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.

 

                                                            *

Bush Meat by Mandy Sutter

 I really enjoyed this, beautiful storytelling.  FIVE STARS !

Bush Meat
by 

Mandy Sutter (Goodreads Author)

Sue's review

Sarah goes to Nigeria as a young child when her father, who works in petro-chemicals, is posted there. Sarah is intrigued by this different place and its different people, while her mother is afraid of not fitting in with the local ex-pat community. Sarah's father is distant, except when his daughter gets too close to the Nigerian 'servants'.

Later the family return to the UK and while their lives go on, this early experience continues to affect Sarah.

Told in a sequence of short stories, each complete as itself, the beautiful writing show this family's lives moving on in a normal, yet extraordinarily engaging way.

I really like this unusual book and, having lived a partially ex-pat childhood, I can empathise with the feelings of the characters and many of their circumstances.

Good Friday #Tennison 3 by Lynda La Plante - book review

 

Good Friday

Good Friday (Tennison, #3)
by 

Lynda La Plante

Sue's review

May 16, 2023  ·  edit

liked it

bookshelves: thrillers, mystery, novels

Half way through this - so far so mediocre. The plot is unfolding, the main character Jane Tennison is building but it's all a bit slow. Too much mundane detail, I'm sure this is to obscure the details which are relevant to the storyline but it's becoming tedious - no actually it became tedious before I was quarter of the way through. I shall keep going because it will get faster, it has to!

Okay I finished it, the finale was exciting and gripping. No spoilers.

However I do stand by what I said when I was half way through. Apart from the explosion at a tube station which was over in a flash, with not a huge amount of description, there was a level blandness with mundane description slowing the narrative down. I didn't need to be taken through the details of how to make spaghetti Bolognese! I could see that this was part of the author character building and distracting the reader with misleading information. But the fact that I could see it happening was a but off-putting. Shouldn't a write of the stature of Lynda La Plante disguise their technique a bit better?

I do admire her scripts and I know this is not the first of her Jane Tennison prequal books. I will read the others, hoping they will have more narrative action and less about ball gowns.

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.

                                                            *                                          

What Do You Know?

 What Do You Know?                     By Susan Gilbert

Lanky Larry crawled up a blade of green grass for the first time and into the sunshine, it was dazzling and he knew he must leap into the air, flapping the strange things that had just sprouted from his back. They were called wings but Lanky Larry didn’t know that. He didn’t know much as he had a very small brain and anyway had spent all his life living underground eating grass roots.

Of course Lanky Larry was a crane fly, some people call them Daddy Long Legs, but Lanky Larry didn’t know that either. He no longer thought about grass roots. Now he could fly he knew just two things, one was that flying seemed tricky, he kept bumping into things.  The other thing Lanky Larry knew was that he absolutely had to meet Lanky Lucy, or Lanky Linda or even, if he was lucky, Lanky Leonora.

Most people know at least two things about crane flies, one is that they bump into everything – lights, windows, people, all the time. The other is that they can live very happily blundering into stuff, even if they have lost a leg, or two, or even three. What most people don’t know about crane flies is that they are all called Lanky.

Another thing Lanky Larry probably needed to know, but didn’t know because he had an extremely small brain, was how to recognise the enemy.

Ruby Robin was the enemy, and as Larry bashed into the branch of the apple tree where Ruby Robin had just landed, Ruby knew Lanky Larry would be tasty and she grabbed his middle-left leg. Larry still only knew that he had to meet Lucy, or Linda or even Leonora, so he kept flying but he didn’t get far because Ruby Robin was sitting on the branch holding onto his middle-left leg.

Something that Ruby Robin didn’t know was that Tabitha Tabby Cat was lurking on another branch, just above her.  Tabitha knew that Ruby Robin would be tasty, she pounced but she missed and fell to the grass as Ruby Robin shot off like a rocket, towing Lanky Larry with her.

Lanky Larry was still flapping his wings, trying to fly and he was still only thinking about Lucy, or Linda or even Leonora. Ruby Robin landed on a smaller twig, higher up in the apple tree, preparing to eat Larry. But at that precise moment, Lanky Larry’s beady eyes spotted Lanky Leonora on the buddleia bush.

