A Man's Job

It's a man's job to provide for his family. That's what my father always taught me. That's what my mother always said. That was the reason, Father worked all those long hours in the office, so that when I was tiny I sometimes didn't see him for five or six days. It was the reason Mother was always the one to meet us boys at the school gate. The reason she was the one who cooked the meals, darned the socks, soothed sick brows. That was Mother's job, it was what was expected of her. Father's role was to pay the bills for our expensive private schools,  fund music lessons, acting classes  and scout trips. His time with us  limited to Sunday afternoon rugby matches, shouting from the sidelines, making sure we  didn't let the side down.  Is it any surprise that I grew up thinking that was what  Fathers did. What they were. Strong. Reliable. An absence so powerful, the very mention of their names struck terror in naughty childish hearts. I had no doubts whatsoever that this is what I would become.

            It certainly seemed that way, didn't it Steffi, my love?  Though, being a modern father, I couldn't escape attendance at the grimacing births,  or changing the obligatory nappies, the natural order quickly asserted itself once the paternity leave was done.  I spent long days at the office, leaving you at home, with the job you claimed fulfilled you.  A job that  you have always claimed you loved. You may wail plaintively now, but for all that you chose me for who I am: an alpha male, with a six figure salary, and a media profile. You needed me to fund the  lifestyle of your choosing:  the country house, the chance to redecorate every year, the three foreign holidays you could brag about to your friends.  Most of all, you wanted me at work, so you could establish your power base: the stranglehold you hold over home and hearth that has rendered me isolated, a stranger to my own family.

            There have been times in the last ten years, I have wanted to protest. Times when the late night deals have palled, and I'd rather be at home with you and the kids, cuddling in front of the television. Weekends when I've found myself redundant - as I've watched you race from activity to activity assuring me I'd only be in the way. Moments when I've felt excluded from a relationship with my own children, because you have somehow created a situation where you are everything to them, and I am not.  But, I've said nothing, accepting it as the way of things, or - vaguely aware now from conversations with other men that not every relationship is like this - the way of things in our house. I have done my duty by you, delivered home the bacon, created the life you wanted. I have always been the man you have wanted me to be.

            And now, after all I have done for you, after all these years,  you tell me you are leaving me. It is now that you tell me that when I thought I was giving you exactly what you wanted I was doing just the opposite. Now that I learn that I have held you back, confined you to the kitchen sink, prevented you from realising your dreams. Your divorce citation makes pretty reading. A tyrant, a bully, who forced me to stay at home, not letting me work. And your behaviour has been a revelation. First you lock me out of the house bought with my money. Then you casually tell me you are moving to the other side of the country to be with the new man who has conveniently just showed up in your life. Now you are trying to deny me access to my own children,  claiming they have no interest in seeing me, their own father.

            I have a feeling that you think I'll take this lying down. You have clearly held me in such contempt for so long, you believe that you have neutered me.    You underestimate me. You have forgotten, you see, how I was taught it was a man's job to be strong, reliable, and above all powerful. You have forgotten, that in the years you have sidelined me, I have not been unobservant.  I have taken notes. The affairs you imagine you kept hidden from me. The drinking you think is a secret between you and the housekeeper. The moments when the perfect image has slipped, and you have revealed the raging, hysterical woman underneath. And you have forgotten, haven't you, that in the days we had pet names, I was your lion.  You are so sure you have neutered me, you do not realise I am a lion still.

                        Watch me roar.

Tea for Two

 "You look happy this morning," Mrs Giles sounds surprised. I can't say I blame her. I have been a bit morose of late. Winter never agrees with me and this one has been worse than most. It's exceeded it's sell by date by at least three months. In March I froze, in April I turned the heating up, by May I was still shivering. It's not made me very sociable, I have to admit.But that's all changed today. Today the sun is shining. Today I feel warm for the first time in months. Today my bones don't ache, my knees aren't sore. And today "My Ginny's coming home." I tell my neighbour, "She'll be back in time for tea."

"No wonder you're looking so pleased with yourself," she replies. "It's been a while since she's been back hasn't it?"

She's right, it has been a while - that useful catch-phrase which round here means anything from a month to a decade. Four years in Ginny's case. Four years in which my only contact with my only child has been the odd postcard or phone call. She often tells me off for not having a computer: it would be so much easier to be in touch if I had email or Facebook, she says. I want to reply that if she'd only move closer, we wouldn't need computers to keep in touch, but I never do. Instead I nod as if she could see me, and promise I'll look at the catalogue she sent me in the post. We both know I won't, but preserving the fiction we understand one another is important . It helps us avoid dealing with the questions I never want to ask: Why has she been away so long? Is she ever coming home?

Today at least, the second is answered. "She'll be home by 4," I say, "I'm going to make a Victoria Sponge."

"How lovely. I hope you have a nice visit."

I will, I know I will, as I head to the village shop where I purchase the necessary ingredients. It doesn't seem so long ago that we used to take this path together. I used to love the feel of her tiny hand in mine, the way she bounced with excitement at the thought of an afternoon spent baking. In the old days we'd race back to the house anxious to get started, so we'd have the cake in time for tea. Just the two of us, the perfect pairing. Today, I move at a more sedate pace, enjoying the surprise of the sun on my back, the smell of mown grass signalling the possibility of summer.

In the kitchen, I unpack the shopping, take out a plastic bowl, put on the pinny she bought me one Mother's Day years ago. Chief Cook and Bottlewasher it says, though the blue writing has faded over the years and after all this time without her, I no longer feel I own the title. Still, I won't let myself think about that, as I cream the butter and sugar together. In a couple of hours, she'll be here sipping tea, eating warm sponge cake, just like she used to when she was a child.

