Once Upon a Time in Bulverhythe - short story

Ted McBain kept a tide chart sellotaped to his fridge door, so he could set his day around the low tide times. The dog had a very long stride and loved to stretch its legs on the wide, flat sand, but at high tide there were only pebbles. Ted liked the beach at any time, it was why he’d moved to Bulverhythe when he retired, but low tide suited him so he went with the dog’s preference.

By coincidence the dog was also called Ted, its racing name had been Teddington Court. Ted the man had acquired Ted the dog because he had decided that he wanted to adopt a greyhound. He’d always bet on the dogs, ever since his dad had taken him to Catford Greyhound Stadium in his teens.

When he first retired to the house on Bulverhythe Road, he’d owned a short haired, brindle dog called Dougie, whose breed was possibly cairn terrier but mostly uncertain. Dougie had been older than Ted, in dog years and after Dougie died, Ted had walked down the road to the Bull Inn for a consolatory pint. Dougie was missed there too, Claudia behind the bar always kept bowls for special canine customers like Dougie, who had enjoyed his terrier sized pint.

Conversation around the bar turned to dog breeds and which sort of dog Ted should get next. There was no thought that he might not want another dog, so Ted kept quiet and let them all get on with it. When the talk turned to greyhounds, he’d begun to listen and was horrified to hear that after their racing careers were over, many dogs were discarded, shot or put to sleep.

‘I’ve always felt sorry for them poor things,’ Claudia had said, ‘it’s just awful them being stuffed into those tiny boxes then forced to chase a hare that isn’t even real and have you seen the bloke who walks five lovely old greyhounds in Alexandra Park, I chatted with him a while back and one’s called Lulu and there’s Sandy and Dusty after all them singers and he obviously cares for his old racing dogs, now they got lovely lives…”

Ted had switched off Claudia’s chatter, but that had been the day he decided to adopt a greyhound. After some research, he took a train to London then the tube to some kennels at Wimbledon and was disappointed to be told he couldn’t take a dog home straight away. He was expecting to do paperwork and pay a fee, however the woman was very apologetic, but she couldn’t let him take the dog on the tube to Charing Cross then the train to St Leonards, it wasn’t suitable transport for highly strung dogs.

Ted had been allowed to meet several dogs in case he liked any of them, and he decided it had to be the dog called Teddington Court. Quite apart from his name, he had a dark grey, slightly brindled coat and a white chest and throat, very like Dougie’s, and at the sound of Ted’s voice his tail had wagged vociferously and his huge, dark eyes looked joyful.

Ted managed to persuade his niece, Mandy, to help him collect the greyhound in her car, in return later for a slap-up meal at La Bella Vista, which made him wince as he put it on his credit card. He had spent all his spare cash on fees and extras for the dog.

The kennel had sold him a dietary chart, several boxes of particular greyhound food and they even persuaded him he must buy one of their special harnesses for Teddington Court, who they said had a narrow head, even for a greyhound so would slip the smart, black collar Ted had bought specially. They even tried to sell him a tartan overcoat for the dog, but there Ted put his foot down. He said he would get a coat for the dog in the autumn, when it actually needed one, not in summer when it didn’t.

Now, in February, Ted the dog owned two coats, which had cost Ted the man less than half the cost of the one that the kennels had proffered. The early rain had stopped at just the right time for the tides, so Ted waved the brown woolly coat at his dog, who stood up from the blanket among the cushions on the sofa, tail wagging. The cold, damp wind called for the waterproof coat over the woollen one, which was a struggle on the excited dog. Finally successful, Ted pulled on his own parka and opened the door. He had long since realised that his greyhound was perfectly calm and needed neither harness nor lead to keep him under control, though Ted kept a lead in his pocket, just in case. Teddington was very content to walk close to his side unless Ted gave the word, then the dog could go from stationary to full speed in the blink of an eye.

They walked along the residential streets and past the small industrial units to Bridge Way. Next came the only part of the walk that the dog disliked, this was the crossing of the railway line running alongside the beach, which meant ascending the metal stairway up the footbridge. The noise of its toenails, as Teddington clattered across the metal, combined with the ringing of the whole structure as Ted’s heavier tread set it in motion, scared the dog every time. The first few times Ted had almost had to carry the dog up the steps. However once Teddington had discovered that, on the other side of this terrible bridge lay the delights of the beach, the dog became less contrary.

