Dodging the rain and the plague of students Louise slips into the café after her stint with the two brothers. Chelsee gives her a slight, conspiratorial smile as she pours Louise’s tea but the place is packed and her usual table occupied by a young man hiding behind the Guardian. She sits down, murmuring an apology.
Louise sees no sign of the anxious, put-upon mother or the volatile brother so she relaxes and nods again to the skinny girl now clearing tables. “You’re busy today?”
“Students,” she replies, looking almost friendly. “Term starts tomorrow.” Both girls look curiously at the Guardian man who gradually seems to realise he is under scrutiny. Chelsee turns away but is still in earshot when he grins at Louise. “Hal Thompson, lecturer, Physics.”
Louise blushes under his admiring eyes but answers in the same vein. “Louise Jones, aromatherapy, massage, holistic care.”
“Aha,” he looks pleased. “You’re not a local either, in spite of the Jones? I thought I was the only foreigner in the entire town.”
After a quiet, cautious day, finding her way with Malcolm and George, aware of a knife-edge between the brothers, it is astonishing to find someone cheerful in Greyling Bay, someone besides Gwen, that is. She is aware of Chelsee’s covert stare but Hal’s warmth and his unashamed interest in her overwhelms her, so she manages to ignore the other girl’s down-turned mouth and unsmiling shrug of farewell.
Hal walks her home and talks her into a dinner date for the next night. This is what normal people do, she realises. Dare I?
Gwen’s robust laugh echoes in her head: Go on with you, girl. Grasp at life with both hands, start living.
Suddenly, shockingly, a woman’s voice says Andrew’s name out loud. Last night’s extravaganza in Cardiff was broadcast live though Louise’s television stayed firmly off, but here he is again on the local telly: so trustworthy, so lovable, so charismatic, charming the interviewer who flutters her eyelashes. Louise listens, nausea rising.
“I’ll tell you a secret,” he confides, and where the reporter hears melting honey in his voice, Louise hears only danger and familiar shards of ice. “ I’m looking for a girl called Serafina and something tells me she’s out there watching us.” He lifts that handsome head and those sincere red-brown eyes glow as he gazes straight at her. “Serafina,” he smiles. “Come back to me, darling. You know you want to.”
Nicola Slade
Showing posts with label Malcolm. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Malcolm. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Secrets and Burdens
“You want another job, Louise?” Gwen takes silence for assent. “Two brothers,” she explains. “Malcolm writes text books or something at home; George is helpless, spastic they used to call it. Anyway there’s two days when he doesn’t go to the day centre.”
Louise nods absently, letting the healing power flow into Gwen’s shoulder as she relives yesterday’s nightmare in the café; dreamy Chelsee, so absorbed in the scarlet flow, obediently standing still while pandemonium reigns.
I’ve been almost happy, Louise screams inwardly now, I won’t get involved. But it was too late, the message, the entreaty, in those pale eyes, the colour of seawater on a wet day, compelled her, so later that evening she’d slipped in to see Chelsee in hospital.
Neither spoke a word. Chelsee trembled, staring, at her visitor. Louise, hating Chelsee, hating herself, hating most of all what was unknowingly asked of her, reached out reluctant questing fingers to the bandaged arm. It happened at once – sometimes there was nothing but today the warmth flowed out of her and into the damaged girl. She took Chelsee’s hands in her own and felt great surges of power drain from her, like nothing she had ever experienced before, leaching from her till she almost fainted.
Chelsee relaxed, eyes half-closed, her breathing regular but Louise knew the girl was greedily sucking the strength from her. What was different this time? Why so needy? Louise shook off her weakness and centred herself until intuition found what she sought.
Chelsee’s eyes snapped open and Louise stared down at the bony body with its slight tell-tale mound just visible under the blue bedspread.
Her intuition was never wrong.
“So you’ll go then?” Gwen speaks sharply, twisting under the competent hands so Louise has to break off and stare blankly. “To see Malcolm,” Gwen sounds exasperated. “Get a grip, girl. I told him you’d call in today on your way home.”
“Fine.” Louise writes down the address, conscious all the while of the shrewd blue gaze..
Gwen stops bristling and pats her hand. “I saw him too, you know; on the News, night before last,” She twinkles as she scores a hit. “I knew you’d be at your wits’ end. Oh yes, booked to work his magic on the Welsh in the Millennium Stadium, God help us all.”
Louise had almost forgotten about him, with all this on her plate, but she shivers now. No need to pretend with Gwen thank God.
“Clever idea though,” Gwen smiles. “Where better than Wales to hide a girl called Jones? Not Louise though, surely?”
“My middle name,” she says absently, then looks down into the wise, kind eyes. “Oh Gwen,” she whispers. “Something terrible has happened, but I really couldn’t help it.”