He knew it was Lanky Leonora, she was supping nectar so delicately, and she was looking at him with her beautiful beady eyes. Lanky Larry’s wings put in an extra burst of effort to get to her, and that was when his leg fell off.

St Leonards Writers Survives Lockdown and Bears Fruit.

Our small writer's group has, after a hiatus in the Spring, sprung up again. Even before lockdown began a few members were becoming anxious and avoiding meetings. Then 26th March and lockdown, for a few weeks none of us knew what to do. Luckily an email conversation began, eventually leading to an agreement that at least some of us wanted to have a go at Zoom meetings, which we began in May. 

A major fruit of lockdown is our new anthology, 'Forty Stories High'. Most members had submitted before our self-imposed deadline in February, and April-May was spent collating and proofreading the stories and poetry.  Editorial rigour may have been a bit lacking, the group not meeting up meant that in the end the production of the book was down to just two members, David and me, we felt we needed to just get on with it, for everybody else's sake. I proofread, he did everything else. Proofreading is not the same as editing.

So the now book exists, it looks great and contains a lot of excellent stuff.  It was published in October and though it's not completely perfect, I'm pretty pleased. It's the first time any of my stories and poetry have appeared in print. £7.99, please contact me or  http://stleonardswriters.com/ for a copy. We're also now on Facebook, please like us and message us.  

Despite a few hiccups, meeting via Zoom seems to be working for most of us. A few members haven't yet been able to join us on Zoom, but nine or ten have managed at least one meeting and most of these have become regulars. We have had up to eight per meeting which is more than we often had when meeting in person at St Ethelburga's Church, especially in the winter!  We did manage one social gathering, socially distanced of course, during the summer; a group picnic was enjoyed by members and partners the in the gardens by West St Leonards beach. 

http://stleonardswriters.com/  

Standing in Another Man's Grave by Ian Rankin - book review

 Standing in Another Man's Grave

by 

Ian Rankin (Goodreads Author)

Sue Gilbert's review

Oct 08, 2020  ·  edit

it was amazing

bookshelves: favourite-authors, might-read-again, mystery, whodunnit

A brilliantly told story. Tense, engrossing and unputdownable, is that a word? Spellcheck seems to think so. Anyway I finished all 422 pages in 52 hours while still getting on with a lot of other stuff, and having a few hours sleep.
So much I could say about this 18th incarnation of Rebus, but I won't do spoilers.
I will just say Rebus is on the road, not much of the story takes place in Edinburgh. The litany of the roads travelled and the places visited may be music to the ears of anyone who feels that a part of their past is in Scotland. Almost lyrical descriptions in places, plus some very believable, tense and humorous dialogue between Rebus and other investigators.
So yes, I enjoyed this one! Thank you Mr Rankin.

Resurrection Men by Ian Rankin - Rebus #13 - book review

 I really enjoyed this book. I very seldom give a book five stars but it was about time Ian Rankin had five. Resurrection Men fits the bill because I never thought I could describe a Rebus novel as funny, but this one is, at least in places. It's mainly down to awkward situations and excellent dialogue which is concise and full of humour, black and otherwise.

Convoluted plotting is necessary to get to the conclusion and along the way are plenty of dubious characters - most of them policemen - and a lot of agonising for Rebus and Siobhan Clarke. People get killed, most of them are deserving though not all. Not every plotline is filled with humour, after all this is a Rebus novel.

Basically, the High Hedyins are using John Rebus, an awkward and bloody annoying cop, in a sting operation to get some awkward and bloody bent cops. Inevitably it goes pear shaped. Are Big Ger Cafferty and his sidekick, the Weasel, involved? What do you think?