I'm humming as I break the eggs in a bowl, Tea for Two, and Two for Tea. We always used to love singing that song as we worked,  and this was always her favourite part. The tapping of the egg on the side of the dish, the crack as it broke open, the yellow yoke plummeting into the centre of the bow. Finally the joy of pouring it over the butter and sugar, watching it liquefy into a gooey mess. I smile at the memory, stirring the flour in. Soon I have two tins ready for the oven.

Ginny would always beg me to lick the bowl afterwards. I can still see her sitting on the step, wooden spoon in hand, cake mix round her lips, grinning from ear to ear. I think about keeping the bowl out for old time's sake, but it would make the kitchen messy. Besides, she's probably too grand for such childhood nonsense now. I take the bowl, rinse it under the tap, tidy up the kitchen and put my feet up until the cakes are ready.

At a quarter to four I take the tins out of the oven. They have risen beautifully. I smear jam on the inside of each cake. The sponge has the perfect consistency, springy, crumbly, it will melt on the tongue. The perfect cake, for the perfect tea with the daughter who has been missing too long. I try not to get too carried away as I put the kettle on and warm the pot. But it's difficult. It's been so long since I've seen her. I can't help wondering what she'll be wearing, whether she's changed her hairstyle, what we'll talk about. The kettle bubbles away feeding my excitement. She'll be here soon.

At four o'clock I listen out for sounds of the car approaching. But the road brings no-one, and all I can hear are the swallows chirping as they swoop overhead. I put the kettle on again. Warm the pot again. I want the tea to be ready as soon as she gets here.

At quarter past  four. I touch the top of the cake. It is still warm. Though I suppose it won't really matter if it's cold when she comes. So long as she does come. The kettle has re-boiled four times now. I'd better not boil it again. It's such a waste of electricity.
At half past, I step out onto the lane to see if  I can catch sight of her. After I've watched a blue Citroen, a black Ford, and a red Micra go past without stopping, it strikes me that this is pointless: I don't even know what car she drives. The sun has gone in, and I am beginning feeling cold. I return to the house. The cake is cold.

It is nearly five o'clock. I put the sponge in the fridge. Ginny hasn't said she'd be staying for dinner, but she's so late now, she'll need feeding won't she? I'll cook something special and we can have the cake for pudding. I root through  the freezer and come across two steaks. Lovely. I'd never have these normally.

Just as I am placing them on a plate, the phone rings.

"Hi Mum."

"Ginny, where are you?"

"Look, I'm sorry, but I won't be able to make it today after all. The conference ran over and I have to get back to town."

"Oh."

"There was no signal at the venue, so I haven't been able to call till now."

"I see."

"You didn't put yourself out did you?"

"No of course not."

"I'll check my diary, find a better time."

"I'll look forward to it." But she has hung up, driving off to her mysterious life in the city, that has no place for me.

I return to the kitchen. I look at the steaks. It's not worth cooking them just for me. I put them back in the freezer. They can wait for that better time, when her diary is clearer and her conference won't over-run. Tonight, as usual, I will prepare supper for one. Omelette, I think. It's easy and I am tired after the days exertions. And perhaps, afterwards, if I can stomach it, I might help myself to a slice of cake.

The Jumper

The jumper is left draped over the futon with a casual familiarity. He notices it minutes after she has left. The jumper is turquoise flecked with green. It looks comfortable against the cushion, as if in this is the place it should be when not adorning her long slender back. He can't help feeling she has left it behind deliberately, as a message: get in touch.

He steps over to the sofa, picks it up, buries his face in the wool. He wrinkles his nose in anticipation of her smell, imagining  lily-of-the-valley, soft, subtle - his mother's favourite perfume. But the aroma exuding from the left-behind garment is less fragrant. Cigarette smoke and sweat. She hasn't washed it in weeks. Now he looks close up he can see red soup stains by the V-shaped neck, sugar crystals stuck to the mid-riff, and what appears to be chocolate on the hem. He hasn't expected this. For a moment he hesitates.

Then he remembers her smile as she left. He picks up his mobile and texts: You left your jumper behind. Shall I bring it to you? He sits back on the futon, hugging the jumper close to him. It is a little piece of her. Soon, he will have the rest.

***

She arrives at the bar and orders pernod and blackcurrant. Tiny Tempeh is blaring out from the music system. It is early still. Soon this place will be full of Friday night screeching, but right now she has time to nip out the back for a quick fag. She has her pick of tables, so she chooses one furthest from the door. She takes the cigarette packet from her back pocket, pulls out a slender cigarette, caresses it in her fingers. The lighter flares orange as she places the cigarette in her lips, lighting the tip. She drags in the sweet smell and breathes out a long sigh. The first fag of the evening is always the best - full of hope and desire, before a night's smoking causes her throat to rasp.

Though there are heaters in the courtyard, she has placed herself too far from them. That was stupid, it is November after all. She shivers, reaching in her bag for her jumper. It is not there. Where can she have left it?  She retraces her steps in her mind. The post office? No, she wasn't wearing it then. The tube. She definitely didn't have it then. She knew she was wearing it at lunchtime because  it was cold when she nipped out for a sandwich. She is still trying to work it out when a message blinks on her phone. You left your jumper behind. Shall I bring it to you? For a moment, she struggles to remember the number and then it comes to her. Jan's friend. The one who's DVDs she'd borrowed. She'd dropped them off earlier. She'd forgotten all about that.

She is about to text back, but the door into the patio opens. Her date for the evening. "I thought I'd find you out here." He smiles. She smiles back, shoving her phone in her bag. She'll phone wotsisname tomorrow. There's no rush.

***

It will take him three weeks of persistent texting to arrange a meeting which will last five minutes. His love will last for a few seconds more.

