on the other team. This was the 29th June, 1940, and is where my father’s world-saving activities really began.

As my dad watched the damaged submarine before it was scuttled, he noticed that something in a small case, about the size of a portable typewriter, was concealed in a kit-bag and brought on board the Dainty in some secrecy. It later transpired that this was a copy of Enigma, the Nazi coding machine used by all the Axis forces. Being able to break secret messages so that you always know what your enemy is about to do is a tremendous advantage to you and is one very significant reason The Allies eventually won the war.

My father therefore feels, with some pride, that he played a pivotal part in this victory over the evil of fascism. I haven’t the heart to tell him that the British already had copies of the Enigma machine from even before the war. The Polish Cipher Bureau, which for years had been monitoring German radio traffic, had deduced from scratch how the Enigma was built and had made their own copies. It was capturing copies of the code-books which gave the daily settings for all Enigmas that mattered most after that. When Poland was threatened with invasion, in August 1939, they sent a copy of the machine to London for the British to use. Code-breaking was carried out at Bletchley Park throughout the war and was indeed instrumental in assuring victory, especially during Operation Overlord, the liberation of western Europe.

But my father was not to know that. He played his part on the chessboard of history as much as anybody. What he did was important and, under slightly different circumstances, could have been monumental.

So when you see all around you as in a mess, don’t think there is nothing you can do. Some action of yours might just help save the world.

After all, my dad did.

The End

Going Back (The Moon Can’t Wait)

2009-07-20T05:36:00.000-07:00

Friday 1200 Zulu

We’ve lost contact with South Pole Base."

This was big news. I could only speculate why Mission Director Lavrov was telling me first – if I was the first.

"Who’s this ‘we’?"

"Both us and Mission Control on Earth. All radio and data contact, telemetry, complete works became silent at 0900 Zulu, Friday."

"The Sat links?"

"Both Sat links to us and direct feeds to Earth. Whole show went off at once. No warning, no prior emergency, nothing. Just like somebody pulled plug on entire base."

"What does Mission Control say?"

"Somebody’s got to get ass down there and find out what’s happened." I don’t know why, but I always find it amusing when Russians try to use American slang. Especially when agitated. "Assuming worst, till we know better."

"When do we go?"

"We can’t prep a sub-orbital flight in under four weeks – "

"Four weeks?" I was surprised. "Why the delay?"

"The Selena is undergoing routine overhaul and maintenance. Right now she’s lying around in Engineering Bay in about three thousand pieces."

"Why is the car always in the shop just when you need it?" I said. Perhaps my levity was out of place. Certainly, Lavrov scowled at me.

"So we are sending team in one of the Marathons," he added, somehow coping with his bad mood – at least he was regaining his fluency in English – "along with trailer carrying supplies for every kind of eventuality. That’s another reason for going by lunar surface route – bigger load."

"But the surface trip from here to South Base is over five thousand kilometres – and that’s not counting the detours around craters. Especially as you get nearer – it’s, what? – like a thousand kilometres of Himalayas."

"It’s been done before – and that was before rougher sections were bulldozed to make causeways and cuttings," said Lavrov. "About the same as crossing the Sahara, end to end." His expression had not improved any, so it still didn’t sound like some kind of picnic he was suggesting. "You can average 40 kilometres an hour which means 140 hours to get there – about six Earth days. Which is just as well as it’s only seven Earth days till Lunar night on the Earth side."

"So who’s going on this jolly jaunt?" I asked. It was a safe bet I already knew one person who would be going. John Patterson. Me.

"Jim Sellars, Dr Li, Françoise LaGrange from medical and Ajali Ndege. Then there are two newcomers. Dr Ahmed Zubaydi and his assistant, Ibrahim Rashid."

Newcomers indeed – I recognised their names from a recent passenger manifest, but knew nothing else. "Who are they?"

"They came in on the last trip from South Base before the Selena went for her overhaul."

"What are their specialities?"

"Apart from having visited South Base and seen how it was just days ago?" Lavrov picked up and glanced at a slim folder for several seconds like he had never read it before. "Dr Zubaydi was expert in geological survey – oil prospecting, I gather – before he joined our team." A pause. "Rashid is – ah – his right-hand man… been with him for years. Deputy-Directory Kennedy at South will have done a more thorough debriefing, seeing as they were joining his staff. They are visiting North just to get to know whole operation."

"And who else?"

"And your good self, of course." He still didn’t stop scowling.

"Why just seven of us?"

His scowl worsened, if that were possible. "If nothing serious has happened, there will be plenty of people there who can take care of themselves."

"And if it is serious?"

"You won’t need more than seven of you."

He filled me in on a few other details for my own speciality. "One last thing," Lavrov added. "Keep in touch with us here at North Pole Base, every six hours. You know the protocol."

I nodded. I knew the protocol. "Anything else?"

"Get back in one piece."

I’d kind of planned that already.

Friday 1600 Zulu

Let me introduce you to a Marathon. It’s one hell of a bit of kit. It has twelve wheels, six in the forward tractor unit and six in the so-called trailer which was attached to the tractor by a fully sealed gimballed mid-section, like a flexible bus, although it could be jettisoned in an emergency, such as sliding down a crater wall and the like. It was unfair to call it a trailer, as drive went to all of its six wheels, just like the forward unit, which in turn wasn’t really a tractor in that it didn’t pull anything. In fact, each wheel has its own drive motor which could be cross-linked to any other wheel in case any motor failed. It could carry up to sixteen people, suitably equipped, though, on this occasion the rear unit would be full of stores with no passenger space. The whole thing weighed twelve thousand kilos on Earth, or just two thousand on the Moon. All of them were nick-named the "recreational vehicle" or "RV" by everyone that used them, both at North Pole Base where I normally spent my time, and at South Pole Base. There were five on the Moon in all with at least two stationed at each base and the fifth as a kind of spare. Each one cost one point eight billion dollars. Some RV.

The reason for always having at least two at each base was for contingency. Contingency and redundancy. When you live on the Moon you never adopt the mode of thought, "What if something goes wrong?" It’s always: "When things go wrong, I can do so-and-so." There’s always a back-up, a spare, of everything from a spanner to a spacesuit. The only exceptions at all were the Selenas – the sub-orbital spacecraft – and the Atlases, the Earth-Moon shuttle/cargo craft – it simply wasn’t feasible to have duplicates of these hugely expensive transporters at both bases – we shared one a piece at each base with at least one either on Earth and one en route – four in all – and this was thought sufficient. That had worked out well, I couldn’t help thinking, considering the current circumstances, but then no-one had anticipated a whole base simply shutting down like a blown-out candle. As for our Selena, giving it regular and thorough maintenance was our way of covering our asses. That had worked out well, too, again given the same considerations. I can be quite cynical when I put my mind to it.

