She came to me every week. A crowd of skinny dark faces parted as I walked to her, alone in the impeccable dark blue suit. Perfect in a thousand other places.
“I love you.”
The smile appeared amidst the heat and dust.
“I know.” She took my hand and led me to the cottage by the sea.
“What about Erica?”
She always asked. In my guilt, she looked at me with a knowingness she never explained and in those moments she held me all the tighter; loved me all the deeper.
I left her in the morning. Took the 13 bus home in thirteen minutes. Up the stairs, the apartment looked the same as ever. And it would never be the same again.
Stared at by faded families of generations past on the mantelpiece, the very frames made me cry for the first time.
I would go back to her later in the day, after a freshen-up and a rest. I took my time to savour the quiet, for I could feel the difference already and I wasn’t sure that I liked it much. Our life, which had been so wonderful, was changed now forever.
I’d need to create other photographs – in new frames – in the times to come.
“How’s she doing, lad?”
“All right I think.” Nathan looked down to see if she was breathing. He shook her a little and she coughed and, after a few moments bleated, much to his relief.
“Aye, she’s fine.”
He jumped as another icy blast rattled the battered window-shutters. His attention had only been on the little one. With no prompting, the mother came over and began to lick her baby.
As she did, he realised she wasn’t done.
“You’re going on a little holiday. Just for a few days.”
Dad cajoled me towards the front of Uncle Jim’s car. With me between him and Aunt Edna on the long, leatherette seat, we could all just about fit.
“But why?” I could see my Mum looking weary, as she peered out at me from the front door of our house.
“You’ll have fun. And it will only be for a few days.” He gave me the third hug since we came outside.
I gave in to the ushering of my Aunt, unwedged my arms from between the two of them and, before I had time to resist any more, the journey began.
“When did it happen?”
“Last week. Monday.
“She’d felt off on the Saturday, but thought nothing of it. So she soldiered on.
“Truth is, she should have realised from the time before.”
“Where was she?” Continue reading
“You’re going on a little holiday. Just for a few days.”
Dad cajoled me towards the front of Uncle Jim’s car. With me between him and Aunt Edna on the long, leatherette seat, we could all just about fit.
“But why?” I could see my Mum looking weary, as she peered out at me from the front door of our house.
“You’ll have fun. And it will only be for a few days.” He gave me the third hug since we came outside.
I gave in to the ushering of my Aunt, unwedged my arms from between the two of them and, before I had time to resist any more, the journey began.
Once again, she had been talked into it. Even though she thought differently, Jeremy had got his way.
Deborah never knew why she let it happen, for she had her own preferences, and now, as it turned out, his weaknesses had let him down and they were in quite a fix.
She’d been there before and knew more than he did. She could have tried to put him off perhaps. At at this stage in their relationship she simply thought, “Why should I?”
I’d been waiting in all day for the postman to call. The book I needed was urgent for the research paper. When he arrived, it was not there, much to my disappointment. Instead, in an envelope addressed to me by hand, was a small lined postcard, the sort used for indexing, with a cryptic, handwritten message: –
‘I’m not dead. Meet me Tuesday night at 8 at our old haunt.’
I’d arrived back in my home town late on Sunday to see off my old friend Jim Barnes. We went right back to junior school and despite our being estranged for so many years, I felt quite a pang of 
sadness as I walked up the path to the crematorium. There were no other faces I knew and after some consideration, I sat on the family side. As the heavy red curtains pulled across that one final time, I admit that I shed a tear. Not so much for Jim, but more as an acknowledgement to my own mortality, about which I had been thinking more and more often recently.
Our old haunt was a small fishing shack out on the lake. As kids, we would make a beeline for it as often as we could. Far away from the prying eyes of overprotective parents. Somewhere we could be ourselves and explore without much interference the multiple rites of passages of boys growing up.
Slowly but surely the train lurches to a halt. Hugo finishes his pastry. There are sounds of shouting outside and he wipes some of the condensation from the window with his thick glove. He can just make out vague, directionless flashes of light in the dark, against the banks of snow.
He looks across at the girl, and sees her eyes. Her pupils are huge. Her brow is wrinkled and shiny. She holds his eye contact so tightly that he cannot, for a moment or two, let go.
There are voices coming along the corridor, indistinct initially and growing in volume as they proceed towards them. For a second or two, Hugo cannot forgo a look as they approach and yet when he looks back, she is still looking right at him.
Imperceptibly, he nods. No-one else in the compartment notices, for it was such a small nod. Yet the girl sees it and just as subtly returns the tiny movement back to him. Continue reading
A tea shop, somewhere up North…
LORNA
So, I said to her, ‘This can’t be happening again.’
MARIANNE
What did she say?
LORNA
Well, you know what she’s like, she always knows best – or so she thinks. Drives me mad. How can someone always be right. That’s what I want to know. Continue reading
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