After she has gone

He stands at the door watching her taxi depart, the red brake lights blinking as the driver slows at the bend. And then the car disappears round the corner taking her towards Lincoln Road, the High Street to a life beyond him. From the conversation they have just had,  the life they have led, the people they have become he knows she won't be coming back. Not tonight. Not ever. Yet still he stands there, braving the November night in his "T" shirt, in the useless hope that perhaps she will stop the cab, turn around and give them one more chance. He waits and waits, till the goosepimples are perpendicular on his arms, and the cold is causing his teeth to chatter. Only when his whole body is shaking does he admit defeat, close the door and return to the living room.

The room is warm, but he still needs to pull a jumper on, march about and drink a cup of tea before he has totally defrosted. The lounge is filled with the detritus of their ending, the half eaten spaghetti bolognese, the bin full of tissues, the dirty coffee cups. There is at least this satisfaction to take from her departure, he won't have to clear up before bedtime. If it weren't for Jenny, he wouldn't have to clear up ever again. Jenny, his stomach lurches. What can he possibly say to Jenny that will make this right? Mummy has to go away with work for a while? Mummy has so many things she needs her own house? Mummy has a new friend she needs to spend some time with? All statements that will need to be made in a kind softening-the-blow voice in order to hide the truth that Mummy is a total bitch and she just doesn't love us enough to stay here.

There is a yell from upstairs. For a moment he has the fanciful notion that his emotions have entered his daughter's dreams, that her cry is a direct response to his thoughts. But when he enters the room and sees her in familiar pose, eyes glazed, body rigid, he recognises the night terrors.  "Get it away from me, get it away from me," she screams seeing some unimaginable horror. It is a relief to know that this is something he can handle. That all he needs to do is sit here, hold her hand, talk soothingly, till the fright and panic dissipate. As he watches her body begin to relax, her eyes close, her breathing to slow he helps her lie back down on the pillow. Soon she is sleeping peacefully, as if nothing has happened. In the morning she won't even remember she woke. He waits for a couple more minutes to be absolutely sure, before tiptoeing out of her room.

He picks up a random box set from the shelf. West Wing, that will do.  He settles in front of the TV and immerses himself in the problems of the Bartlett administration; a panacea to see him through the night - to delay the nightmare that is tomorrow.

Hesitation

I should leave now. I really should. There's nothing here to keep me. The party ended a long time ago. All that remains are the scattered crumbs of former pleasures: fading wine stains; crumpled beer cans; the faint scent of stale cigarettes.

I should leave. I  Should. Really. Leave. Now.

But still I hesitate. Pacing up and down our narrow hallway, rolling my black suitcase back and forth over the  red carpet. Occasionally a wheel snags on the frayed edges, causing me to pause in my pointless journey. As I stop to untangle it, I wonder why I am still here. It can't be out of any desire to stay.  To remain in the hangover of a now that has long past the point of no return to what once was.

Perhaps I am tempted by the tantalising illusion that what might be. That somehow we could still create a future where the bitterness of now is long forgotten, replaced by a magic that could be even better than what once was.

Or is it fear holding me back? The sense that what will be is bound to be a hell far worse than what is. The terror that if I leave, I will find myself  yearning for the life I endure now, as much as I now long for the life that what once was.

From the kitchen, the oven clock beeps - seven o'clock - reminding me that the time to choose is passing. Before your feet tramp up the path, before your key turns in the lock I must be unpacked or be gone.

Back or Forth? Once or Future? Now or Never? It is time to make up my mind.

I really should be going.  Really. I should.

The Wave

The water is calm this evening. The sun sends us a red beam across the water, a final reminder of the beauty of our days, before the onset of darkness. The sky behind is pale blue, but once the sun goes down it will rapidly turn black, the stars will rise to shine on us for this - our last night.

It is hard to imagine it sitting here - sipping Rioja and nibbling salt and vinegar crisps, while we cook sausages on the campfire. Hard to face the fact of our deaths when we feel so alive in the warm glow of day's end.  Hard to realise this is the last time any of us will listen to the soft splash of the waves on the shore - the sound of the sea swaying  back and forth, back and forth till it reaches the high tide mark just below our feet. Today has been like any other summer day, we have surfed and swam, sunbathed and slept. Just another summer day except for this - we will camp out on this beach, we will live to see dawn and then we will die - our fate written in the stars over a century ago. Before our grandparents were born, before we were even dreamt of, two rocks collided in space thousands of light years away and the smaller piece was sent spinning on its inevitable trajectory towards us.

We could sit here filling the air with complaints about the unfairness of it all (and believe me, some of us have). If the scientists had finished their calibrations sooner, if we hadn't moved here to escape the smoggy dangerous city, if only we'd gone to Manchester as we'd planned...If,if,if...we'd be watching on TV like the rest of the horrified nation, instead of sitting here, with the cooling sand slipping between our toes, as the mournful gulls circle above us calling - aak,aak,aak.

We could have joined the futile escape. We could have spent today in endless traffic on the A30. We could have sat in our cars, with the temperature rising inside and out, as our cheese sandwiches congealed, and our engines overheated.

We could have stayed at home, as many have done. We could have bolted the doors, drawn the curtains, and sat under the duvet. We could have watched box sets of Star Trek or Friends, The Sopranos or House, Anything that helped us while away the time and pretend our world is not about to end.

But the wave will come for us whereever we are, and whateever we are doing. So we might as well come here to face it. To watch tomorrow, at 07:32 precisely, as the meteor flies above us. I expect it will be quite a sight - a trail of gold and orange, following the path of tonight's sunbeam, till it hits the ocean beyond the horizon. The sea will shudder to its very depths, drawing in its waters with the deepest of breaths. The water will recede far down the beach, exposing the seabed condemning all its inhabitants,sea bass, cockles, mussels, crabs, and snails to instant death in the dry air. And we will know, then, that the wave is coming for us. Five hundred feet of water racing towards us to sweep us all away.