But today suddenly became one of his contrary days. Just as they were about to set foot on the bridge an early train from Eastbourne rattled and clattered underneath, it was a small train, only two carriages but enough to panic the dog. He cowered behind Ted and no amount of urging would make him move. In the end Ted lifted him up awkwardly, feeling the trembling body through his own coat. The dog’s long front legs trailed over Ted’s shoulder and it's head pressed against Ted’s neck. With his arms around the animal’s hindquarters Ted struggled up the harsh metal steps before disembarking him with huge relief onto the top step.

Urging the dog on, Ted crossed the bridge and descended to the wooden platform on the other side, the dog never gave any trouble going down. The tide was far out, sand gleaming silver under a bright grey sky and the dog’s ears pricked up, the perils of the bridge forgotten. The beach looked empty, it was still early and anyway the biting wind would keep most people away.

Once on the sand Ted gave the signal that the now prancing dog was waiting for, just a simple flick of his right hand and Teddington Court was off like a cheetah chasing a gazelle, although he needed nothing to chase, he ran for the sheer joy of it. Ted watched and admired as he paced himself along the shining sand, there was no way he could compete and anyway, his back was protesting after his efforts on the bridge. Greyhounds are large dogs, despite their slender appearance.

Teddington Court was now a dot in the distance, Ted had come to rely on the animal to return to him. But for the first time, it didn’t. Cursing aloud, Ted trudged off in slow pursuit. Inwardly he felt he was sinking, perhaps the dog wanted to leave him, or worse still was taken by somebody. Thoughts of ‘what if…” clouded his mind as he trudged, eyes scanning the beach and the path that ran beside the rail track.

In the distance he could see a long, dark rock on the beach, near the water’s edge. He didn’t remember seeing it before, the tide must be even lower than usual. Then he heard barking, Ted the dog never barked, so now he was fearful that his shy greyhound was being attacked by another dog. As he neared the rock, he realised what he was hearing was his dog, who was running in circles around the rock and barking with excitement.

He called out, “Ted, come here! Come, boy!”

The dog stopped running, but continued to bark, more quietly now while staring at the rock, his head lowered. As Ted walked around the rock to reach his dog, he realised there was a rotting smell, must be some dead fish somewhere, quite a lot of them. Then he saw the eye, grey, sunken and oddly small, in the side of the dark rock. It was a whale.

Ted waved his hand in front of the sad, grey eye, but there was no response. He stood and watched the leviathan, in case there were any other signs of life. He was standing on the windward side now, but then he remembered the rotting smell. It was definitely dead.

The greyhound had stopped barking and was looking at him, tail wagging expectantly. But what should he do? Nothing in his former life, as a London fireman and later a leisure centre caretaker in Catford, had presented him with a dilemma like this. The closest had been rescuing a retired brewery horse from a ditch behind some stables. That had been hard enough, involving block and tackle and a tractor but the whale would weigh many times more than even the largest dray horse.

With a struggle, Ted fished his small mobile phone from his inside jacket pocket and stared at the thing. He hardly used it, had only bought it for emergencies, did a dead whale count as an emergency? It seemed unlikely, but who should he report it to? Then it came to him and he switched on the phone.

‘Good morning, emergency services. Which service do you require?’

‘Coastguards,’ Ted replied firmly. They should know about whales if anybody did, and if they didn’t deal with dead whales, they’d know who did.

By the middle of the afternoon the beach was awash with reporters and spectators and the two Teds were celebrities. The Bulverhythe Whale was on TV and Ted the dog famed as its discoverer. The fact that dog and dog owner had the same name added to the reporters’ delight. Ted the man was interviewed by the BBC News and was able to put in a small plug for adopting greyhounds.

‘Couldn’t be a more peaceful dog to have in the house,’ he told them.

When Ted and the greyhound entered the Bull Inn the following lunch time, they received a small round of applause. He was offered a free pint and Claudia had a special present for Teddington Court. Ted had always been careful over the dog’s diet and he was slightly dismayed to see the present was a large pork pie. He couldn’t refuse the wretched thing, but said he would take it home for later, if the dog ate it all at once he might be sick. Claudia understood, she had a shih tzu that was always throwing up, she wrapped the pie in a plastic bag. Ted stuffed it into the largest pocket of his parka and accepted another free pint.

Back home, his elderly neighbour collared him and said there were two ruddy great parcels and where had he been she’d had to take them in and the delivery man disturbed her TV show and frightened the cats and it was a ruddy nuisance blocking her hall and blah blah blah. Ted retrieved the parcels, apologised to her and asked her in for a cup of tea. She eyed the dog, who stood placidly at Ted’s side, and departed, slamming her own front door.