Nicola Slade
Louise nods absently, letting the healing power flow into Gwen’s shoulder as she relives yesterday’s nightmare in the café; dreamy Chelsee, so absorbed in the scarlet flow, obediently standing still while pandemonium reigns.
I’ve been almost happy, Louise screams inwardly now, I won’t get involved. But it was too late, the message, the entreaty, in those pale eyes, the colour of seawater on a wet day, compelled her, so later that evening she’d slipped in to see Chelsee in hospital.
Neither spoke a word. Chelsee trembled, staring, at her visitor. Louise, hating Chelsee, hating herself, hating most of all what was unknowingly asked of her, reached out reluctant questing fingers to the bandaged arm. It happened at once – sometimes there was nothing but today the warmth flowed out of her and into the damaged girl. She took Chelsee’s hands in her own and felt great surges of power drain from her, like nothing she had ever experienced before, leaching from her till she almost fainted.
Chelsee relaxed, eyes half-closed, her breathing regular but Louise knew the girl was greedily sucking the strength from her. What was different this time? Why so needy? Louise shook off her weakness and centred herself until intuition found what she sought.
Chelsee’s eyes snapped open and Louise stared down at the bony body with its slight tell-tale mound just visible under the blue bedspread.
Her intuition was never wrong.
“So you’ll go then?” Gwen speaks sharply, twisting under the competent hands so Louise has to break off and stare blankly. “To see Malcolm,” Gwen sounds exasperated. “Get a grip, girl. I told him you’d call in today on your way home.”
“Fine.” Louise writes down the address, conscious all the while of the shrewd blue gaze..
Gwen stops bristling and pats her hand. “I saw him too, you know; on the News, night before last,” She twinkles as she scores a hit. “I knew you’d be at your wits’ end. Oh yes, booked to work his magic on the Welsh in the Millennium Stadium, God help us all.”
Louise had almost forgotten about him, with all this on her plate, but she shivers now. No need to pretend with Gwen thank God.
“Clever idea though,” Gwen smiles. “Where better than Wales to hide a girl called Jones? Not Louise though, surely?”
“My middle name,” she says absently, then looks down into the wise, kind eyes. “Oh Gwen,” she whispers. “Something terrible has happened, but I really couldn’t help it.”
Nicola Slade
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Darius Bredwyn Is Loved
Following disturbing allegations about Douglas Bruton's working habits I no longer feel comfortable including his work in Greyling Bay, and so have deleted the four pieces which were attributed to him here.
For more information read this post on Vanessa Gebbie's blog, and this post on my main blog, How Publishing Really Works.
Apologies for any difficulties this might cause.
About The Contributors
For more information read this post on Vanessa Gebbie's blog, and this post on my main blog, How Publishing Really Works.
Apologies for any difficulties this might cause.
About The Contributors
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Dead Wood Greening
“They say you can see America.” The voice was old and cheerful, and down near Louise’s hip. Someone had parked the wheelchair so there was an excellent view of a rusty old iron shed. Automatically, Louise kicked off the brake and pushed the old lady slightly to the right.
“That’s better.” A nod of thanks and an appraising glance. “As I was saying: America. I reckon you’d need to lean sideways so Ireland didn’t block your view.”
Louise laughed, surprising herself, and peered, tilting her head to the left. “Nope,” she said. “Not today, anyhow.”
“What can you see, though?” The question was suddenly urgent. “There, where the sun’s breaking through? Don’t stop to think; tell me what you see?”
Oh dear. Louise shrugged and looked up and saw: Heavy charcoal clouds hemmed in flames with spires of opal, gold and rose, shooting heavenwards. “A celestial city!” The words burst out of her and she heard the sound of old, gnarly hands clapping drily together.
“Yes, you’re the one,” she nodded, gnomically. “Standing there like a lost soul; I knew you’d been sent.” She met Louise’s blank stare with a suddenly impish grin. “Don’t worry, dear, just let it happen. Still… better ask, I suppose. Needing a job, I take it?”
How did she know? Louise nodded. I could be a tourist.
“Used to looking after people, aren’t you?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Plenty of work round here, then. Living museum, Greyling Bay is, only most of us don’t realise we’re already dead.” She followed her witchy cackle with a nod towards the rock that overhung the bay, dominating the little town. “See up there? Black dots, high up? That’s George and Malcolm. Brothers sorely in need of a miracle, those two.” She held out a gloved hand. “You’ll take the job? Give my granddaughter a break? We’ll discuss it tomorrow.”