And if you don't know what I'm talking about, read a John Rebus book. I can recommend most of them,  although this may not be the best one for beginners. It's hard to come by well written detective fiction and I wasn't really a fan until I began reading Ian Rankin's work, which is usually extremely well written. This is an author who doesn't just know exactly what each word means, he also knows exactly how to use it for maximum effect.

https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/3515717586?fbclid=IwAR3kgBFz5zQ6oQ6wH9_uc7AI7aM-u4atPu2zKZ1jVUzvzn21vLh7jtPXovI

Strip Jack by Ian Rankin

Not initially a 'whodunnit,' more a 'what has he actually done?' Spoiler - it's a he! Not much of a spoiler though. Flows well, plenty of interesting characters. Strip Jack's well enough written, as expected from Ian Rankin, not my favourite though.
I'm trying to read the Rebus novels in order - a lockdown project - but have already slipped, I read book 5 before starting book 1; will next have to read book 7 as I don't yet have a copy of book 6. Oh well, as Peter Green would say...
Strip Jack is a lot less gory than other Rebus novels I've read. I read a few of the later ones, in a random order several years ago and always remembered the atmosphere and gruesome nature of the stories. This book also lacks some of the atmosphere associated with the series, though scenes set in a tiny B&B and in a detention unit for the criminally insane are engrossingly detailed.
There are just one or two minor glitches in places, repetition of things we already know and, in cinematic terms, a couple of continuity slips. Maybe it was rushed to publication just a week too soon! Note to self - must remember to take off my editing/proofreading hat when trying to enjoy novels which have already been published, and years ago at that!

Lockdown Diary of Theresa Smith - Part 2

Lockdown Diary of Theresa Smith, Clerical Officer (logistics).

Day 23   -    DC phoned 999 but they said theft of toilet paper from our shed wasn't an emergency.  So I took my phone and called that other number and insisted they must investigate the burglary.  I was called a hoarder and accused of wasting police time! I mean!  Really!!  We pay our taxes and I've always supported the police.  And to cap it all the sodding mould has spread to the wall by the stairs and we're not allowed to go to B and Q for anti-mould spray and anyway Hilary over the back says they're closed.  At least Boris is out of hospital.  Maybe he can sort the police out.

Day 27   -   Clapping for the NHS on our doorstep is a good thing, we did that last night. Heard the neighbour banging pots or something but we couldn't see him because HE STILL HASN'T CUT THE SODDING HEDGE!  It's not as if he's got anything else to do, he was laid off a month ago. DC called him a name, but quite quietly so I don't think he'll have heard it over all his banging...

Day 29  -  I have heard that people aren't just clapping for the NHS but for all essential services. And that includes supermarket workers, so I may not bother next week. Our sodding Tesco delivery was 3 days late and had NO toilet paper, no cake flour and no oranges, garlic granules or custard powder. I can't remember what I was going to bake with that lot, so maybe it doesn't matter, apart from the toilet paper. We're down to 37 rolls, I've hidden some of them in the laundry basket, underneath some towels and the rest in the tumble dryer, that should fool the sodding burglars! I now have to put up the rotary thing in the garden to dry the washing, but at least the weather is warmer than when all this started.

Day 30  -  I'm so embarrassed! DC has just told me what sodding means... I thought it meant muddy, or messy. I suppose it does in a way. Oh dear. 

Lockdown Diary of Theresa Smith - Part One

Lockdown Diary of Theresa Smith, Clerical Officer (logistics).


Day one – The freezer is full so we won’t starve and there are 40 packs of toilet rolls in the shed. We're prepared for all emergencies. I’ve got lots of stuff planned so we won’t get bored either. Old fashioned spring-cleaning for starters. This won’t be too bad, we get along tolerably well and DC can still make me laugh. He has ordered some Scotch Beef to be delivered, from Scotland. He says it won’t come for a fortnight so we’ll have space in the freezer by then. Not sure if this is hygienic.


Day two – Boris has announced that this will go on until after Easter, which is only 3 weeks so no problem. It’s not as if either of us are missing work.  DC’s freelance and mainly can work from home. I was thinking of going part time and now the office has closed entirely. Nobody needs our filing cabinet and telephone sanitising services apparently, which seems ridiculous at a time like this. But maybe this is a good test for full retirement. Cleaned all the windows.


Day four – Decided not to write every day. Shampooed all the carpets. Had to leave all the windows open to let them dry, luckily it's been sunny, although the wind is cold. DC said why not do one room a day rather than all of them at once, but having finally got the machine to work I decided to get it over with. Machine very noisy, I think I’ve gone a bit deaf. Still it’s done now. Son in London phoned, couldn’t hear a word. DC spoke to him.