The first of the parcels contained several packets of dried dog food, courtesy of a local pet shop, with a note praising, ‘Teddington our Hero’. Ted had a feeling the dog would probably prefer the pork pie, he took it out of his coat and put on a plate. He made a mug of tea before opening the second, larger parcel, which seemed to be anonymous. It contained a brown, padded dog bed, with raised edges and smart corduroy lining. The dog ignored the bed until Ted scattered a few pieces of the dried food into it.

Teddington actually seemed to like these treats, he sniffed them all out and they crunched satisfactorily. He then went purposefully around the house collecting up all his possessions, three half-eaten chews, a tennis ball, punctured beachball, large blue teddy – a present from Mandy - fluffy cushion, squeaky crocodile – a present from Claudia - a knucklebone, two chunks of well-chewed driftwood and Ted the man’s old trainers. The dog carefully deposited all these beloved things into their safe, new, corduroy home, he then climbed up onto his blanket on the sofa and fell asleep.

Ted sat with his mug of tea and ate a slice of the pork pie. He’d watched his dog doing its housework and almost laughed as it climbed onto the sofa, leaving the collection in the new dog bed. Ted switched on the TV to catch the local news. He and the dog were no longer headliners, but the whale was still a star. It had been identified as a fin whale, the same species as had washed up at Normans’ Bay a hundred years ago and was now in the Cambridge University Museum. The University had also claimed this whale, they would run tests and experiments. It offered a great opportunity to progress modern ecological sciences, apparently.

As Ted was washing up, the phone in the hall rang.

‘Good evening, Mr McBain! What a lovely day it’s been!’ It was the woman from the greyhound kennels. Ted greeted her before she continued to the point. ‘I do hope that Teddington Court is enjoying his new bed. It’s just a little thank you present to him for being such a wonderful ambassador for our greyhounds. Please don’t worry about the cost to our charity, it’s surplus in the shop. We had six and I have to confess they weren’t selling too well, not a fashionable colour, brown. Anyhow I’m sure that you will be pleased to know that we have had had six new enquiries from potential adopters since Teddington Courts’ lovely appearance on the BBC.’

Ted thanked them for the beautiful brown bed and wished them luck with the new adoptions. He didn’t tell them that Teddington was fast asleep on the sofa, not in his new bed or that he would be getting pork pie for his tea.

 

                                                            *

Lulabelle and the Scathing Fowel

Lulabelle and the Scathing Fowel –from the Scarfolk folks’ daily archive.

Lulabelle Scathing, age seven-ish (exact DOB unknown), is a child prodigy. In her early youth she bioengineered her pet woodlouse, Crunchy, into a fully grown armadillo. However her mother, Arachnia Featherstone Ambling Chough-Smythe, has wisely guided her into more lucrative pursuits, since there is no market for armadillos in Scarfolk County.  

Lulabelle is now a very young, though fully qualified geneticist and bioengineer, working on the genetic modification of her pet chickens to create larger, semi-predatory birds. In the absence of wolves and sabretooth cats which have not been seen for many years, Lulabelle’s chooks will be safely released into Scarfolk Forest to help to reduce the numbers of deer, woodpeckers, beavers, charcoal-burners, lumber-jacks and other vermin that damages the trees. 

Lulabelle’s chickens have been named Scathing Fowel, as a tribute to her father, wee Dougie Scathing, who vanished immediately after his daughter’s conception. Her mother, Arachnia, had declined to take Wee Dougie’s surname, as she felt her own name already included four of her other seven former-husbands/partners and to add another would be cumbersome. Each of her eight children carried their father’s name and that was memorial enough.

The photograph is Lulabelle's favourite, named Cockatrice, he is exploring the bottom of the garden. He will be father of the next generation of Scathing Fowel.

Once a sustainable population of Scathing Fowel has been established in Scarfolk Forest, Arachnia’s idea is to issue hunting licences to carefully selected gentlefolk, enabling them to shoot a prescribed number of Scathing fowel. As the fowel will be the top predator in the forest, their numbers will need to kept in balance or, having eaten everything else they would start on each other. 

Only trained markspersons will be allowed to hunt for Scathing Fowel as the birds become excessively dangerous when wounded and can take an adult human’s arm or head off with one bite. However less qualified persons may be employed as beaters or bait.

Arachnia has not yet broached the hunting idea with her daughter, as Lulabelle is inclined to being sentimental about her ferocious feathered fowel. And nobody would ever dare to suggest to Lulabelle that she has not spelled fowel correctly. For a start she is only seven and spelling is not her best subject, also she would set Cockatrice on any dissenters.