Considering what was about to happen, I was probably justified.

End of extract

The Moon Can't Wait is now available from http://www.lulu.com/product/file-download/the-moon-cant-wait/15545187?productTrackingContext=search_results/search_shelf/center/2

Identity Crisis

2009-06-09T13:14:00.000-07:00

In this world of computer banking, plastic money and internet shopping we are constantly being reminded to protect our pins and guard our passwords. Well I’m not as good on my pins as I used to be and if I have more than one password to remember I'm completely stuffed. Identity theft is on the increase. Imagine my surprise, therefore, when I find that my identity has been stolen by none other than that great British institution BT. Or was it Cellnet or O2. They do seem to keep changing their own identity. What do they have to hide? Perhaps it's to sidestep the number of complaints? 'The in trays are full again. Time to re-brand.' That thieving little prancing piper has disappeared and quite probably is wanted for theft all around the country, if my experience is anything to go by.

I've had a mobile phone account since the time you had to drive to within 20 miles of Manchester to ring someone up. Provided they also lived in Manchester or London, that is. The trouble was, they have always had my name down as Mike. Looking back this doesn't seem so bad, although my name is not Mike. There was always an element of confusion when I had to speak to anyone about my account. After several years however, and during one of these confusing conversations, when I was asked to confirm my name, I decided to explain that although they had me down as Mike, my name was in fact Dave. Perhaps I didn't explain it very well. Perhaps the computer system didn't allow first name changes. Perhaps the administrator was having a bad day. Suffice to say that my name is no longer listed as Mike on the mobile phone account. I am now known as Unknown. Every month I receive a statement addressed to Mr. Unknown Carr. Worse than that in fact, they haven't even spelt unknown correctly, missing out the first n. I’m a lost soul wandering the shadowy basement tapes of the computers of a corporate machine. A nameless fish in a faceless pond.

My first thoughts were to correct this error but this would inevitably involve another of those conversations, probably preceded by a good deal of button pushing and listening to Enya. On the other hand, I thought, perhaps there could be some advantage in being Mr. Unknown. It does have a certain mystique to it. International man of mystery - Mr Unknown. Maybe I could even one day become referred to as 'The Great Unknown.'

Perhaps I would be able to open a bank account in the name of Unknown. They wouldn't believe me of course but I could take in my mobile phone bill to confirm my name and address. There must be a benefit to be had. A credit card perhaps? I could run up some horrendous bills and simply deny all knowledge. I'm sure others must have played the system. Johnny Cash for example. "Let’s see now - concert at the Hollywood Bowl. That'll be three hundred thousand dollars, please. Just make it out to Cash."

I thought about ordering a gravestone in the shape of a mobile phone simply bearing the word 'Unknown'. In Paris the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier is visited by thousands.
‘The Tomb of the Unknown Mobile Phone Customer’. Well you can’t argue it doesn’t have a ring to it. But there again, I can’t see it being much of an attraction.

To be quite honest, I'm surprised that the post office actually delivers my phone bills. I suppose I could send them back marked, ‘Unknown at this address.’ If I wasn't already paying by direct debit, that would be worth a try. Still, the court case might have been interesting.
The case of BT verses the Unknown.

I wonder what the passport office would make of it. I might get some strange looks going through customs. On second thoughts I'd probably find my house swarming with MI5 officers if I tried to obtain a passport under the name of Unknown. Or worse still, wind up in some eastern jail trying to explain it away. "It was all a big mistake - honest. Just ask BT. Ring their call centre - India something or other isn't it?"

No - on reflection, I can’t actually think of any real benefit to being completely nameless and obscure.

“Hello, BT? - I’m more than a number in your big yellow book. My parents gave me that name in good faith. It’s mine and you’ve no right to take it. I want my identity back. What? OK I’ll hold.”

Papa Oscar Echo Mike

2009-05-10T01:23:00.000-07:00

Mike was a Romeo, I met him one November
Looking for a Juliet as far as I remember;
He was a kind of Alpha male, who drove a Ford Sierra,
I prefer a man in Uniform but they're a good deal rarer.
He said he liked my dancing shoes and would I like a Foxtrot.
We checked into a cheap Hotel and soon he found my hotspot.
I read him like an X-ray but he held me fascinated;
He could have won an Oscar but the film would be X rated.
I started craving spicy food from India and Nepal;
I put on weight, a Kilo; that's not like me at all.
Victor at the Golf club said "My boy you'll have to marry her."
Mike screamed and threw his arms about just like a Zulu warrior.
He said "You see, I'm not quite ready yet to be a Papa."
I called him a Charlie and he called me a slapper.
But it takes two to Tango as I really ought to know;
I Delta blow for women's lib and told him where to go.
He joined a Yankee sailing crew, leaving for Quebec;
My scathing cry of 'Bravo' seemed to Echo round the deck.
He runs a place in Lima now, it's called the Aztec Bar,
Drinking Whiskey, playing cards - I said that he'd go far.

Cossacks

2009-05-03T14:16:00.001-07:00

Three flicks of scarlet dulled by snow grey breath,
Three gradual paladins drip with grizzly death;
Three ululations twisting through the wind,
Three doves to pacify, bring the melting spring.

Once far too often, cossack tipped his lance;
Once on a dream-wave peace fought with chance;
Once through a bow of light scattered bands
Hope's glow rekindled a time shattered land.

The Last Judgement - Bosch

2009-04-28T13:12:00.000-07:00

Squat hooded rider, whip in hand astride
The giant red robed rat he drives through hell;
Panniers of petty sinners either side
And everywhere is death’s rank, putrid smell.
As Christ sits calmly judging all who died,
Evil destruction tolls the ghastly knell.
A hopeless clamour as the wrong abide
To hear the human clapper strike the bell.

A wheel turns, so the clockwork crone partakes
Of flesh from souls, the judge smugly forsakes.
Smoke from far, dying cities fills the air,
Where patient ravens thrive upon despair.