Day 5 – Boris has announced that social distancing should be two metres not the previous four feet, which is puzzling. DC says why can’t they at least stick to using the same units of measurement and shouldn’t it all be in feet, since Brexit.  Still, we have other problems. The neighbour's hedge is starting to block the light in our front window, I had to sit in the dining room to read my paper.  Tesco delivery, we’ve had a regular Tuesday slot for the past two years, but it’s Wednesday today, I call that a disgrace! At least the order’s mostly right but no toilet paper, no spuds, and instead of broccoli they’ve given us turnips! Never cooked turnips in my life, maybe try them tomorrow. Carpets still a bit wet in places.


Day 7 – Trump says it’s all under control in the States although the news says 1,000 cases just in New York. At least Boris is distancing with his news conferences. The journalists are spaced out now and Nadine Doris has caught it, she’s nowhere to be seen. Wonder if she infected anyone. We tried the turnips, I boiled them and boiled them but they were just sour and fibrous, a bit like eating tree roots. Think my hearing‘s more or less come back, but the house is still a bit damp.


Day 9 – DC decided to make the heating more efficient by bleeding all the radiators.  This black gunge sprayed out and went everywhere including into DC’s face.  I had to laugh but now I need to clean the living room carpet again, and the window and the wall.  Son in London phoned, his place of work has closed down, at least he can stop going on the crowded tube, breathing in all those viruses.


Day 12 – Tesco delivery. Only half of the right things came, still no toilet paper or potatoes. Also, instead of 4 tins of baked beans they sent one tin of bortolli beans, no idea what those are, and they sent more bloody turnips! I can’t get through to complain. Our daily walk takes us past some horses in a field, I might see if they like turnips. DC is trying his hand at some cooking, maybe he can do something with those beans. There’s some mould in the corner of our bedroom. Tried it with bleach and now the carpet’s stained. Bother!


Day 13 – Boris has caught it! If he dies, who takes over? Gove sounds the most sensible. I hope it’s not that Cummings, he looks so weasley and he wants to sacrifice the pensioners.  Have finished all the spring cleaning now, even cleaned the oven, not very well but will have to do. Not sure what to do next.  DC has taken over the cooking since his work has dried up and it’s too cold to start on the garden.  We had mashed turnips with sausages, not too bad with enough ketchup, but will need more of that soon, wonder what Tesco will send instead.


Day 19 – The Scotch Beef may arrive today. DC says he can track it online. Apparently our driver is called Nikolai and he has 397 deliveries before he gets to us. I know it’s a long way from Scotland to the South Coast, but that’s going to take him until next week! I wonder where he sleeps.

Day 22 – Disaster! The shed was broken into while we were out on our walk, DC said the buggers must have been lurking behind next door’s hedge waiting for us to go out. DC’s asked next door before to cut his hedge but he's not bothered.  The buggers left the Flymo, and son’s mountain bike, but they took ALL OUR TOILET ROLLS!  Now we’ve only got the 15 packs stored under son’s bed. 

No! I Don't Want to Join a Bookclub by Virginia Ironside - Book review

 

Sue Gilbert's review on Goodreads 

Sep 03, 2019 

liked it

I picked this up because I've always quite admired Virginia Ironside as a right-on journalist and agony aunt. The story is okay for what it is, but I was hoping for something a bit stronger or at least a little funnier, from this writer.

Plenty of it is good. Marie Sharp is defiant of the stereotypes and expectations of a woman of a certain age, i.e. sixty. She lists them with contempt and vows to definitely grow old disgracefully. She will remain single but will not become a little old lady. She will wear purple, demand attention and express her opinion at every juncture.

She will also dote on her grandson and give up sex.

Her description of the illness and death of a close friend is unflinching and moving, I felt for all of them. This was for me the most powerful part of the story, her friendship slowly bleeding away.

Where the story fell down was the always implied idea that she will not actually remain single and she will not give up sex. So at the end we come back to the ordinary story of a woman who can't be complete without a man, yet again. I was so hoping for a more interesting ending, but it became just another romance. I was afraid it would.

I wrote a Ghost Story

The Friday the 13th Garden

Behind a tall, old brick wall there was once an exclusive, private garden, with fruit trees and curved flower-beds, an oval fish pond and a crowd of climbing roses on a wide pergola. It was also full of self-seeded buddleia, infested with nettles and partly covered with ivy, ragwort and other uninvited guests. One other fact that you need to know is, this overblown private garden was in Chelsea. To have a private garden in Chelsea, you need to be posh, or rich or preferably both.