Coronation Trifle with Extra Ducks - flash fiction

Georgia watched the Maître D for the signal, wishing he would get on with it. Her gilded brass tray wasn’t light, with its load of sixteen cut glass dishes containing Coronation Trifle.

One of the waiters brushed past her headed for the kitchens. He was showing off with a huge stack of used plates and silverware balanced confidently on one hand. As the heavy swing door closed behind him there was a huge crash.

“Extra ducks!” With a click of fingers the Maître D summoned two waitresses who were clearing serving dishes and directed them toward the kitchens. He then waved peremptorily to Georgia to begin serving the desserts. She was only carrying enough trifles for the top banqueting table where the Mayor was seated. She then had to return to the kitchens for more.

Behind the swing doors, chaos reigned. An extra duck had slipped in spilled gravy and gashed her knees on broken crockery, the other duck was trying to stem the bleeding with her apron. 

Georgia sidled around the mess. It was being made still worse by the waiter who had caused it sweeping around with a broom already impregnated with duck skin, gravy and spinach. The floor was becoming a skating rink. The kitchen staff were ignoring everything, their shift was almost over.

Georgia could not possibly cross that floor carrying another heavy tray. She sat down and began eating Coronation Trifle.

Scooter - A Short Story written on New Year's Day

It’s nearly New Year’s and I’m laying in this road and my leg is really, like, fucking hurting and it’s his fault, my Dad’s. He’s feckless, that social worker said so. Mum’s a bitch, social worker didn’t say that, I did. My feckless Dad’s not fuckless, obviously, or I wouldn’t be here, would I? I wouldn’t be laying on this cold road, listening to Stacey screaming.

I wanted a scooter for Christmas. I mean I knew I’d never get one, they cost thousands and anyway I’m too young, can’t even get a licence, but Mum asked, so I just said, I want a scooter.

Scooter like those cool guys have, in them 1960’s photos, guys with smart jackets and properly made trousers. They’d go around, two of them on each scooter with the white thing on the front by the wheel to keep their trousers, clean and all I can get is cheap jeans. I got my hair like that Steve Marriott, only I can’t grow the sideburns, obviously, cos I’m a girl.

There’s this stupid old woman talking to me, she thinks I’m a boy.  So I says I’m a girl, obviously and she says, ‘I do beg your pardon.’ Like how old is that?! I’d laugh if I wasn’t hurting too much.

Stacey’s stopped screaming…

‘Stace, are you all right..?’

‘She’s all right,’ a man says, ‘we’re moving her off the road.’ 

I can’t see them, it’s dark and there’s a square light shining in my eyes, using their phone for a torch. Where’s my phone…? Mum gave me that, I mean it’s only her old one but it’s good enough for a bit. Better than when I hadn’t got a phone and I couldn’t talk to Stace.

‘What’s your name, love?’ It’s the stupid old woman again and it’s another problem. I mean, if I tell them Ayiishah they’ll write it down wrong. I should have been beautiful Ayisha, obviously, but stupid bitch Mum can’t spell, so I’m Esher. It’s a stupid town up near London, I never been. And  when I googled wrong, this this castle with people walking up square stairs that just goes on and on and never ending. The men going up can never stop going up, and the ones going down can never stop going down and they can’t do anything else, stuck on the same stairs forever. Scares me so much…

‘Esher we’re going to have to move you..’

No, please don’t touch me… no… ooowwww….

‘Sorry sweetheart, you’re safe by the wall now, lean back… ‘

‘Cars come very fast down the hill in the dark,’ the woman explains,  ‘You’re safer now,’

‘I’m all right,’ I say. ‘just my leg… need a ambulance.. for Stacey.’

‘Yes, we’re just talking to the emergency services…’

‘My foot hurts..’ that’s Stacey! She’s not dead! ‘And my arm hurts and my side hurts and…’

‘No no no..! She’s hurt so badly and I can’t get to her..!’

‘Esher listen, Stacey is breathing, she’s sitting up and talking to us, she’s going to be ok. It’s you I’m a bit worried about.’ The woman is putting a sort of cushion thing under my left leg that I can’t move. ‘Try to relax your leg onto that,’ she says but I can’t so scared to move it but it goes down slightly and  the hurting gets a bit less.

‘Esher,’ she says, ‘I’m Sarah and I’m going to my house, it’s just over there. I’ll bring a blanket to keep you warm. Only a moment then I will be with you until the ambulance comes. You’re going to be ok.’