Louise walked thoughtfully back along the quay, drawn to the cheerful warmth of the café. Warmth, company—even if it was only the skinny, anxious girl behind the counter—and a cup of tea: that’s what I need now, she decided. That, and some time to consider the old lady’s offer. Smiling at the girl, Chelsee, Louise took her tea to the window where she had sat that first day.
Something different now, dead wood greening, cold bones warming, life doing what life does, in spite of you. ‘Cheerfulness breaking in’; a quote from something? Trying to ignore the old lady, Gwen Parry, and her parting thrust. “This whole town needs a miracle, dear.” Again that shrewd, appraising glance. “And you’d be the girl to know about miracles, wouldn’t you?”
Nicola Slade
“That’s better.” A nod of thanks and an appraising glance. “As I was saying: America. I reckon you’d need to lean sideways so Ireland didn’t block your view.”
Louise laughed, surprising herself, and peered, tilting her head to the left. “Nope,” she said. “Not today, anyhow.”
“What can you see, though?” The question was suddenly urgent. “There, where the sun’s breaking through? Don’t stop to think; tell me what you see?”
Oh dear. Louise shrugged and looked up and saw: Heavy charcoal clouds hemmed in flames with spires of opal, gold and rose, shooting heavenwards. “A celestial city!” The words burst out of her and she heard the sound of old, gnarly hands clapping drily together.
“Yes, you’re the one,” she nodded, gnomically. “Standing there like a lost soul; I knew you’d been sent.” She met Louise’s blank stare with a suddenly impish grin. “Don’t worry, dear, just let it happen. Still… better ask, I suppose. Needing a job, I take it?”
How did she know? Louise nodded. I could be a tourist.
“Used to looking after people, aren’t you?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Plenty of work round here, then. Living museum, Greyling Bay is, only most of us don’t realise we’re already dead.” She followed her witchy cackle with a nod towards the rock that overhung the bay, dominating the little town. “See up there? Black dots, high up? That’s George and Malcolm. Brothers sorely in need of a miracle, those two.” She held out a gloved hand. “You’ll take the job? Give my granddaughter a break? We’ll discuss it tomorrow.”
Louise walked thoughtfully back along the quay, drawn to the cheerful warmth of the café. Warmth, company—even if it was only the skinny, anxious girl behind the counter—and a cup of tea: that’s what I need now, she decided. That, and some time to consider the old lady’s offer. Smiling at the girl, Chelsee, Louise took her tea to the window where she had sat that first day.
Something different now, dead wood greening, cold bones warming, life doing what life does, in spite of you. ‘Cheerfulness breaking in’; a quote from something? Trying to ignore the old lady, Gwen Parry, and her parting thrust. “This whole town needs a miracle, dear.” Again that shrewd, appraising glance. “And you’d be the girl to know about miracles, wouldn’t you?”
Nicola Slade
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Alwyn
Find something ugly in the nets and you throw it back. That’s how it is in my world. Not in hers. She displayed her deformed catches in the museum and wrote about them endlessly.
We had just one thing in common: we trawled the depths.
The contents of this box are the last of her. The unpublished writings of a grave robber. I don’t believe in hanging onto the past.
As the flames snatch at the pages her last article, The Iron Age Castle, is published to the wind, together with umpteen letters from the hospital and a handwritten order of service with her name on it.
A Valentine’s card with a big red heart, signed with just a question mark. I don’t even remember sending that. Which proves my point. I used to argue with her: how can you say what people were doing two thousand years ago when we can’t even remember facts from our own lives?
Another layer of things from a much earlier time. A newspaper cutting: New findings at Bronze age burial mounds. Stacks of lecture notes bundled up with string. Exercise books: A history of Greyling Bay, parts one, two and three. What a bloody waste of paper. I told her that nobody would read it. Now they never will.
Photos of the twins’ first Christmas. I’ll keep those.
Another article: The Mesolithic Fisherman of Greyling Bay. It’s about how hard it was for the Stone Age settlers to fish. All of this from some pieces of flint.
Photographs of the wedding. Even in the best suit she could afford to buy me it’s still obvious that the posh totty had potted her bit of rough. Our black and white selves, smiling and innocent, are cremated as one.
Last is a letter, dated five years after we married. It’s not like her to have anything out of order. It’s on headed paper from the University, and although the writing looks like a woman’s it is signed Malcolm.
Find something ugly in the nets and you throw it back. That’s how it is in my world.
Allan Mayer
We had just one thing in common: we trawled the depths.
The contents of this box are the last of her. The unpublished writings of a grave robber. I don’t believe in hanging onto the past.
As the flames snatch at the pages her last article, The Iron Age Castle, is published to the wind, together with umpteen letters from the hospital and a handwritten order of service with her name on it.