Sylvie was neither posh nor rich, but she was a gymnast and proud of it. This particular day, Friday the thirteenth of May, after a row with her now very much ex-boyfriend Simon, in the crowded pub known locally as ‘The Plastic Meat,’ due to the display of fake foods beside the serving hatch, Sylvie found herself walking alone, beside a high brick wall. She was still angry and felt lightheaded and seething with adrenalin after the fight. A black cat ran across her path and shot up and over the wall. The wall was six feet high, Sylvie was five foot four, but she followed the cat.

She’d walked past that wall often enough, and never felt the urge to climb it before. It was on her way home from college and she assumed, like everyone else, that it backed onto the row of garages which were clearly visible from the next street. Yet somehow that Friday evening the sight of the agile cat almost thinking itself up the wall triggered an unfamiliar instinct in her. Once on the top of the wall, a position that surprised her for a moment, Sylvie looked back at the street, which seemed duller and further away than quite made sense.

When she turned and looked into the garden, she found a large apple tree was reassuringly close, with an adjacent branch which she leapt onto, then she saw the cat on the ground, looking up at her.  Although it was getting dark, she could see the cat quite clearly, as if the air in the garden was brighter than the street outside. The cat made an inviting sound, a sort of loud thrum, then turned and walked off into the weeds, its tail a dark question-mark above the greyish grass heads.

Dropping to the ground, Sylvie felt soft, mossy turf beneath her feet. She began to follow the cat; its tail was still visible in the undergrowth. She found the stems of grasses and ragwort parted before her, they were very tall, so were the nettles yet brushing against them didn’t harm her hands or face

She found she was approaching a huge wooden structure that loomed skyward, with the vast stems of climbing rose that enveloped its posts swaying in the evening air far above her head. The scented roses, white and full, seemed to dot the sky like stars.

Then a deep, charmingly melodious voice called out her name.

‘Sylvie! Why hello, Sylvie, thank-you for gracing us with your pretty presence.’

Sylvie arched her back, she felt the hairs on her neck stand up, then those on her back and her tail. The entire sensation was so surprising that she ignored the voice. A hiss escaped from between her pointed teeth as she worked mentally through her body; eyes, nose, ears, whiskers, paws, tail…

Whiskers? Paws? Tail?! She yowled in alarm.

‘Don’t trouble yourself, dear’, the voice said calmly, then there was something under her belly and she was lifted up three times her height and placed onto a huge, white cushion.

‘…you’ll find it a little startling to begin with,’ the voice continued, ‘but you will become accustomed to your new state. You may even come to prefer it, others have done so.’  A large, pale face was smiling down at her, hugely sparkling eyes and mouth with a smear of dark, strange smelling lipstick.  

Then the black cat appeared on the cushion beside her, seeming much bigger than before and he rubbed his cheek against hers.

‘Judas! You clever boy, thank you so much for finding Sylvie for me. She is delightful, look at her velvet coat and amber eyes. She could almost be your sister if it wasn’t for those white claws.’

 Startled, Sylvie looked down at her front paws, they were black and soft, with curved, pale claws which were clinging to the cushion for all they were worth.

‘Sylvie dear, I know this seems a little strange,’ a hand was stroking her back, it was somehow soothing. ‘Judas brings me new friends every Friday the thirteenth, as I can’t leave my garden.’

Sylvie opened her mouth to ask a question, any question, there were so many buzzing around inside her mind, but all that came out was an anguished, ‘Mmrrrooooww..?

‘You shall be my newest friend,’ said the voice, ‘allow me to introduce us all.  Judas you have met, he has been here the longest. Over there in the camellia bush are Dante and Gabriel, tabby brothers, such naughty boys, they constantly squabble. By the pond you will find grey Derek who tries quite obsessively and yet fails to catch the goldfish and my dear Caroline nests in the overgrown ivy, I so wish she would come and play with me as she once did. Her delightful white fur has become knotted with roots and spiders’ webs. There are so many others, I seem to forget all their names.