Be feckless Dad’s fault if I’m not ok.  He got it off Ebay, sent it to Mum, and I’m not even there at Christmas, I’m in the home again, because bitch says I’m impossible. Just, she won’t understand. It started at school, she shouted at this teacher, Miss Darley, called her a fat dyke. I mean she is, but you can’t say that, obviously, not to a teacher. I couldn’t go in school after that, they’d all pick on me again, push me down in a corner and call me dirty lesbo.

So I wandered round town with Stace. She’s allowed to not be in school. She’s so funny, keeps me happy and she’s big, with lovely breasts and soft lips. If that man’s made her hurt, like scarred…

And it hurts again and so cold… the Sarah woman is holding my hand and I’m shaking and Stacey’s just laughing…

It was so fun, we laughed so much, so funny and scary and ex… excellent, coming down the hill on the scooter together. Not the sort of scooter I wanted, not even electric, just like a kids one. Only me and Stacey, we’re not kids, she’s sixteen. I’m not yet, but I’m tall like a boy. And on the scooter I hugs up close behind her and we shout WheeeeeeeeEEEEEEEE coming down the hill. And it’s so cool we walk up to the top and come down again and again. Four goes and it’s amazing…! But then it’s getting dark and we’re on go number five and I don’t know what we hit…

Hurts, I’m shaking and it hurts more… can’t stop...

Flashing light…   ‘This one’s in a lot of pain…’

‘Ambulance is here Esher,’ Sarah’s squeezing my hand, she’s so warm.. ‘In just a minute you’ll be fine.’

Stace says, ‘Happy New Year, Esher.’

And she’s still laughing, she’ll be fine.

                                                            *                                          

Monty the Osprey - a true story for children by Susan Gilbert

     Monty was an osprey. He was a clever, strong bird with dark feathers on his back and wings, white feathers on his front and dark stripes across his chestnut brown eyes. When he lifted his neck feathers into a crest at the back, he looked like an eagle in a fairy story. In spring and summer he lived in Wales, in a beautiful valley with hills, trees and green meadows and the River Dyfi flowed through the valley. 

Now, there are three things that all ospreys need and the most important of these three things is fish. Monty only ate fish, he didn’t like anything else. He was a very good fisher-bird, with long, strong legs and sharp, curved claws to grab a fish. He would dive feet first into the River Dyfi to catch trout, sometimes he even went right under water but he didn’t mind getting wet. He flew up from the river and with his powerful wings he could carry a fish almost as heavy as he was. Sometimes for a change Monty flew to the sea to catch different kinds of fish.

The second thing that ospreys need is a nest, and Monty had a good one. There was a high-up platform which some nice people had made for him when he was a young osprey and Monty had built his nest there. Every year the people watched the nest to make sure it was safe.  In April, Monty arrived from Africa, where he spent the winter, and he tidied his nest. He brought big branches and sticks to make the sides strong and plenty of moss and grass to make the centre comfy.

The third thing that every osprey needs is a mate. That’s why Monty made his nest look so comfy, he wanted it to be nice for his mate who was called Glesni.  They had  both been away in Africa and Monty came home first to make the nest ready. He made the nest look splendid, and he waited. He was a very tidy osprey. 

 Monty waited a long time, he was very patient, he knew he had made the nest really nice, but still Glesni didn’t arrive.  She had died in Africa, only Monty didn’t know that, which was very sad. She had been his mate for five years and they’d had lots of lovely chicks, so he really missed her. 

Tenants are People (well my tenants are) - part 1

I’m a landlord. Unpopular pastime, presumed to be for the filthy rich who abuse their poor, hard-pressed tenants and cheat the tax system. But I don't have vast estates and massive blocks of flats to let via cruel, grasping agents. I let out six rooms in my own house. I do it partly because I’m not that young and don’t have an index linked pension, partly because the house is in a wonderful location, the best in the town, overlooking the park. I rent out rooms so I can actually afford to live here. I manage my bedsits myself, I don’t use letting agents and as I have a flat in the same house I do like to meet and vet prospective tenants. Then I have some idea who they are, because they aren’t just my tenants, they are all individual people and over the years I’ve been letting rooms, some have become my friends.

