Every Time

“Every time I do something worthwhile, you go and spoil it. Attention seeking, that’s what it is,” Ger hisses.

Chelsee blinks. She looks at her wrists. She frowns. “You can’t leave. Mum and Dad need you to help in the caff now the summer’s coming. I can’t do it any more.”

“Don’t be daft. I can’t afford to miss an opportunity like this. You’ll be right as rain, soon, you’ll see.” Ger’s fingers press hard into the arms of the bedside chair he’s seated in. That face, that impassive face. He knows she’s gloating behind the mask, trying to twist him like she always did when they were small. Do this or you’ll make me cry, then Mummy will smack you. The words are unsaid, but he sees her thoughts like wasps. “You take the tablets, same as always, and you’ll soon be back to normal, see. No more of that bloody nonsense. It doesn’t work any more. You can cut yourself to kingdom come for all I care now, see. It doesn’t work any more.”

“I can’t take the medication.” A contrived tear escapes down her face. “They have to sort me out something new. Therapy or something. Tablets is too dangerous, now.”

It’s a new strategy, Ger tells himself. The old one won’t work; bring out the next. “What’s wrong with tablets, then?” She’s winning because he has to ask, and he hates himself for asking.

“I can’t take them. Not now. Not this time. Because. Well, just because, OK.”

“No, it’s not OK. Tell me. So help me, I feel like slapping you.” Ger’s eyes flick round the ward. The bed next to them is empty just now, sheet and blanket rumpled. The nurses are all busy, and nobody has heard. Nobody but Chelsee.

“I’m pregnant so I can’t take the tablets, see. And it’s why you’ve got to stay and help Mum. Because I can’t. Not with a baby.”

Ger flops back into the armchair, mouth flopping open as the breath is yanked out of him. His eyes scan down over the scrawny ribs, down to the belly. Stick-like arms with one bandaged wrist move protectively over the bump. Ger looks back into Chelsee’s eyes set in sunken pits. “You’re lying. You’re lying to keep me chained to that bloody caff. You selfish cow.”

Chelsee says nothing, but stares back at him. Behind the sly power he sees something slinking like a cat: fear.

“Christ.” Ger stands so abruptly Chelsee flinches and seems to sink deeper into the mattress. “Who’s is it? I’ll smash his face in for him.”

“That’s why I’m not saying. And don’t you go telling anyone.”

“Can’t you get rid of it?”

Chelsee’s face is shuttered again, the fear-cat vanished, or trapped perhaps, behind those shutters. His audience is over.



Linda Gruchy

Triple Chocca-mocha Macchiato—With Whipped Cream

Carmelle Jones blew into Greyling Bay one sultry afternoon, surfing good intentions and waving doubts farewell. Armed with deliciously strokable notebooks, modest wine supplies, and chocolate for every chapter, Carmelle was ready for writing heaven. She’d spent the train journey—followed by a taxi ride with a driver who didn’t seem to hear her mention that she was A Writer—being progressively less able to contact her Facebook friends, as the signal on her dongle dwindled and died. Good people, gorgeous, whose hugs and kisses and virtual chocolate touched her on an hourly basis. Carmelle felt perfectly nurtured by them. But this week was a challenge that she (and her Creative-Life-Counsellor) had set—to come where she could not be fingered by Facebook or touched by Twitter or anything else that damaged her acclaimed alliterative ability.

Prospect Cottage had no wifi and no phone signal. Truly, Carmelle was facing her fear, but her writing group had sent her off with encouragement in her ears and Valrhona in her handbag. You’re fabulous, Carmelle. You have a gift. Ignore that editor. What does she know?

One look inside Prospect Cottage and she’d known this was the place. It had Genuine Atmosphere. Two looks and she felt the need for coffee. It wasn’t the cottage, just how the fisherman owner guy had eyed her. God, she hadn’t come here to be seduced by some bitter herring-breathed rustic with a nasty madness in his pink eyes.

Carmelle approached the café, sucked in her stomach, swung her hips like a hammock. A little pout would do no harm. They’d be watching her, clocking her pre-Raphaelite hair, jealous of her smooth city skin, skin which a boyfriend had described, so sweetly, as being like a piglet’s. Carmelle was used to people envying her. Which was why that editor’s comment had wounded her so, until her wonderful friends had poked her on Facebook and reflated her self-esteem.

Carmelle wielded a notebook and two pens: pink and turquoise. The café doors hung open in the heat and voices limped into the air like tired butterflies. She smiled at this image: she must write it under the heading, “Similes for future use”. With the turquoise pen, she thought.

God, but this lot ...

Fat girl with her rosebud mouth slightly open, waiting to pay for a cream cake that she’d already gouged with her finger. Grinning biddy in a wheel-chair. Sepia woman staring at her hands with a Jesus expression. Two tarty young women and a kid with a buttered face. A couple staring at the table as though they’d rather be anywhere else. And the men—Christ, they looked spiritless. Seaweed had more zest.

And into their midst, Carmelle.

“Triple chocca-mocha macchiato with caramel and marshmallows and a butterscotch twizzlestick. And whipped cream.”