Hacked off limbs and heads lay side by side,
Cruel demons chanting, calling all are welcome
To this acrid waste, hope cast aside;
A nether land with hideous tales to tell;
A place where pilgrims learn the price of pride
Eternal damnity for promised souls that fell.
For those who failed the judgement and were tried
Amongst the grotesque evermore shall dwell.

conjunctivitis

2009-04-09T08:02:00.000-07:00

Conjunctivitis

My heavy lidded red eye
Reminds me of the bull’s eye
I tried to dissect at school; but couldn't.
It was the lashes which made me heave.
Grotesquely, pathetically human,
Winking at me in its tray of brine.
The smell of dead eye balls lingered
In the class lab for weeks.

My swollen eye weeps all day,
Tissues like blotting paper
Soaking up tears.
While its twin stares, unmoved,
Embarrassed with this
Over spilling of grief.
Not sure what to do
With this surfeit of emotion.

It feels as though grit
Has scorched the surface,
Worse than having my feet
Desanded,
Or having a bath with
Sunburnt shoulders.
My lashes sticky and encrusted
Become inseparable in sleep.

I imagine an almost painless
Operation.
I tip my head and with a
Gentle nudge my wounded eye
Slops, blancmange like, into
A glass blue cup of eye solution,
Like a tired pedal boat
Bobbing on a sleepy lake.

I wait a while until the
The stinging ceases,
Let the lotion ripple
Its lullaby of love on all
My woe and weeping.
Patient, I will bide my time
For tenderness to travel and
Dissipate the darkness.

Gently my eyelid closes
On the empty socket,
Of a temporary night.

Jacqueline Pemberton

Black and White

2009-04-04T05:44:00.000-07:00

It’s black and everywhere is white.

Or is it white and everywhere is black?

I can’t figure it out. It’s black everywhere and it’s white everywhere.

I look up and it’s black. I look in the distance and it’s dark, nothing is clear, but white specks are floating into my vision. They scurry, form shapes, re-form and disappear, only to be replaced by more phantom figures. I look down and it’s white everywhere. My feet stumble in the white.

The white around my feet crumbles and swallows my feet as I try to move. I breathe out and my breath clouds, mixing with the swirling phantoms. It is snowing and it’s very late at night and I don’t know where I am going. What am I doing? What am I about to do?

What have I just done?

Was it right? These things are never black and white.

This is one of my clearest memories of being at North Riding University. The winters were always severe. Snowfalls would sometimes cut off the new campus from the rest of the country, especially, it seemed, at week-ends. Menial staff like cleaners and porters would be trapped, and have to sleep in the main refectory or the chapel till Monday. On this winter evening the snow is more hideous than ever. It is so cold and ice-sharp, it is dry and doesn’t even have the decency to melt on your exposed flesh of your face, till your skin burns and you cannot feel the cold anymore. It dances around me furiously, piling into my eyes as it gathers, onslaught upon onslaught from an unseen black canopy over head.

The centre of campus, the piazza, is totally deserted. Lamps burn pointlessly overhead, illuminating a dazzling, deserted tableau.

I stumble on.

Almost miraculously a figure appears in the distance. Small in stature yet definitely male, he makes his way directly towards me through the driving snow. His hands are thrust deep into the pockets of a duffel coat, though the hood is down and his head is bare in the outrageous blizzard. I can see his close-cropped red hair – coupé en brosse as the French would say, and red stubble of beard – it is the only colour in this monochrome scene.

"Are you Malcolm?" he says, almost conversationally.

"Malc," I nod, correcting. "Call me Malc."

"My name’s Chris. We spoke earlier. Have you taken any pills?" He has the politeness to grin slightly as he asks.

"I can’t remember," I mumble. "I’ve been out in this – " I shrug, indicating the whirling ice-flakes. "It’s been so long," I add after a pause. "Yet, I feel so… hot."

"Are you feeling dizzy?"

"Dizzy? No… no, I don’t think so," I lie. I’ve taken some tranqs, but that’s understandable.

"It’s been five minutes since you called the Nightline office. You said you hadn’t taken anything then. Just that you thought you were going to. That’s why I came out to meet you." He almost laughed. "Lovely night for a walk, eh?"

"No, not dizzy. Just hot. Here," I tugged at the clothing at my neck, "let me take my scarf off."

Nightline was a little organisation run by the Students’ Union. It was there to help member students through the night when ever they had problems, like an essay they couldn’t finish for a nine o’clock deadline, or an impossible finals exam coming up – that would be usually in the summer term, of course, though some schools had mid-year class tests. Also, other problems, like money worries, late grant checks back then, difficulties with parents, fear you were on the wrong course, love affairs running less than smoothly – in fact anything that could disturb the student psyche, a student-based version of The Samaritans. They were said to be particularly keen on helping undergraduates talk through their sexual orientation – nothing like becoming queer to excite the would-be psychotherapeutic volunteers that would stay up all night once or twice a term to run the Nightline service, from the VP-Internal’s office in the Union. Their busiest time, and type of call, though, was always during exams, or the suicide season, as it was known.

I flapped inanely at my coat, trying to find a pocket. "Could you take this?" I said at last, handing him the scarf. I am a personification of confusion.

"Sure."

Despite his casual, amiable manner, I knew he was studying me closely.

"There is something else," I said. "My girlfriend."

"What about her?"

"I think I may have… harmed her."

"Harmed? In what way?" said Chris.

"A bad way."

He remained calm, but it was with a hint of effort, of self-control. "Where is she?"

I told him the room address in the hall of residence at the east end of the campus. Sure enough, his demeanour descended from controlled calm to the edge of agitation. The snow dramatically raised its dervish dance around us as we headed out into the frigid night.

We get to Marion Harding’s room and the door is ajar. We step inside and Marion is sprawled in an ugly fashion on the floor of the cramped bed-sit room. I am all confusion and unable to explain what might have happened. Chris is bent over the body as police from the North Yorkshire Constabulary arrive. I am suddenly the model of clarity and perception. "He did it!" I exclaim. "I saw him strangling her. He’s the one I called you about. Look – her scarf is hanging from his pocket!"

There, on the nightstand, is a sad little epitaph to the recently deceased. Marion’s diary, open at today’s page and, in her handwriting, the note: "Meet Chris tonight." It is there, in black and white.