The house itself is slightly peculiar; a tall Victorian semi, it has four floors including the large, and largely uninhabitable, basement. When I first arrived there were ten numbered rooms which had been let previously. Four of them, 1, 1A, 2 and 3 were all on the ground floor. Number 3 was actually the kitchen, the poor tenant who’d lived in it before had her bed in the cupboard under the stairs. I took all these four rooms, plus the old fashioned bathroom with its 1930’s eau-de-nil suite and tiles and turned them into my single ground floor flat. The remaining six rooms were all upstairs.

I began by trying to rent out three rooms on the first floor. There was number 4, which had its own very old fashioned little kitchen with a miniature gas cooker, plywood shelving and a ramshackle glass screen between it and the rest of the room. Its only redeeming feature was the lovely bay window with nearly new curtains. Flat 5 deserved the title ‘Flat’ as had its own 1950's melamine faced kitchen in a separate room, though this was accessed only from the communal landing. Flat 5 also had a huge bay window with a spectacular view across the park, it had period features including high skirting boards, moulded cornices and a ceiling rose. The downside was the grotty carpet and cracked ceiling. Room 7 at the back of the house had a small galley kitchen and was north facing. I thought it the least desirable, but theoretically lettable. Room 6 was carpet-less and had a hole in the chimney breast where a gas fire had been ripped out, so was deemed un-lettable for the time being. And so I put an advert in the local paper, and I waited.

Fred turned up and became the first to move into the house, even before me. I was still sorting my possessions before my move. Of all the rooms, he took a fancy to the least obvious – room 9, a top floor attic room with an ancient Baby Belling cooker, a tiny window and no heating. This was before I had begun to modernise the house. The room had low beams and a sloping ceiling over the living area, only the kitchen space was full height. Fred had floppy brown hair and was six foot two, at least. But he wanted the room with 3 beams to hit his head on, he liked the character!  I agreed to him having that room, even though it wasn’t intended to be ready to rent, as he had his own furniture while I didn’t have much at the time, just a few family left-overs. He also had references and a deposit.

Fred was a chef in his early thirties. Not your two Michelin starred type chef, he was the hard-working, run-of-the-mill chef who works in popular run-of-the-mill restaurants where the menu choice is slightly too large for it all to be fresh, but not so large that everything’s out of the freezer. When he was working he was probably efficient. When he wasn’t working, the whole of the top floor was a haze of aromatic smoke. Mostly he was working, his rent was seldom late and then only by a few days. He lived happily in the attic with a tank full of tropical fish and a mattress bed on the floor. He moved out after 12 months to go to a live-in job; for a chef, the kitchen he left behind was pretty dirty. He was a friendly, affable guy; I gave him a decent reference and I hope he did well.

to be continued...

Every Picture...

New header photograph to illustrate a cliche -  'Every Picture Tells a Story.'

The photograph shows a holiday scene, a man is sitting on a rock, watching as children run on a beach towards the breaking waves. This is what the photographer intended. The photographer also intended to show that the man was not known to the children, he was not part of their family. I know because I was the photographer.

Writers tell stories; writers can look at a picture and tell a story that is different to the story the photographer intended. Anyway photographs are a fiction, all they do is capture the light as it was in a tiny moment in time, and they leave out everything which is beyond the frame of the photograph. Photographs lie.

Photographers also tell stories. A good photographer knows this and looks very carefully, frames the picture very carefully, so that it says what they want it to say. A bad photographer doesn't actually see what they are photographing, only what they think they are photographing. 

This second photo is almost the same image as the new header photograph, but it's framed differently and the contrast, the light and dark are enhanced, like a painting it can be said to have chiaroscuro. It records a different moment in time; the wave has broken, the children are leaving the beach, the man on the rock is alone. The clouds billow up above his head, the rocks are dark, the beach in the foreground is barren. The man's state of alone-ness is emphasised by these pictorial factors.

For a photographer, that may be enough. The story is a mysterious image of a man's alone-ness. A writer will feel the compulsion to say more. A photograph can often be a trigger for writing a story, a poem or even a play.

Flash Fiction - Just Fish

           Westway is never deserted, even at three-fifteen in the morning. I’ve driven up from the coast, two hours on empty motorways, but London roads are never empty. The squad cars are bored, one has decided to tail me.

           The ice is melting.

            I’m travelling at a steady thirty-eight, the limit is forty. My lights work, other things don’t, including the refrigeration. That shouldn’t interest the police. But the blue light flashes in my wing mirrors.

Weeeooooooow, weeeeoooow.

The ice is melting.

The Atlantic Ocean surrendered their lithe, goggle eyed grace to the net, the gaff, the ice packed hold. Trawlers gathered around the jetty like remora around a welcoming shark, unloaded their cargo. Trays of dead and dying fish surged along the rollers, a mechanical death rattle to agonised gills fighting for water in the cold, arid air.