However, I am Gwennifer Drew-Jones, my father was Viscount Hubert of Llanmaes and I have resided at number 2, Cadogan Close all my life, and all of my death. When my nephew inherited the title, he had me smothered and buried underneath this lovely rose, since I was still an embarrass-ment. Having a witch in the family, even a very old one, is apparently most improper, so he buried me like an animal.’

Sylvie felt her fur starting to prickle again, and then there was more stroking.

‘Please be calm, Sylvie dear,’ Gwennifer said, ‘I am by no means the first spirit you have met this delightful evening.’ The black cat called Judas licked the giant cheek, then turned to Sylvie and purred a confirmation. ‘There, you see, Judas was here before me. He was my kitten when I was quite a child myself. He was buried by the wall, following a disagreement with a hansom cab. Being a young cat, he can easily surmount the wall and go into the street to look for likely passers-by. I myself cannot go beyond the garden, since I am permanently an old woman.’

Sylvie’s fur had settled beneath the soothing of the giant woman’s hand, but it felt disarrayed, without thinking she found herself twisting her head around and licking her shoulder, combing the disobedient hair flat with her rough tongue. It was a satisfying sensation and she felt a throbbing purr begin inside her chest.

‘There, there, Sylvie,’ Gwennifer said, ‘You could return to being a young woman, if you choose, but you must leave my garden to do so. There are some who choose to go. There was my lovely Geoffrey, he was a beautiful ginger fellow and his companion was lovely Soo-Ling, they came here together. Dear Geoffrey went away and even Soo-Ling can’t tell where he is now, can you dear?’

Sylvie became aware of the slim Siamese cat who sat on the other side of Gwennifer’s vast, tweedy, tree-trunk legs. The Siamese put its head on one side and stared intently at Sylvie. She knew that for a cat, a straight stare was usually a challenge of some sort, but this cat’s expression held something entirely different.

Words formed in Sylvie’s mind… ‘Geoffrey had the right idea. If you stay too long, the instincts take over, though your mind remains human. You’ll find you can’t leave, you’re without solid food, or love, or sex. Your body will starve, then you will just be here forever as her toy in this damned ghost garden. Go, while still you can.’

...if nobody speaks of remarkable things...

... is a 2002 novel by Jon Mcgregor.

I picked it up because I'd heard his name and heard of his 2017 prizewinner, 'Reservoir 17'.  I'll read that next, just ordered a copy,

but back to ...remarkable things... 

“This is ecstatic writing..” said the TLS reviewer of this book and they are exactly right.

This is a Breughel painting of a story, set in a street in a Northern English university town. The writing seems straight from the mind in free flow, freefall even, it reads as uncensored, unedited, unaltered and I hope this is so. When the ideas, the words just pour from the mind and onto the page and keep coming and keep coming it is a kind of ecstasy. Most writers will then take it apart, edit, adjust, re-arrange into something more conventional, more deliberately structured. More ordinary. This book is extraordinary. It’s not perfect, it is remarkable. I will read it again once I’ve got my breath back.

That's how I feel about the quality of the writing, as a writer myself. I'd like to think non-writers can enjoy the book just as much, it isn't a difficult book. I'm sure I would have loved it 30 years ago before I considered myself a writer. It's a rolling wave of a book, carrying you along for almost it's whole length with the anticipation, then breaking suddenly and shockingly, even though you were expecting a shock, before dumping you on the beach, feeling forlorn that the ride is over.

The storyline holds so many characters, few with names, but their lives on a street during one summer day are so empathetically detailed that you feel you know them all: 

The little boy with a red scooter who travels joyfully and up and down the pavement of the short street. The graduate student slowly and methodically packing his somewhat bizarre collection of possessions before moving to another student house. The married woman whose resident in-laws have gone out for the day and who goes to bed with her husband for a short joyful interlude  while their children play cricket in the street. The mischievous twins who spy on a neighbour doing his exercises in the nude... There are students, young couples, families, old couples... all play a role in the narrative. 

If I mentioned all the characters I would write another book. One girl student's narrative weaves through the others in first person and leaves the short, one day timeline, although all the observations are not hers. This was the one part of the book which I found slightly less satisfactory, her story was perfectly good, I just found it distracted from the ride. However it tied in with the ending. 

I won't say more, no spoilers. I love this book! Do read it if you haven't.