It is hard to imagine it, sitting here on this perfect summer night. The sun departed, the first stars beginning to light the darkening sky. That tomorrow this will all be gone. We will all be gone. So we try not to. Instead we will sit by the campfire, telling each other the stories of our lives. Hands held in the darkness. Offering comfort in the face of what is to come.

The night will pass slowly. Watch with us if you can. When morning comes, we will be gone.

Copyright c @Virginia Moffatt 2012

Night Watch

The moon is bright tonight.Its pale beams pick out the contours of your face: the soft curve of your chin, the gentle bump of your lips, the hillock of your nose. I am a fitful sleeper, I like to watch you on nights like this, when you are in a deep sleep, still wrapped in the warmth of our recent lovemaking. As you dream the foolish dreams of a contented lover:  full of memories of the evening that has just past and anticipation of the nights that are yet to come. You  turn over, and sigh, a deep, satisfied sigh. I am everything you have ever wanted. I will  fulfil your every need.

You don't know it yet, but I am trouble, with a capital "T". Your friends sense it, as friends always do - the iceberg that lurks beneath my still, calm waters. But by the time they get close enough to expose the danger you are in, it will be too late to send up flares. By then I will have run you aground, your lower decks crumpled, as you begin to sink into my icy depths. They will be desperate in their bids to save you, but their pathetic attempts will come to nothing. Life jackets, rubber rings and tiny boats will flounder in the black waters and be consumed by the waves. For you will give them up, each and everyone of them. You will reject their years of love and loyalty in favour of your mistaken belief in me - your inability to see that I am trouble with a capital "T".

I like watching your face at night time. I like to see you still and peaceful, completely oblivious that I have the power to choose both the time and manner of your ending. Sometimes, on a particularly insomniac night, I wonder if I should pity you. But even as your steady breaths form tiny clouds in the cold  airof your unheated flat, I know that pity is impossible. All I have ever had to offer anyone is ice and fog - why should you be any different?  The moon sinks across the horizon, drowning in the morning clouds that turn black, purple and pale blue. From the east, the first orange rays of sun drift across your face, warming you awake. You smile and murmur as I lean over to kiss you. Your waking grin is as generous as it is foolish.

"Happy New Year," you say.

"Happy New Year. It's going to be a good one."

You beam back, content in the happiness that is to come this year, enjoying the sight of me getting dressed. I smile back with all the warmth that you deserve.

I am trouble, with a capital "T". You just don't know it yet.

A Liberal Feminist Wrings Her Hands #fridayflash

I just don’t know what to do. Milly wants a Barbie for her birthday. Where on earth did she get that idea? We’ve always been so careful not to gender stereotype. Dolls and toy cars, teddy bears and train sets. Mind you, she’s insisted on wearing pink since she was three, because that’s what girls do don’t they? It goes against the grain, but we’d hate to give her an identity crisis. And she does look adorable in that fairy outfit she insisted I buy her.

We have to draw the line at Barbie though. Those improbable breasts. The invisible waist. The endless legs. The first of too many unattainable images. The kind that lead girls into anorexia, bulimia, unsuccessful boob jobs. It’s not just that though. You can’t buy one Barbie. You have to get them all - fashionista, bride, anchor girl - or your life is not worth living. And now I’ve heard Mattel is carving up half the Indonesian rain forests to make her packaging. Anti-feminist, consumerist and ruining the planet. They’re not the values we want to teach Milly.

But…at bedtime, after I’d turned Disney Channel off and tucked Milly up, she looked at me with her large brown eyes and whispered, “I AM going to get a Barbie for my birthday aren’t I Mummy?”

What could I say? What's more important? A principle or our child's disappointment?

"Of course you are sweetie, " I said, giving her a kiss.

There's nothing else for it. We'll  just have to get her one. And  keep telling her why Barbie is so wrong. We can always give Greenpeace a donation as well. Fifty pounds should do.

I’ll go out to Toys R Us first thing.

Life Lessons #fridayflash

My Dad said I'd never amount to much. Slacker, he called me. Good for nothing! Sitting in front of that damn thing all day, when the sun is shining. What's wrong with you? Why don't you play outside like a normal boy?" Yada, yada, the soundtrack of my teens.

I didn't care back then. High School was dull, full of idiotic tribes whose inane rituals bored me. My teachers with their constant nagging, You won't get a good job without decent grades, even duller . My parents were tolerable, but they weren't exactly setting the world alight. Dad with his dreary job at the tax office. Mom with her bake sales and bridge clubs. Why would I aspire to that? Is it any wonder DS was where I came alive?

At first it was the film games I loved the most - Transformers, The Green Lantern, X Men. I loved playing all the lead roles, fighting for justice, defeating the bad guys. It was a blast. That was till I came across the war games - Battlefield, Halo, Soldiers of Anarchy.  Soon I found whole worlds to command - my strategic skills and quick fire reactions winning battle after battle. I conquered lands, and empires. My enemies fled at the sight of me pumping bullets with my AK47s. It was an adrenalin rush all right. No wonder daily life sucked.

Dad never got it of course. How could he? Tied to his desk and his spreadsheets and ledgers. I doubt he ever had an exciting moment in his life. He was such a loser. No wonder that heart attack killed him at 50. I expect it was the stress of living so monotonously.

Still. I've showed him. I've showed them all. Those whiny teachers with their lousy report cards. The principals who hauled me in their offices for their tedious Pull Your Socks Up lectures. See, it turns out, after all, those years weren't wasted. All that playing with joysticks and staring at computer screens was perfect preparation for a life worth living, serving my country. All that time to get me ready for this:

My computer screen has a perfect image, relayed back to me through the clear blue sky. A man is standing on the dusty street below, waiting outside a single story brick house. The intelligence on the ground has confirmed it, but I am waiting for him to turn round. To see the face of my enemy. Across the street, I see someone hail him. He turns round, relaxed, easy, unaware of the danger he is in. I cannot pick out his features. I zoom in.  The picture is blurry, but that long beard, those black rimmed glasses and hook nose are unmistakeable.  It's him alright. My pulse is racing, as I call it in.