When I graduated from NRU in Business Studies, it was an easy step to take a job in London, just after the Big Bang of deregulation on the stock market and financial institutions. It was easy to make a killing here too. I dutifully became obscenely wealthy and, as the Eighties segued into the Nineties and the bubble subsided, I quietly stepped back from coke-fuelled trading in the City to semi-retirement in my Docklands flat. The only thing I really lacked was a partner, a girl by my side. But the only woman I had ever loved had turned me down back in my college days because she was already seeing a sociology major called Chris, who, amongst his many good works, volunteered for the Nightline service at NRU. The only woman I ever loved was Marion Harding. I found out, one winter’s evening when my heart could bare the pain of rejection no more, when Chris was on duty at Nightline. I gave her one final chance to reject him in favour of me. She failed to do so and I took the only course of action I could see open to me. If I could not have her, then nobody would. It was a choice as clear as between night and day. Framing Chris was an exquisite bonus. He had the means, opportunity and possible motive – an arranged meeting to break up with him and go out with me, perhaps. He was sentenced to life. Or as good as, in this penal system.

Now I sit in my apartment, staring at the ancient brick architecture and genuine maple floor and gaze blankly across the river, and I wonder what it has all been about. Light floods the open plan room but not my dark secret. How life would have been different with Marion at my side, when there is a knock at the door. Callers are unusual, but I answer just the same without hesitation.

A figure stands there, bent and with lined face. "Remember me?" he says.

No, I do not, and say so. I expect an explanation. There is something vaguely familiar about the close-cropped red hair. He hits me suddenly with something so hard, all I see is a flash of light. Though I know I must be falling, it is as if the floor pivots up to meet me in the back. I am dazed and confused and can find no breath.

"Perhaps you remember this," says the red-haired figure now kneeling on my chest. "This scarf is just like Marion’s. The one you planted on me all those years ago. The one you strangled her with and used to send me to prison for life!"

He is looping the scarf around my neck. I can hardly breathe as it is with his full weight upon my chest, and the blow to the face moments earlier – what did he hit me with? There is blood in my mouth and I feel terribly hot.

"They say life should mean life," he says – I’ve not a clue what he’s on about – "in your case, it will do!"

The scarf slithers around my throat and he tugs it tighter still. I can get no air and my lungs are exploding. At last, I suddenly realise who he is and why is here and what he wants.

Just as everything begins to go black.

Maybe it is what I want too.

The end.

P.S. VOTE FOR YOUR FAVOURITE ENDING!

Someone made the suggestion that this story could satisfactorily end about half-way through this 'full' version, at the point with the text: ' It is there, in black and white' as the final line. What do YOU think? Please leave comments, and a vote, if you have a preference, and we'll find out what the public wants!

2009-03-27T02:53:00.000-07:00

Let me Count the Ways

In age, as in childhood, it seems to me, pleasures are generally of the simpler and more wholesome kind; while those of the middle years are often complicated by emotion and relationships. The pleasures of old men (and I assume old women) tend to be singular, solitary and often incomprehensible to the wider world.
And by way of example I can do no better than draw your attention to the compost heap at the bottom of my garden. More accurately I should say heaps, since I have three of them. Not that I am boasting you understand, but I must admit to a little frisson of pride to think that in one respect at least, I have more than the average man. And as you’ll appreciate, no two compost heaps are alike, so in the unlikely event that I ever get bored with one there is always another available for my delight and delectation.
So perhaps you’ll indulge me while I wax lyrical and count the ways that I do love my compost heaps.
To begin with, I belong to the post war austerity generation; a generation saddled with the conviction that to throw away food, any food, is just plain sinful. One of the consequences of this is that we baby boomers feel compelled to take those bendy carrots , wilting radishes and shrivelled turnips and make them into wholesome, nourishing soup. OK, so it gives gruel a bad name and the family refuses en-mass to go near it and it sits festering in the fridge for the next six weeks. The point is we haven’t thrown stuff away and God, do we feel virtuous.
But if you have a compost heap, and I think you’re probably ahead of me here, there is a guilt free alternative.
All that suspect vegetable matter, those baked beans lying blue and forgotten in some rarely visited corner of the fridge, not to mention the half ton of bruised windfall apples your in-laws gave you; can all be despatched with a clear conscience to the compost heap. Nothing is being thrown; it is all being recycled. You can bask in that ever so pleasant ‘holier than thou’ glow knowing that your new-found Green Credentials are shining out like a beacon in a world of waste.
Now, as far as the maintenance is concerned, there is something immensely satisfying about pulling on the boots and announcing with the air of someone about to set off for the south pole, that your ‘going to turn over the compost heap’ and ‘that you may be gone some time’.
I suppose this is as close as most of us get to being in touch with the land. Even if, like me, your efforts at horticulture leave the garden looking like the Gobi desert with an acid rain problem, you can still produce good compost. All it takes is patience and an awful lot of potato peeling.
Of course, the real pleasure of the heap is to be had in observing its slow, relentless alchemy; the living ferment which lies at its dark heart. It is the irresistible power of infinitesimal organisms toiling in immeasurable numbers; the writhing broil of happy worms and the silent creep of fungi pushing their filaments into every foetid recess.
And after all the rotting and turning over and waiting you get to the finished product which of course is not the pure crumbly tilth you were hoping for. It is full of stuff that shouldn’t be there.
Take avocado stones: in our house avocados are an occasional constituent of salads; they are not what you would call an everyday staple. Yet the heap does not lie. There can only be one explanation for the vast number of stones and that is that someone is living with a serious avocado habit and probably needs counselling as a matter of urgency.
Then there are what you might call the prodigal son moments, the unconfined joy at being reunited with those potato peelers, knives and spoons which have gradually disappeared over the previous year. And of course, there are always the completely inexplicable items like next doors house keys or a tin of sardines or a used condom.
But the thing that really gets me is the corks. Why does my wife insist on putting corks in the compost? They don’t rot. They sit around in the necks of bottles for years precisely because cork doesn’t rot. Of all the organic materials on God’s earth, cork is the one which most resembles the permanence and indestructibility of granite. So why does my wife imagine that putting them in a compost heap for six months is going to bring about any measurable degree of decomposition - particularly when they’re plastic.
Right, having got that out of my system, let me move on to the fact that compost heaps by their nature are always changing, they are never the same two days running. Every time you visit your heap there is something different and fascinating going on. Alright, you’re always greeted by the same friendly cloud of fruit flies but get past them and you could, for example, find yourself with a particularly fine example of pin mould growing on that gravy you disposed of last week. Or it could be a solemn convocation of slugs, gathered one assumes, in quiet contemplation of the inexhaustible bounty of their little four-sided universe.
Then there is always the possibility of something even more exciting. I once lifted the lid off one of my heaps to find a rat. It stared at me and I stared at it in mutual disbelief. Needless to say the rat recovered its wits before I did and scampered off towards the stream. It was followed by a spade which fell pathetically short – a gesture of impotent rage if ever there was one. But before the rat slipped into the water, it stopped and turned and I could have sworn that it raised two claws in my direction.
So, if the preceding encomium has persuaded you to think seriously about the joys of compost, remember; a heap needs constant attention, it is for life not just for Christmas. Personally, as I shuffle off into my dotage I expect my compost heaps to continue to provide me with comfort and companionship; an ever present reminder of the fate that awaits the mortal remains of us all. In fact, when the time comes I think I would like to be buried under my compost heap. For as Genesis reminds us: ‘compost thou art and unto compost shalt thou return’. At least I think that’s what it says.