Weeeooooooow, weeeeoooow.

They are so beautiful, these fish. Mackerel glisten, shimmer in a hundred shades of green and gold between gloss black stripes. Herring pour from tray to tray, a priceless cascade of silver, tainted gut red, some crushed by the weight of tons of their companions in the bowels of the ship. The majestic cod flicks its huge head feebly, in death its silvery sheen and snow white belly will bland to grey.

‘Is this your van, sir?’ Menacing tone, a torch deliberately shone in my eyes.

            ‘Yes, officer.’

The ice is melting.

            ‘Going somewhere nice are we, sir, at three o’clock in the morning?’

            ‘Billingsgate.’

            If the ice melts too fast, these exquisitely streamlined creatures will not be fresh. They’ll be rejected by fishmongers, restaurateurs and go for cat food; all that beauty and death for the delectation of the city’s pampered moggies.

            ‘So your van is full of fish fingers, is it?’

            ‘Just fresh fish.’

            ‘Yeah right! Have you got sole, or are you floundering?’ He’s a joker, this cop.

            The ice is melting.

            ‘Would you like to take a look, officer?’

            I open the back of the van. Semi-frozen water slops onto the policeman’s feet as he stands too close to the rubber seal when it sucks free of the door. He steps back, swears. The second policeman shines a torch in. A thousand golden, alien eyes glint, a million perfect scales glimmer.

            Striped Mackerel, they have clouds named after them, the mackerel sky you see at the end of a long, clear day. The humble herring, destined for kippers, rollmops and fertiliser, swirl in the water like smoke, the seals and whales make no impression on their numbers. Codfish were the kings of the northern oceans, once.

            ‘Just fucking fish,’ says the cop with cold, wet feet.

‘Yes, officer. Just fish.’

            The other cop likes fish. He gets three glossy mackerel, wrapped in yesterday’s Express.  I get on to Billingsgate. The cats will go hungry tonight.

                                                                               *

Red Worms are Beneficial

When I opened the parcel that came in the post today, I was shocked to find that it was full of snails. I didn’t order snails, being British I don’t eat snails, unlike those perfidious French. Besides my garden is full of damned snails, they’re eating my dahlias, my potatoes and have already devoured most of my strawberry plants. I put down slug pellets which normally work for snails too, but the bloody things keep coming back. I certainly don’t require any more!

I shall complain to Thompson and Morgan. They’re a reputable garden supplier, who don’t usually get my orders wrong and I definitely didn’t order snails. I ordered worms. To be precise I ordered the little red worms which you find in compost bins, because the only wildlife in my compost bin are rats. Red worms are beneficial to the process of composting, rats are not beneficial to anything. My wife is scared of rats, which is plainly ridiculous, but they don’t belong in the compost bin.

My wife says the rats like the compost bin because I put the wrong things into it. I told her she was talking rubbish. I put all the garden waste through my shredder, mixed with shredded paper from the old books on my wife’s bedside cabinet which I know for a fact she’s never read. I layer this in the bin with all the kitchen waste, cabbage stalks, fish bones, potato peelings, even my wife’s pathetic attempt at chicken curry goes in. Nothing inorganic, it will all rot down and the little red worms will help, they’re a sign of healthy compost.

We ate roast beef for dinner, or I ate roast beef, my wife wasn’t hungry. I do wonder about her, she’s begun to exhibit some peculiar behavior recently. For example since the surplus snails were delivered earlier today, she’s been crooning over them and feeding them with scraps trimmed from the roast beef. Honestly! Snails are vegetarian which is why they have eaten my dahlias. My wife hates dahlias, she likes forget-me-nots which is totally ridiculous, forget-me-nots are weeds. I failed to remember our stupid anniversary last week and so I offered to order her some flowers, but she refused, saying forget-me-nots were out of season.

Well I’ve had my after-dinner rest in front of the football. I need to fetch my laptop and send a sharply worded email to Thompson and Morgan about my worms and those damned snails. Where are they… and why can’t I move my arms…? Or my legs…? Ooh, I feel quite ill.. my wife is looking at me very strangely.

What the hell are you doing you stupid woman? Why are you putting the snails on my hands? They’re crawling up my arms, inside my shirt… ahhhh that hurts that hurts… aaaghhhhh…. Help me!

The Grey Lady

 We met the grey lady when we were on holiday, camping in Northern Spain. The holiday was partly to help my son, who was studying GCSE Spanish so myself, husband and 14 year old had headed in our VW camper van for Spanish beaches.