"We have confirmation, target is on the plot. Repeat. We have confirmation.  Target is on the plot. Do I have permission to fire.Over?"

The response is sweet. The words I've been longing to hear.

"Target approved. Fire at will.Over."

I wipe drops of sweat from my forehead and reach for the controls. For a second, nothing happens. Then the flash of the bomb. The flume of smoke. Rubble, dust. People running.

"Target taken out. Over."

"Nice job sergeant. Over and Out."

I pull off the head-set and hand over to my co-pilot. I walk away from the booth and grab myself a Coke from the machine. The sweet taste of victory trickles down my throat as my colleagues surround me with congratulations. Another kill for my country. As always, it's quite a rush. I can't get enough.

My Dad said I'd never amount to much. If only he could see me now.

#fridayflash White Wedding

"You didn't get married then?"
Sylvie shook her head.
"Wow, that's...I mean...I thought you two were so close." Sophie's green-black eyes shimmered her concern.
"We were."
"When I saw you at the bar that night, it looked like you were eating each other."
"He is tasty, there's no denying." Sylvie seemed fascinated by a mark on one of her feet.
"So, what happened?"
"I had the most divine dress."
"Designed by?"
"Stella McCartney of course." Sylvie gazed down at her long black limbs, "V neck, vertical line, three quarter sleeves, white silk - perfect for the hour glass figure."
"And?"
"I happened to glance at our engagement photo and it came to me..."
"What did?"
"It was his diet, you see."
"You left him because he went on a diet?" Sophie's mouth opened in a perfect "O" , exposing a set of jagged teeth.
"He wasn't the person I'd fallen for," Sylvie sighed, "When we met, he was round, cuddly, juicy. Now he's just skin and bone."
"Ah."
"I guess you could say, he went out of flavour."
"That's a lousy joke." Sophie giggled anyway, setting Sylvie off into convulsions. They shook so much that strands of silk holding them together split apart, swinging them in opposite directions like trapeze artists. Sylvie spun sticky threads rapidly as she passed her friend doing the same. They worked hard and in ten minutes they were hanging upside down in the centre of the newly fixed web.
"Has it put you off?" panted Sophie.
"A white wedding? Nah, it'll happen, and with any luck, quite soon..." Sylvie nodded at a bulbous brown male scuttling along the floor below. "See that? Delicious."

#fridayflash The Preacher

She is hell-fire and damnation. She corrupts my thoughts, polluting me to the depths of my soul. Every day I pray to my Master to have the strength to resist the temptation that the Evil One has put in my path. Verily, I understand, that she has been sent as a test to my fidelity.That I must walk though this valley of death with integrity and fortitude. That if I trust only in the Lord, then shall I overcome.

She comes each week to Chapel, gazing at me, with a brazen mockingness, as if she is questioning every statement that I preach. Her brown hair is piled in curls underneath a hat decorated with yellow and purple bird feathers. Though she is wearing a velvet cloak, I know that underneath, the neckline of her blue silk gown plunges to the point of immodesty. Her sister sits besides her, dressed in suitable grey, never daring to catch my eye, drinking in my every word. A more suitable helpmeet for me, perhaps, but I have strayed off the path of righteousness. I want to reach out and untie that velvet cloak, caressing the blue silk dress with my fingers. I want plunge down beneath the cloth, unhooking the corset, hook by hook. As I preach the Word of the Lord, I am possessed by the idea of  doing unspeakable things to her in the darkness, and though I condemn myself for my hypocrisy, I am powerless to stop.

Once, walking home after Chapel, I saw a couple, locked together against the side of an abandoned cottage. She had her skirt hitched up and they were rutting like animals, in utter depravity. The woman glanced up as I passed, and smiled at me like a demon. Sometimes, I believe it was at that moment the Devil crept in to my soul. At night, I am tormented by dreams in which we are that rutting couple, and I give way to the agonising ecstasy, whilst she taunts me, laughing like the fiend she is. I wake in damp disgust, and resolve that today I will rid myself of this affliction. That I will purify my soul and walk again by still waters, that I may lay down with my Lord in green pastures. But I cannot.

She is hellfire. She is damnation. I should have the faith, and the strength to resist this temptation. But I am a weak sinner, lost in the wilderness. There is no way back for me now.

I will have her and be damned.

#fridayflash The Sheriff Rides Into Town

I've always lived by the rule book my Father left me. It worked for him, and it's worked for me. In particular:

#Rule No 1. If you are careful, you won't get caught. But you have to be very careful.

Oh, I've been careful, so very, very careful. For all these years, I  have been above suspicion. My email is encrypted. I change my mobile regularly. I use so many intermediaries I'm untraceable. If a crusading hero were to ride into town on the whiff of a rumour, they'd find nothing but straws whistling down the wind. And if they were able to weave a tale from the fragments they found, well then:

#Rule No 2.Your friends are  your best defence.

I have  friends, such powerful friends. There's hardly a politician, newspaper mogul, movie star who I haven't helped in some way. They've all enjoyed the hospitality of my house parties, and appreciated the parting video as a memento of their stay. If our sheriff were to enter the saloon bar with impertinent questions, they'd rise as one to protect me, I'm quite sure about that. As for the tiny few who reject my generosity, ridicule is such an effective weapon, their protest rarely amounts to much. Should some foolhardy idiot dare stick their neck out to defy the mocking bullets, there's always:

#Rule No 3. Deny everything.

Our gunslinger might think he has all the shots, but when he faces me down at the poker table, there's no way he can win. Whatever cards he holds, I'll always call his bluff. My tongue will gild my lily-words, allaying the doubts of even the most sceptic audience. I will tell the tallest of tales, wrapped in the tiniest veneer of plausibility and the world will believe me, as it always done. Failing that:

#Rule No 4. Create a fall guy.