Conversion Piece

2009-03-13T03:27:00.000-07:00

If a metre has feet, how hard is a yard?
How long is a song with a beat?
If the rhythm’s trochaic, does that make it archaic
While iambic pentameter’s neat?

Now a stanza’s a verse – or is it the reverse?
And a pair of lines is a couplet,
Or, to my surprise, a tiny bra size
Where a heaving breast is an "uplet."

You can alter the metre with extra feet or
Putting the emphasis on a different syllable,
Or you can make the verse blank
By having it not rhyme.

Is this a conversion, imperial to metric?
Ounces to grams, how I feel, oh,
A certain nostalgia, not for this strained neuralgia.
{Is Ezra} Pound nought point four of a kilo?

How I wi’sh I could di’sh out some li’nes that are swi’sh
In a plán with a scán anapéstic
Wĭth no ri’sk of a mi’ss, and a-bánging my fi’st
And a dri’ft to a fi’t anaph’láctic

Nów must I énd wĭth ă li’ne that’s dacty’lic
Hów I dĕsi’rĕ I wás ŭnstrěsséd
Twi’stěd up sy’ntăx to fi’t ĭn ă rhy’me
Using this schéma ŏf tálk distrěsséd

But

When the tutor insists on a poem
There’s no point in "if," "and" or "but"
And no use to flinch ‘cos if you give an inch
They’ll always insist on a foot

Vacuum

2009-03-07T02:11:00.000-08:00

(Space colonists fear only one thing)

The stars jabbed out of the blackness of infinity from every direction. They were above and, as above, so below. They were to port as to starboard and ahead as aft. They freckled the face of the endless night and tried to pierce the eyes of the lovers, but the lovers only had eyes for each other.

Albion was looking into Roxette’s eyes with keen adoration as she was telling him the news of the forthcoming grand festival.

"So we are all to congregate in the hanger decks and try to make it as much of a celebration as possible."

"What? Isn’t that a bit… well, tacky, under the circumstances?"

"Don’t you see what my father is trying to do?" said Roxette. "It’s to boost morale after everything that’s happened."

The stars swam dizzyingly all around them outside the Observer Dome as the great craft rotated. It was the only sky that Albion and Roxette had ever seen throughout their lives.

"This was your father’s idea?" said Albion.

"Well – now that the crew of the Argo are joining us on the Prospero for the rest of the mission, he felt as captain that he had to make their arrival into some of occasion. Don’t worry – he’s going to say something about the other crews that… were lost. But he thought if that was all he did everyone would be miserable for another couple of light-years and he didn’t want that. So – we’re having a big bash."

"I should hope he does say something," said Albion. "What happened was tragic."

"I know," said Roxette. "But at least we know we are safe on the Prospero. Our cargo hold door has been double-tested and there’s no flaw. And we found out that the Argo’s door was faulty before it blew, so we do have something to celebrate."

Albion was coming round to Roxette’s view, but he still remained to be completely convinced. "A pity no-one found out before we lost the other two ships," he murmured.

"It’s a pity there was a design fault at all! Just think how lucky we are that, as flagship, the Prospero is built differently."

"That’s true," he shrugged, "otherwise we would have had it. We’re only just reaching half-way."

"My grandfather told me of the festivities they had on Earth when the fleet was launched. I don’t know how they could they have made such a huge mistake."

"We don’t know what Earth was like, come to that. Neither of us have ever been there."

"I wonder what the new world will be like," said Roxette. "That will be something to celebrate for sure."

"Just so long as we get there," said Albion.

"Oh, stop being such a junk-dump!" she said.

The small fleet of four huge spacecraft had set off from the closeting comfort of Earth orbit for their exoplanetary destination two generations ago, the fusion-powered ion drive engines thrusting the ships at a steady acceleration, such that inside the craft, the feeling was exactly like the gravitational pull on the surface of their home planet. Within a year, they were close to the speed of light, though the convoluted warping of space and time, as described by Einstein’s theory of General Relativity, meant that this velocity was only approached but never reached. The one thing that was simple to understand: they would never be going back. Families set out on that stupendous journey, of such stupendous duration, that the parents would age and die, while children would be born and grow to take their place. At least, that had been the mission plan. Half way through their transit to their new home, a second Earth orbiting around the star Tau Ceti, the ships were to turn about face – no problem in the lifeless vacuum of space – and fire their engines forward as brakes, to bring them to a timely halt at their destination.

But not all had gone to plan. Sealed inside the enormous containers, ever to be held with means neither of ingress or egress to the airless void save for inside a full, hard-pressured spacesuit, the fecundity of the travellers had fallen well below expectation. A full complement of passengers was 500, expected to be reached as journey’s end approached. However, not one ship held even a hundred as mid-point neared. Then disaster struck.

The first ship to fall victim was the Mexico. The demise was as sudden as unexpected. A catastrophic failure of the hull, and the one thing feared by any who ever ventured into the void of space befell all on board, the loss of life-giving air to the unfillable vacuum of space. With no time to don pressure suits, death was swift. There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the pores, with dissolution. Blood was its Avatar and its seal – the redness and the horror of blood. The scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the victim as the nitrogen in the tissues boiled through the skin, shutting him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his fellow-men. And the whole seizure, progress and termination of the process, were the incidents of half a minute.