We made it as far as Sitges, a small town on the Costa Dorada. Our campsite wasn’t actually on the beach, but about a mile away, across a main road and two open, barren wastes.  On the campsite our nearest neighbours were a colony of tiny brown ants.  They were hugely industrious, moving in untidy but determined lines gathering food and returning it to the nest. Others would appear with tiny stones held high, which were also transported towards the nest.

We fed the ants with crumbs from our breakfast table. They were particularly keen on the brioche which we’d bought in a boulangerie near Carcassonne on our way down through France.  They also liked the plum jam which was spilled by mistake, they couldn't transport the jam so had to eat it in situ. Never were small brown ants so well fed.

The morning was getting very hot, as this was Spain in August the heat wasn’t unexpected. Our pitch was becoming unbearable, despite the sparse olive trees that we were theoretically sheltering beneath, so we headed for the beach.

We carefully took our lives in our hands and crossed the main road, heat shimmering from the tarmac, and walked across an open area of uneven ground with concrete bases of some long demolished structures. Across this bare area was a fenced off private garden with shady shrubs and trees.  Alongside this was a well-worn path, which we followed.  It felt like the right direction.

The open space closed in until the path was slightly shaded by the private garden to our left and a ramshackle fence of chain-link strung between concrete posts. The edges of the path had low growing weeds, many dried out and on the fence side the mesh was inerwoven with brown, brittle weedy stems, shrivelled leaves and thistles. The open area beyond was equally brown.

This deserted trail was hot and frustrating, the green oasis to our left was out of bounds and we had no idea how far it was to the sea. There was nobody else on the trail, until it curved slightly and there she was, strolling along ahead of us; the grey lady.

Perhaps lady is a slight misnomer, but she was certainly female.  She possessed a pair of long, tanned legs and once we were slightly closer we could see her huge brown eyes  with lashes that  any supermodel could only dream of.  She was dressed in a thick, grey, fluffy outfit which might have seemed totally unsuitable for this hot and arid climate, if it wasn’t for the fact that she was an ostrich.

I wasn’t very familiar with the native wildlife of Northern Spain.  I had been bitten by mosquitos. We’d all seen swifts shooting through the hot air, shrieking with abandon. There were plenty of sparrows around and of course our own little brown ants. However I was fairly certain that Spain was in Europe and that the ostrich was a bird native to Africa and Arabia, not Sitges.

We followed her cautiously along the stony trail. I knew she was a hen ostrich because the males flaunt bright, white and black plumage, females are calmer and less vain; however she was still very large, for a bird. We kept our distance behind her; I seemed to remember stories of humans being disembowelled by a kick from an ostrich. For about a hundred yards she sauntered along, sometimes glancing coyly back at us, sometimes pausing to pick up an unseen morsel from the weed and stone-strewn ground, then the path began to open out.

There in the middle distance was the blue of the sea. And between us and the sea, on another open area in a similar state of disrepair, was a huge, azure tent. Not a tent like the squat, ungainly frame tents that shared our camp-site, this was a thing of joy and beauty. It was adorned with gold trim and huge tassels. At four corners were little gold capped minarets and the azure and gold striped central structure soared skywards, many tall poles, strong ropes and taut cables taking the strain.

The circus tent explained the ostrich. As we crossed the circus site we also saw camels and ponies, tethered to tall stakes from which were suspended nets full of hay.  We watched the camels and ponies munching the hay, until a man appeared from behind the circus tent.  I turned to point out the grey lady to him, but she had vanished.  I don’t speak Spanish but tried to mime ostrich, with one arm above my head, fingers simulating a beak. He wasn’t impressed.

We went on to the beach. No grey lady there, not even very many people. The sand was gritty, litter strewn and not very welcoming. We paddled, then several unidentifiable, brown things appeared, floating around our feet. They didn’t seem to be native fauna so we stopped paddling. We bought bottled water from a small kiosk and decided to return to the campsite. At least we could take a cool shower there. 

We wandered back through the circus site, which was still largely deserted. There was no sign of the grey lady there, or on the weed strewn path, or on the barren area by the main road. Back at the campsite we cooled down with showers and iced drinks from the tiny icebox in our van. 

We didn’t have the energy to return to see the circus. The heat inside the big top would have been unbearable, even if it offered the possibility of seeing our grey lady. We spent the rest of the day watching the ants. After one more night at Sitges, we headed for Barcelona. We never saw her again.