I'm fire-proof. I'm sure of it. Were our dogged loner actually able to penetrate the maze of connections I have created, he'd reach an impasse just before my door. I own my workforce. All of them. They know they have no choice but to hang for me, and, if it comes to it, they surely will. It is hard to imagine they'd have the wit to sell their souls to anyone else, but if they do, I'll have a way out. That will be the day when it's time for:

#Rule no 5. Burn the village.

If all else fails, I have other resources to fall back on. There are still places I can go where none can reach me, and I can begin again. If it comes to it I will burn my village to save it. It will be satisfying to watch my pursuer from a distance, as he warms in the flames of his great victory. A victory that will be bright, beautiful and pyrrhic.


This morning I woke to the sight of waggons circling, of vultures hovering overhead. My nemesis is swaggering down Main Street for our final showdown. I am ready for him. My bags are packed, the possessions I care about least are piled high. All I have to do is light the spark and they will burn.

My Father's rules have protected me all these years. They protect me still. For we have saved the best for last:

#Rule No 6. Cut your losses and be gone.


Dedicated to Alan Rusbridger, Guardian Editor.

Breakfast News #fridayflash

Gotcha!
1st May 2011 8:31am

RESULT. Go SEALS go.  I can't believe the lefty liberal pricks on this thread bleating on about human rights. Don't you get it Obama Bin Laden KILED people. Lots of them. I thought Osama was weak, but not know GO Osama. You showed us the US NEVER gives up.

Appalled.
1st May 2011 8.32am

For God's sake what's wrong with you people? Do you really get off on celebrating death in this way? What makes those people outside the White House any different from those fundamentalists burning US flags? 
BTW Gotcha it's OSAMA Bin Laden. Obama's the president.

Gotcha!
1st May 2011 8.33am

Oh come of it Appalled. Ringing your hands about poor little Osama (no typos). The man was a fucking sycopath. He murdered thousands of people. Caused a war, and while his people lived in caves he was larging it in a millionaire's  manssion. Fucker deserved to die.

Appalled.
1st May 2011 8.34am

Where should I begin Gotcha? I'm not saying Osama was a saint. But who created him? The fucking CIA that's who. They needed him in Afghanistan and when communism collapsed they needed a new enemy. 9/11 was a TOTAL set up. There were no hijacked planes. It was the US airforce all along.

Jim sighs as he looks at the computer screen. What an idiot. He types in a response, his fingers tapping the keys in righteous indignation. Then, aware of  the rumbles in his stomach, he shouts down the stairs, "Jenny, are you doing  a fry up?"

Jenny looks up from her computer screen, appalled by the latest comment she has read. "In a minute. Let me just finish this".

She bangs out an angry response to Gotcha. Then she rises from the table and heads for the fridge. She pulls out bacon, sausages, mushrooms, tomatoes and eggs. She drips oil into the pan and starts chopping vegetables.

She knows what makes her husband happy.

Red Shoes #fridayflash

The girl totters on the edge of the pavement. The heels on her red stilettos are high enough and thin enough that if she moves one inch forward she'll fall in front of the cars racing past her. I feel like yelling, "Be careful love," but she won't hear me from down there. Instead I watch her trying to put her umbrella up. It looks like one of the crap ones from the 99p store - it ain't no wonder,  it keeps blowing inside out.  Despite the weather, she's wearing next to nothing - a thin white cardigan over a low cut blouse, a short black skirt, bare legs. She must be freezing dressed like that, yet she don't seem to notice. She just teeters on the brink of danger. Looks like she's trying to decide something.

I used to dress like that, not caring about the wind and rain, so long as the look was right. I even had a pair of shoes to match - ruby red and glistening with fake diamonds. The were magic - my red shiny shoes - just one click of the heels and off we'd dance on other adventure  - clubs, parties, concerts, we went everywhere together. Why, we even once tripped off with a fella up to Blackpool to see the lights. Fantastic they were, and so was he. And he wasn't the only one, neither. My lucky shoes took me dancing, night after night, bloke after bloke.Lovely days they were. Till we danced into George. And after that, I didn't need no more excitement, I had enough right here at home. Life was like that for ever such a long time.

Of course, we don't get up to much these days, George and I. There's not much scope in this tiny flat. And who wants to go out in this wind, when you need thermals just to go to the post office? I'm not like that girl in the street no more. Those days are long gone.

The rain has eased off and  the girl's put her brolly down. She turns her head slightly and gazes back this way. Perhaps she's looking at someone, her eyes rest on the flats next door. I'm probably making it up- but it seems to me she's saying goodbye. She turns back towards the road, as if she's come to a decision. Yes, she's taking a step onto the street. There she goes, dashing across the traffic on the dual carriageway. I watch her trip her way towards the tube. You go my girl - I think - click your heels and be off.

The clock strikes five. The sun comes out from behind a cloud. Perhaps there'll be a rainbow in a minute. I don't have to wait though. George needs his tea. He don't like it when I keep him waiting. I slip my red slippers back on and head to the kitchen. I think we'll have chops tonight.

The Devil's Detail #fridayflash

"Morning Melissa," he smiles, and not for the first time, wonders how much longer he'll have to put up with her catatonic grin.

I should have looked at the small print, he thinks, as he does every Friday at eleven o'clock. He pulls up a chair for her and brings her a cup of coffee. Dad always said the devil's in the detail. But at the time, there just wasn't time. We had to get the deal struck and I relied on my team. I had more important things to do.Maintaining a media presence. Looking statesmanlike. I had to trust my boys would get the best deal. What else could I do?