At first the survivors on the other three ships, the Prospero, the Argo and the Calypso, thought that the Mexico had been prey to the most extravagant bad luck, a one-in-a-million chance encounter with a primordial chunk of space débris. Then barely had the shock and the grief at the loss begun to subside when the Calypso’s automatic monitoring systems detected that its hull too had been compromised, only this time without the explosive, balloon-like bursting that had laid waste to the Mexico. This time the true fault was identified – the massive hatch to the cargo bay, that would have been opened to unload the myriad items required to colonise and populate a new world, was found to be terminally compromised about its edge, its seal ruptured. Too late – the loss of air so rapid, that all had perished before they could evacuate in shuttle craft or in emergency pressure suits to the two vessels gliding alongside.

Now forewarned, the crew of the Argo, identical in every way to its two sister ships, checked and eventually yet with haste identified a profound error in the construction of its own cargo bay door. Only the Prospero, with a slightly more elaborate and different design, offered refuge. The Argo was abandoned, and all of the remaining colonists joined together on the one sound craft for the final years of their fated journey.

"I presume you will be accompanied by Albion at tonight’s festival?" said Captain Prospero. The ship he commanded was named after his family.

Roxette fidgeted uncomfortably. "Are you sure this festival is the right thing to do, dad? I mean, some people might think it’s a bit in bad taste. Do we all have to go?"

The Captain faced his daughter and studied her gravely. "Yes, everyone. In all the time since I took over as commander of this mission from my father, I have never instructed passengers of this vessel in a more important duty."

"But it seems disrespectful to the dead," said Roxette.

"It is in honour of the dead that we celebrate. In that, and a restatement of the mission. You do understand?"

Roxette Prospero looked levelly at her father. "I suppose so. It’s not as if we have any option."

Captain Prospero frowned. "What do you mean? I’m not going to force you to attend if you would really prefer not to. But it would seem strange to the rest of the crew if my daughter were not there."

"No, dad. I meant: it’s not like we can turn round and get back to Earth. We have to go on."

"Life has to go on. Our life and our future lie ahead of us – something which is true for anyone. I was wondering – have you and Albion ever considered the idea of getting married?"

"Dad!"

"One day you may take over this command. One day when I am too old. It would be beneficent to yourself if you had someone, such as I have your mother, by your side to share in the burden of command, Roxette. Someone such as Albion, for example."

"Oh, dad! Is our whole future planned out for us?"

"The future of all of us," said Captain Prospero, "is in the stars. It has always been so."

"But it is not set, is it, dad? We still do not know what the future is."

Prospero knelt down at his daughter’s side. "My darling daughter, I am determined to make the festival as exciting an occasion as possible. There will be no shortage of stores from which to prepare a banquet. There will be actors playing skits, dancers, comedians, musicians. All these and security inside our spaceship home. Only outside will be the limitless vacuum. But perhaps you can help me."

"In what way?"

"The hangars, where the shuttle craft for planet-fall lie sleeping, offer plenty of room for revelry but are joyless in their appearance. I am thinking of decorating them, each with its own colour-scheme. One is to be blue, lit with blue lights, to suggest the oceans we long to see, the next exotically in purple, the next green, with green illumination to look like inside a jungle, the fourth orange, the fifth white and the sixth violet."

"It sounds a bit gaudy," said Roxette. " Are you sure you’ve an eye for this sort of thing?"

"Well, exactly," he allowed a modest grin. "And I’m sure it’s something that runs in the family. So I was wondering – maybe you could suggest the colour scheme for the last hangar."

Roxette reflected. "How about… black?"

"Black?"

"Yes. Black velvet, like a dreamless sleep."

"That sounds a little… moody."

"No – it will be romantic. Black with red lights, a passionate scarlet, a deep blood colour. So that people who want to get close can do so in an intimate setting, not in a bright glare. That is what you want, isn’t it?"

Captain Prospero was dubious. "Perhaps we could have a big digital clock at one end, with a red display, counting off the time to our arrival at our new home."

"Yes," said Roxette. "After all, you do want us to look forward to raising our children there."

"Perhaps – who knows? – tonight would be good time to announce a forthcoming marriage?"

Roxette regarded her father strangely. "Perhaps."

Everyone was to wear fancy-dress, costumes of their own making. The anticipation that would build in such preparation would heighten the excitement, Prospero thought. No-one was to remain at duties. Prospero alone would man the bridge, watching the festivities from the cameras mounted on the decks.

"All seems to be going well," Albion said to Roxette.

"Things have livened up since the music and dancing began," she replied.

"And since your father suspended restrictions on alcohol. I’ve never seen so much booze. Amazing how quickly people forget."

"Don’t be harsh," said Roxette. "It helps melt their hearts."

He turned to her. "Lucky we don’t need it."

From the bridge, Prospero watched, content that his instructions for a joyful occasion were going to plan. There were to be generous prizes for the most inventive costumes awarded at the height of the evening. It was then that he spotted something on the blue hangar’s monitor that appalled him. Some idiot had thought it would be amusing to come dressed in a pressure suit, the sort that would be worn in an emergency evacuation of a stricken craft. The very suit the kind of which the poor souls of the Mexico and the Calypso had been so grievously unable to don before they were overcome.

Furiously, Prospero hurried down to the blue hangar, but the callous fool in the suit had already left for the orange hangar.

"Master-At-Arms?" Prospero addressed a man dressed as a cowboy.

"Sir?"

"I know you’re not on duty but – somebody has come in a really offensive costume. We need to remove him before he upsets everyone."

"Where is he?"

"There he goes – into the next hangar!"

Prospero called his master-at-arms, though not dressed for duty, to come with him to catch the offensive culprit. The figure passed between other party-goers, all of them falling silent. Captain Prospero and the Master-At-Arms followed but could not catch him as he slipped between the crowds from one hangar to the next. At last, he arrived at the final hangar, with its black fabrics and scarlet illumination. Albion and Roxette were there, hand in hand, watching on.

Prospero strode to the middle of the deck. "Who is that idiot who has come here dressed so distastefully?"

The figure turned slowly to face Prospero. The gold-tinted visor was drawn down on the face-plate of the helmet, the thin film of metal hiding the visage within.

"Master-At-Arms, grab that man."

The Master-At-Arms however, hesitated.

Prospero turned on him. "Unmask that vile interloper!"