A Valentine’s card with a big red heart, signed with just a question mark. I don’t even remember sending that. Which proves my point. I used to argue with her: how can you say what people were doing two thousand years ago when we can’t even remember facts from our own lives?
Another layer of things from a much earlier time. A newspaper cutting: New findings at Bronze age burial mounds. Stacks of lecture notes bundled up with string. Exercise books: A history of Greyling Bay, parts one, two and three. What a bloody waste of paper. I told her that nobody would read it. Now they never will.
Photos of the twins’ first Christmas. I’ll keep those.
Another article: The Mesolithic Fisherman of Greyling Bay. It’s about how hard it was for the Stone Age settlers to fish. All of this from some pieces of flint.
Photographs of the wedding. Even in the best suit she could afford to buy me it’s still obvious that the posh totty had potted her bit of rough. Our black and white selves, smiling and innocent, are cremated as one.
Last is a letter, dated five years after we married. It’s not like her to have anything out of order. It’s on headed paper from the University, and although the writing looks like a woman’s it is signed Malcolm.
Dear Cerys,The letter ignites.
I don’t know why you are avoiding me, I only want to see the twins and…
Find something ugly in the nets and you throw it back. That’s how it is in my world.
Allan Mayer
Saturday, January 10, 2009
The View From the Edge
From up on the Icarus Rock, the sea looks as smooth as a steel blade and almost indistinguishable from the sky. When I was a child I used to watch the fishing boats from up here as they returned to the harbour. Now only three remain.
Malcolm stands behind me. He’s a big man. When they downsized the university, he had to leave. He just didn’t fit anymore.
We walk together a lot. Well, Malcolm walks and I get pushed. I am playing my part in the ancient Greyling Bay tradition of “showing the cripple to the wind”.
There used to be a hospital here where people came to get better on fresh air. Only I will never get better. Nothing in me has ever moved properly, and it never will. They say I’m not wired up right. Even now I’m telling my arm to move. Nothing. When I do make things move they call it an involuntary movement.
Involuntary my arse.
“George,” Malcolm said to me this morning when he lifted me out of bed, “You know I love you, don’t you?” Of course I know that. I was there when Mum said, you promise to look after him until the day he dies, and he said yes. And then she closed her eyes.
I’m looking down now, at the rocks and the beach. I have never been this close to the edge. Beyond my tartan blanket my front wheels turn in the air, my harness holding me safely in my wheelchair. Malcolm buckled me in tightly this morning, like he always has. He has lifted me all my life without once dropping me. I can hear him mumbling away now, but the wind whips away his words as quickly as he can say them.
“Don’t worry son. I’ll come with you. We’ll be together. All of us. Please forgive…”
“Whitey!”
The voice comes from below. A man scuttles like a shabby crab along the beach. For a moment he stops and looks up, following the progress of a solitary gull as it heads towards me in its spiralling flight.
The rocks, the sand, the sky and sea retreat from my sight as Malcolm pulls me back.
And although he is silent, the vibration from his hands passes through the handles of the chair, into the backrest, and communicates to my bony spine that he is sobbing.
And when my right arm raises, I smile. I knew it would.
Allan Mayer
Malcolm stands behind me. He’s a big man. When they downsized the university, he had to leave. He just didn’t fit anymore.
We walk together a lot. Well, Malcolm walks and I get pushed. I am playing my part in the ancient Greyling Bay tradition of “showing the cripple to the wind”.
There used to be a hospital here where people came to get better on fresh air. Only I will never get better. Nothing in me has ever moved properly, and it never will. They say I’m not wired up right. Even now I’m telling my arm to move. Nothing. When I do make things move they call it an involuntary movement.
Involuntary my arse.
“George,” Malcolm said to me this morning when he lifted me out of bed, “You know I love you, don’t you?” Of course I know that. I was there when Mum said, you promise to look after him until the day he dies, and he said yes. And then she closed her eyes.
I’m looking down now, at the rocks and the beach. I have never been this close to the edge. Beyond my tartan blanket my front wheels turn in the air, my harness holding me safely in my wheelchair. Malcolm buckled me in tightly this morning, like he always has. He has lifted me all my life without once dropping me. I can hear him mumbling away now, but the wind whips away his words as quickly as he can say them.
“Don’t worry son. I’ll come with you. We’ll be together. All of us. Please forgive…”
“Whitey!”
The voice comes from below. A man scuttles like a shabby crab along the beach. For a moment he stops and looks up, following the progress of a solitary gull as it heads towards me in its spiralling flight.
The rocks, the sand, the sky and sea retreat from my sight as Malcolm pulls me back.
And although he is silent, the vibration from his hands passes through the handles of the chair, into the backrest, and communicates to my bony spine that he is sobbing.
And when my right arm raises, I smile. I knew it would.
Allan Mayer
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