Melissa tries not to wince at his faux-chivalry. How an earth has this happened? A year ago, I was riding high, now I'm just a laughing stock. She smiles, hiding her disdain for the smoothness of James' chin behind a sip of coffee. I shouldn't have left it to the boys. I thought they'd put the party first. Think of the good of the country. It didn't even cross my mind that the real ties that bind are formed in the playground.

"What's the latest Whip count?" his teeth glint in the morning sun.

"Sixty yeas, ten abstentions, ten nays. On your side?"

"Two hundred and forty yeas, six abstentions plus 11 from the other parties."

"So we're safe then?"

He resists the impulse to add, "No thanks to you." Instead, "It would help if you could rein Mark Townsend in."

Melissa stares down at her coffee spoon. The bastard, the total bastard.

 "He's making waves you see,"  his eyes gaze at her with fake sincerity, "And I believe you have some influence?"

She stirs her coffee.  Leave now, and the party is destroyed. Stay and I ruin every relationship I have. But once you make a deal with the devil, life becomes a series of increasingly unpalatable choices.

She smiles back, his equal in sincerity, if nothing else. "Of course, James. Now tell me, what is it you want me to do?"

After He'd Gone

After he'd gone, all that was left in the bedsit was:
A half emptied bookcase.
The stain of brown whisky at the bottom of the glass.
Rumpled sheets on his side of the bed.

After he'd gone, she lay on the sofa, coiled cobra-like, listening for the step of his feet returning up the stairwell. The click of his key turning in the lock. But the only sounds were the shuffle of Marjorie-next door making her way to the bathroom; the thunderous descent of Dec from upstairs and his friends heading out to the pub.

After he'd gone, each second that passed expanded longer than the last. The glowing red numbers on the digital clock moved the evening forward in freeze frame. The sodium-glare outside her window shone on a world of revellers, singing  and dancing through the night.

After he'd gone, all that was left in the morning was a rumpled emptiness. The stain of betrayal of their life that never was. All that remained was a half-life. But since that was all she was left with, she uncoiled herself from the couch, and took herself to the shower.

A life half-lived is better than none.

#festivefridayflash - White Christmas

"A White Christmas? When do we ever get a White Christmas?"  He shook his head at the snow falling in ever increasing flakes.
"Never,dear." His wife, anticipating a tirade, did not look up from her stitching.
"I mean, I know it's supposed to be seasonal..." he paced up and down the wooden floor.
"Yes,dear."
"...but how often has it happened in the last ten years? The last twenty?" A floorboard creaked under the weight of his fretful feet.
"Hardly ever,dear." Her needle skimmed up and down, patching holes with consummate skill.
"It's freezing out there."
"You'll be warm enough."
"I'd rather stay at home." He sat back down on the sofa, stretching his large black-booted feet on her lap, forcing her to put down her needlework.
"You say that every year." She pushed him off and picked the sewing up again.
"It's going to be murder travelling."
"I'm sure it will be fine."
"I'm worried about the suspension..."
"You've just had a service."
"...and the brakes in this ice..."
"Will work perfectly, I'm sure."
"Perhaps I shouldn't go this year." He looked at her hopefully.
"After I've spent the last two hours mending?" She handed him his jacket. "Besides, they'll be expecting you."
"I suppose you're right." He took it from her and pulled it over his large frame.
"You know I am." She gave him a firm kiss on the lips.
"Here I go again." He stood up.
"Don't forget your hat!"
"Do I have to?"
"It's traditional."
"All right then..." With a sigh, he pulled the red and white hat over his curly white hair, "I look ridiculous."
"You look gorgeous." She rewarded him with a fuller kiss. "Now get to work."
"Don't wait up."
"I never do."
He stomped outside to his workshop where a small elf was placing the last present on top of a packed sleigh.
"I've oiled the runners sir, the reindeer are fed and watered, and the sat nav programmed," the chief elf beamed with pride.
"Then I'd better be on my way."
He jumped into the sleigh and with a crack of the whip headed East towards the first stroke of midnight. It was going to be a busy night.

Waiting for the Thaw - #fridayflash

"The path needs doing again."

"Uh,huh." He looked out of the window at the snow flakes falling from the darkening grey sky, obliterating the track that sloped down to the road, where even the four by fours were struggling to keep moving. It was only an hour since he'd last cleared it, but already another two inches had fallen. The snow drifts on the lawn  had risen to seven or eight inches and were so densely packed that they were almost reaching the  bottom window panes.

"I said the path needs doing again." This time her voice was edged with insistence.

He did not look up from force of habit, but simply turned over the page of the paper he was reading, "It's Someone Else's Turn."

She rose from her seat and walked, back erect, with deliberately paced steps to the door."I won't repeat myself. I have supper to cook." She departed down the stone-flagged corridor for the kitchen.

He sighed, put down his paper and followed her into the dark hallway where the heat of the radiators barely penetrated. His Barbour jacket was still damp from his last outing, his boots were icy when he put them on. He picked up the spade he'd left by the front door, and went outside.

The job took longer than expected. His back and knees were not what they were, stabbing him with pain each time he bent over.The snow fell almost as fast as he could clear it. Large wet flakes splattered his eyes, blinding him, so he had to stop and wipe them every couple of minutes. It was frustrating work, but the dread of being snowed in was enough to keep him at it. He dug and scraped until the path was clear. Though by the time he'd stood at the door for a couple of minutes to shake the snow from his boots, the path was white again.

****************************************

She heard the metal scraping the pathway as she busied herself around the kitchen. At least he was getting that job done. The weekly shop had not been done that morning, and they'd not be able to get out tomorrow. She probably had enough for a couple of decent meals. After that...well it would have to be soup and dry crackers.Tonight, at least, there were two lamb cutlets to use up, and enough potatoes and peas to make it feel like a proper supper. They'd run out gravy, but that couldn't be helped.

She heard the clang of the spade against the wall as he closed the front door.