"Sir, I…" the master stammered and fell silent.

"Very well," said Prospero, "I shall do it myself!"

He reached forward and snapped back the all-concealing visor.

Instead of someone he recognised, he saw a face, contorted and twisted in a rhesus of agony, fluids bubbling from the bulging eyes, blood sweating from skin and oozing from the nose and mouth, as one dying in the final stage of catastrophic decompression in the vacuum of space.

Prospero fell back, a vaporous shriek wretched out of him as all air was torn from his lungs. He collapsed to the black-clothed deck, dead. Roxette screamed, and threw her arms round Albion, his name dying on her lips. He grabbed at her before he too succumbed. Within scarce a beat, those nearest likewise crumpled as the atmosphere ceased to exist, throats ripping, eyes exploding. On it went like a wave through the whole flux of people inside the spacecraft, and the digital clock stopped and its glowing ember lights went out. And now was acknowledged the presence of the vacuum. It had come like a thief in the night. And darkness and decay and the vacuum held illimitable dominion over all.

The end.

Hero

2009-02-10T13:22:00.000-08:00

I wanted to be Bruce Willis;
A hero in a vest.
I went and bought a string one,
Marks and Spencer's best.

I put it on and instantly
I realised my folly.
I looked like Rab C Nesbit;
A bitter pill tae swallae!

Changing Channels

2009-01-25T05:00:00.000-08:00

So? – what have you changed for the New Year?

Mike stepped inside the apartment, and listened. He could have sworn he’d heard a faint noise, muffled, distant, but now it appeared to have stopped. "That fridge’s getting noisy. I suppose we’ll need a new one soon."

He immediately started hunting for the remote for the TV. As usual, like all remote controls, it had attempted to secrete itself under a cushion. He was wise to its ways, however, retrieved it, aimed the priceless gadget at the set and pressed ‘On.’

He was waiting patiently for signs of life when the hallway door opened. "Good grief! Spencie! I didn’t know were home. Why didn’t you answer when I called out?"

"Called out?" Spencie looked startled, and her eyes darted round the room. "I didn’t… didn’t hear you."

"How come you’re not at the office?"

"Took the afternoon off. Things to do. Anyway, how come you’re home so early?"

"The international’s on live. England against Belarus. The kick-off’s four o’clock, so I thought I’d sneak out of work and catch it. I didn’t expect you’d be in for dinner till it was nearly over. Are you alright?"

"Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?"

"You seem a bit feverish."

"Do I?" She put a hand to her cheek, her fingers fidgeting upwards to cover her eyes. "I’ve just been doing a spot of gardening. Potting some flowers. In the bedroom. Why don’t you come and see?"

"That’s alright," Mike laughed, in the way that she had once found so appealing. "I wondered if you had a secret lover in there!" He moved closer to her and put his forehead against hers. "Hey, toots," he said, mock-Bogart, "I thought I was all the man you could handle."

She seemed to relax into his arms. "Why don’t you come into the bedroom anyway, and let me…" she brushed his cheek with her mouth, "… check?"

"Well, swee’heart… – what is wrong with this damn remote?" He suddenly snapped his attention to the still-silent television. "The game will have started! I think we’re going to have to get a new TV. And a new fridge too. I’m sure I could hear the thing buzzing when I came in."

She stared at him coldly. "The batteries have probably gone."

"Again?" he said, exasperated. "They’re always packing up. I can’t change channels on this stupid TV without the zapper." He snapped the cover off the back of the control and again he looked puzzled. "The batteries really have gone! There aren’t even any in here."

Spencie licked her lip and took his hand. "Maybe you don’t need to watch football after all."

Mike looked back at her, adoringly. "Spencie. Darling… It’s a qualifier – I’ve got to watch it. Have we any spare batteries?"

She pivoted on her heel and stamped off up the hallway to the bedroom. She returned, jackboot, and threw a pair of Energizer Extra Power at him. "I shall get a bunch of spares tomorrow," she announced, as if making a manifesto commitment, then retreated back to the bedroom, closing the door sharply.

It wasn’t until half time, with the score still nil-nil, that he wondered what she was doing in there.

There was an atmosphere in the apartment after that. Christmas was coming. To Spencie, this meant: presents, wrapping paper and decorations. To Mike, it meant a crowded fixture list in the Premier League. Negotiations were entered into, and a rapprochement was achieved – Mike would go shopping anywhere Spencie wished as long as this didn’t coincide with Manchester United playing at home. He would not attend away matches as long as highlights were shown.

It came to the Saturday before Christmas. Both had had a good day – a pile of purchases lay on the throw-rug before the couch, and Mike was secretly relieved to have an excuse not to travel to all the way to Fratton Park.

And so they ended up on the couch, Match of the Day seemingly sinking into the background as the two of them demolished a bottle of Pinot grigio. Even the highlights had lost relevance as Mike had already accidentally seen the results in a branch of Currys.

"I was wondering," said Spencie in her curiously circuitous way, "whether we might be thinking of an early night."

Mike looked at her and seemed on the edge of a decision. "And Carrick keeps feeding Ronaldo down the channels," the commentator was saying, "but the Portsmouth defence is holding firm."

"Well, change it," Mike yelled at the TV, "cross to the other wing!"

Mike wondered later at what point in the evening Spencie had gone to bed.

It was already dark on New Year’s Eve when Mike let himself into the apartment, with his now customary sheepishness. Spencie had become so volatile these days, so unpredictable, he had to be ready for anything. And, on this occasion, he felt pretty sure that he was.

Spencie confronted him in the lounge. "I was wondering when – or if – you’d turn up. Thought perhaps you had gone to see your precious United."

"Don’t be daft, pet – they don’t play on New Year’s Eve."

"I sometimes think you love Man United more than you love me."

Under his breath, he muttered, "I sometimes think I love Man City more than I love you."

"What!?" she bellowed.

"I said Man United aren’t as pretty as you."

"How can I be compared with a football team on the basis of who’s prettier!?

"Come on, Aspen," – he knew she hated it when he used her formal name – "change the record: ‘you’d rather watch a game than make love.’ When have I ever said that?"

Spencie seemed to coil like a serpent and hissed, "Do you know what is the one time each year we don’t make love?"

"When your mother visits?"