"Supper will be five minutes," she called.

"Uh, huh."

"I said, "Supper will be five minutes." Her yell had more insistence in it.

"I heard you the first time. I'm just changing my trousers."

Thud, thud, thud - he climbed the stairs, as she took the cutlets out of the oven and put them on the plates. She sieved the steaming potatoes, and dabbed them with butter, watching it melt into yellow liquid running down through the pan. Typically, he was still not down when she put the peas on the plates. She put the food back in the oven till she heard his thudding descent.

As he entered the room, she placed the plates back on the table, and they both sat down.

"There's no gravy," he said

"Someone didn't go to the shops."

He said nothing more, and they ate in their usual silence. The only sounds were his masticating jaws, the clink of cutlery, and, outside, the snow-muffled engines of the last cars to make into the village tonight.

The food was delicious as always, though'd  he never say. When he'd finished his final mouthful, he pushed away the plate, rose from the table and disappeared to watch the news. She cleared the table, as was her custom, and began to wash up.

Clink, splash, wipe, clink, splash, wipe. There was something soothing about washing up at the end of the day.  Outside the snow kept on falling. The sky was black.

"They say this is going to last till Thursday at least," he called from the living room.

"Uh, huh," she said, looking at the ice that was beginning to form on the steaming window.

It would be a long time till the thaw.

#FridayFlash Night and Day

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tock, tick...

Sylvia wakes with a start from a sleep she hadn't meant to take. Her knees are stiff and her back is sore.  The Roman numerals on the clock are at four thirty already. The sun has already reached the bottom of the hill, painting her sitting room wall red and orange. Funny how she used to hate that clock: the over-large gold leaves and the distorted cherubs seemed to sum up everything she disliked about her mother-in-law, Alison. How many afternoons had she and Paul sat in this very room, keeping Alison company, to that relentless tick, tock? Alison, whose days had ceased to please her, so she must destroy theirs, forcing them to stay and listen to her endless complaints -sciatica, rheumatism, loneliness. It was always such a relief  when Paul's sister took over, and they were released to the night air, the moon, the stars, the dancing.

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tock, tick...

She's old, she needs me, Paul would say, as he whirled her across the dance floor like Fred Astaire. Though Sylvia knew it was true, she didn't want him thinking that way too long. She'd pull him with her into the music, and soon, he was singing a different tune, Night and day, you are the one...She smiles at the memory. Time was, when her feet could glide to that tune and she could dance through to pink dawns and still feel fresh and ready for more. Such days they were, when her hair was black, and she could follow her desires so easily: when an hour with Paul seemed to last a thousand years. Now Alison is dead, Paul too, the children left home, and those days may as well have been a thousand years ago.

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock...

The rim of the sun is hanging on the horizon, sending shafts of red across the sky, making  the moon blush. That clock has ticked its way through so many of her suns and moons in this house that  she's come to love it for its ugliness. She even loved Alison a little in the end, as the years softened that sharp tongue and  the arrival of grandchildren brought some comfort. Now Sylvia's own days are an uphill struggle, and walks are something to dread, she can understand the old woman somewhat better too. Still, it was more pleasant living here in the later years, once the kids were grown, when it was just her and Paul, and Sinatra sang as they danced...Only you beneath the moon or sun. Those were the days when her hair was still dark, and he still thought her beautiful. Vanity of vanities - he wouldn't think her lovely now.

Tick, tock, tick,tock, tick, tock...

Outside the shadows are falling. Night rushes across the garden, masking the signs of Spring - the almond tree beginning to blossom, the sparrows laying nests. She ought to get up and make herself a cup of tea, maybe ring Gill, who worries too much. Only last year she would have leapt up the minute she awoke, but, her legs still feel shaky after her sleep, and she needs to catch her breath. There's no hurry after all. She might as well sit here for a while longer. She closes her eyes. Her breath shallows. And a voice sings to her across the years...Its no matter darling where you are, I think of you... She smiles, stretching out a hand for one last dance.


c Virginia Moffatt  2010

On the mudflats

It's nearly dusk, but  there is no sun on the horizon. There hasn't been one for days. Just grumpy skies filled with low, grey clouds, indistinguishable from the sea that meets the end of the mudflats. Growing up inland, the first time she saw the broad expanse, she felt dizzy as if she might fall off the edge. She'd struggled to walk through the soft sands down to the muddy cockle banks. The only sand she'd seen before was in her father's time turner. He used to let her play with it while he read engineering reports. She'd loved turning it up and down, seeing the sand shift and slide, shift and slide - watching as time ran out.

Each day at low tide, the path through the soft sand marks the passing of her days. On the way out, her boots are clean, her tray empty. On the way back, she is mud-spattered, cold, wet, carrying a full tray back to the Collector waiting on the shore. There is no room for slacking. Only a full tray will do. And her father needs the money, so a full tray is what she will collect. Though her back is sore with the constant stooping, her arms ache, with the raking of the shellfish beds. Rake, sift, rake, sift - the pattern of her days

The shift is nearly over, the day is nearly done, but her tray is not full enough. These beds have been over-harvested, there are slim pickings to be had. Her fellow workers have moved towards the edge of the mudflats, closer to the incoming tide. She can see by their increased activity they have struck lucky. She squelches towards them, every footprint filling with water the moment she raises her boots. They will have to be quick.

On the seashore, the Collector looks down at the workers crouched over the shifting sands. Sky and sea meet in a dark grey huddle, it is hard to distinguish where the water's edge is. It is beginning to rain again. He cannot call the cockle-pickers - they will not be able to hear him. He could raise his arm, but it is unlikely they will look up from their labours. He considers his losses and turns towards his van.

On the mudflats, the workers have completed their haul. They stand up and begin the long march back to the beach. The sand shifts and slides beneath their feet. Shift, slide, shift, slide  - time is running out.