"No," she retorted, triumphant, "when it’s the football season. Well, not any more!" She strode out of the room and returned a moment later with a stranger, another woman, rather plain and shapeless in Mike’s view, with a blunt bob haircut. "Meet Geraldine – my new lesbian lover! So whatever plans you had for this New Year, I think you might have to change them!"

Spencie had imagined her announcement would have the lurid impact of a bomb in a paint factory. But it somehow landed curiously flat.

"I’m not so sure about that," he said, and fetched a male stranger from the entrance. "Meet Gerald, my new best mate. I just came back to tell you – we’re going down Canal Street for the evening to discuss a flat back four and two holding players over a few glasses of Bailey’s."

The End

Author’s note: several people were kind enough to offer constructive criticism of this piece and, particularly, whether the use of the word ‘Lesbian’ was necessary near the end. I myself agonised over this as I am all in favour of letting the reader draw his or her own conclusions and at no other point is gender orientation mentioned explicitly (why should it be?) I came very close to removing the word, but changed my mind, for the following reasons. Firstly, she is not just adopting a new partner, but making (apparently) a major life-style choice - the main interpretation of the piece's title, Changing Channels - as a consequence of her recent relationship. Secondly, she wants to emphasise this point specifically to annoy and prick the conscience of her former partner. Finally, and more trivially, she is probably lying! – she has in all likelihood, neither got a new partner nor adopted a new lifestyle – her outburst is motivated as an attack on her old partner. His response, however, is somewhat different…

The S.A.D. archivist

2009-01-14T11:07:00.000-08:00

S.A.D. Archivist

Venetian blind fillets sunshine,
Slices shelves beneath
the seasons.

Slender arms conduct
Post mortems
into ancient books,

Whose orange spines
Crumble like
damp sand.

Blue summer dress
Dreams of
undressing,

Digressing beyond,
Parch brittle
pages,

Bare legs uncross
Yearn to
abandon,

Anaemic scholars,
Whose mucus thoughts,
Cough out words,

She now dissects,
Reflects beyond the
half-blind window,

To summer fields,
Cloudless skies,
Warm skin,
touching.

Jacqueline Pemberton

Face Mask: a free sample

2009-01-14T10:56:00.000-08:00

Face Mask – a free sample
‘Positive action for tired,
lustreless, skin.
A re-energised, radiant
appearance,
In less than
three minutes’.
‘Dermatologically
approved, ph balanced
Aqua glycerine
Glutamine, Lanoline’
I snip the corner
of my packet of promise,
Paste salvation over
famished skin.
My face is both
adolescent and old,
Bed-sit and shrine,
Touched too much
and too little.
‘Hypo-allergenic
micro beads
laboratory tested’
Consecrated
by clinical words
I let the mask
mesmerise my pores,
sting my senses,
dragoon my dullness.
Waiting in the wings,
A white, unsmiling clown.
I wipe and wash the
layers away,
A patchy beard of scum
clings to the basin.
Dripping dreams,
I search for a mirror….

Perhaps I timed it wrong?

Jacqueline Pemberton

Seahorses

2009-01-12T06:50:00.000-08:00

Tethered, silent seahorses stand,
bridled heads bowed in
obedience to taut high tension reins.
Seagulls circle, laugh at their plight
as hidden riders stirrup their sway to
spur and whip them into commercial toil.
Heavy burdens saddle proud necks as
iron tracks deny freedom to swim
in diamond studded waters and
open seas to escape captivity
and discard the bits that bind.

Home Comforts

2009-01-06T06:40:00.000-08:00

I looked down, shuffled my feet, saw the displaced powdered snow that covered my shoes like sifted flour. The air was crisp, a Lalique cloud sky backlit by a hidden watery sun. It was early afternoon yet the streets were unusually quiet as I struggled homewards, arms laden with heavy plastic bags that cut deep ridges, knife sharp, into my hands. The once crisp air began to turn icy, my steaming breath bore witness to it as I raised my head from its snuggled protective woolly scarf, drawn tight enough to keep out the wind’s chilly searching fingers without quite strangling me, to see what I dreaded even more than the snow – fog. Like a lace net curtain it drew a veil across my vision, at first a soft haze then to a theatre safety curtain that defied penetration. I could taste it, dirty, soaking up the oxygen like a hungry beast. I buried my mouth once more into my scarf for protection and felt the warm beads of breath form on its inner surface but the fear of suffocation brought me up for sharp breaths before delving down once more.

My path took me under a railway bridge. I thought I heard muffled footsteps behind me. Someone was following me? I stopped, listened – they stopped - I continued – they continued. I swung around – just a swirl of fog. Was I letting my imagination run away with me? The muffled sound of my own footsteps had reduced to a gibbering wreck. Moving quickly on, my feet began to crunch – no it wasn’t my feet it was the snow – now beginning to freeze it had turned from soft powder to a glittering glistening sugar icing. I turned to look at the footprints of where I’d trod – no unexplained muffled sound now only my own personal crunch. Emerging from under the bridge the steep incline beyond proved difficult. My breath was coming hard and fast at the exertion required to propel me and my load to the top. I could hear my gasps and feel the pain as the piercing cold struck the back of my dry throat.

“Can I give you a hand?” the question had me jumping out of my skin as I turned sideways to search out its source.

“I said, can I ......?” Before the repeated question ended I‘d spun round to find a middle-aged lady standing behind me.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you!”

“You didn’t, I mean, well you did - it was just that I didn’t see you.”

Where the conversation went from there I can’t properly recall. It seemed to dip and rise on a wave of many topics and in such a short time. All I know is that having climbed the hill and turned a few corners we’d somehow arrived at my destination and I felt safe and strangely comforted.

“Well, better be getting on, nice to have this time with you.” She smiled and for a moment I thought I saw a fleeting sadness cross her face.

“Yes, same here. Do you live nearby?”

“No, just keeping a long held promise to visit my daughter – make sure she’s OK.”

“And is she?” I asked.

“Yes, yes, I believe she is” she said as her eyes pooled with tears.

I watched her walk away, turn and there on the edge of vision her smiling face and waving hand defied the fog to hang for a second or two longer before completely claiming her. With hand on gate, I stood dwelling on her kindness, intuitiveness, consolation and elusive familiarity. What had we talked about to display these qualities? The fog began to lift as soft snowflakes dusted my hair and face. I turned once again to catch sight of my unexpected companion but she was out of sight. I looked down at clearly defined footprints – my crunch. Only my crunch!