“What?” The waitress was waxen-faced, hollow-cheeked, as though something was sucking her from inside.

“Tea. Please.”

Behind her, someone smiled.




Nicola Morgan

Something To Tell

Mum, I’ve got something to tell you. Chelsee wipes the wetness round the countertop. The cloth refuses more moisture, leaving a damp rash behind. Chelsee looks up furtively. The café is empty but for the newcomer. Staying, she is; so the rumours go. Why do people sit in the same seats? Habit, Chelsee guesses.

Mum, can you keep a secret from Dad? Only I’ve got something to tell you.

The dishwasher beeps. Chelsee opens it to a dragon’s breath. The crocks are still hot but she stacks them up, the clatter ripping her eardrums. Mum… listen a minute… Mum, I won’t be able to… Mum, I’ve got a problem.

She ought to tidy the tables before more people come in, change a few grubby tablecloths for clean ones, but she needs to rest. She makes a half-hearted circuit round the tables, then sits at one of them with a sigh.

The newcomer smiles at her. Louise, someone said her name was. “Quiet today, Chelsee.”

“Yes.” Chelsee rummages around for something else, something sensible to add. Mum, I have a problem. “Yes, quiet. Often is, this time of year… been lucky with the weather, like. Not much rain. Cold though.”

Chelsee’s mum comes into the café from out the back. Chelsee stands guiltily.

“Hello Carol,” says Louise. “I was just saying to Chelsee here what a blessing the weather has been.” She gives a conspiratorial smile to Chelsee.

Now, thinks Chelsee: “Mum, I’ve…”

The café door is flung open and in walks Ger, with the scent of seawater and winter air pursuing him. He’s wound up like a kid on Christmas Eve. His excitement crackles over them like static.

“Mum,” he says too loudly, “I’ve something to tell you…”





Linda Gruchy

Caroline

I forget things now. My memory is going the way of my bladder these days. But I remember others, a lot more than people give me credit for. By people, I mean him. He’s taken to calling me dad instead of Frank, as if that ring on his finger makes him my blood. My Sarah tells him to leave me be. She always was a good girl that one. As pretty as her mother too.

Caroline. The wind still carries her laughter and the sand still holds her footprints. There, at the window of the old Macphearson café, she sits bobbing up and down as she plays peek-a-boo with Sarah. It’s called the Greyling Bay Café now, all fancied up. But I still see the checkered tablecloths and gleaming salt shakers. And I still see Caroline. There, down by the pier where the Browning children are throwing bread to the gulls, Caroline walks to meet me for a date to the picture house up the road.

Bill approaches, net in hand. I’ve never seen Bill without a net in his hand.

"Hey Frank, nice weather for it, eh?"

I’m not quite sure what "it" is or what sort of weather would be good for it so I just smile. Bill’s a good man. His wife used to be one of Caroline’s pupils and when she came to the funeral she was the only one who didn’t try to say anything stupid. She just held my hand for a bit then said, "This is horrible."

"Frank, mate, why don’t you come in a bit and sit on one of the benches? This old rock of yours can’t possibly be comfy. You get soaked to the bone every time there’s a wave."

But I like this rock. Caroline sits by my side, her head in the curve between my neck and shoulder and talks about how many more hours we’d have to put in at the university to afford a house on the waterfront. Turned out it was a lot. I smell her Pears soap when I sit on this rock. I tell Bill no, I’m fine where I am.

Bill is saving to buy a new boat, he thinks he’ll have it by next spring.

I may well not be around for that. I may have gone to be with my girl. But you’ll hear me, catch a glimpse of me sitting on this rock from time to time. Caroline, Greyling and me, we’re in the fibres of each other. We’re a trinity.


Anna Russell

Let There Be Light

“Mind if I open the shutters?” A faint sweaty waft as he edged past Louise: hard times for estate agents everywhere, especially here at the back of beyond. She suspected that he really needed this sale.

“Yes. Let there be light!” The words fell out of her mouth before she could stop them.

“What? What was that?” Louise met his bewildered gaze and gestured with her hand; a “silly me” flapping that seemed to satisfy him. The biblical stuff had got to stop; she’d left it behind, with all the rest.

He tugged at the latch and the light surged in through the wide windows, stencilling bright panels on the long cream wall. Behold, there was light. Outside yesterday’s greyness had bled into a watercolour, wet on wet; pale and luminous.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, smiling.

“It’s very light,” he said, smiling back. “This is a unique development, not many old warehouses left untouched. Most of them were pulled down so this is special.”

She looked away from him and down the long sunlit room and wanted to weep at the sense of homecoming. This place was her place, the light was her light. From the window she could see the café’s scarlet sunblind: a brilliant spot of brightness amid the grey stone buildings.

“This was the show flat, you know.” She could hear his worry that the deal might slip away. “Hence the furniture.” An uneasy laugh, followed by: “Of course, you could always rent this place while you make up your mind? Get to know Greyling Bay? In your own time?”

Two hours later she was in. A month’s deposit paid, bags moved in, car in the designated slot. As she turned the key in the door she hesitated; what if the shadows were back?

But no, the long room was flooded with light and she felt a tremulous happiness. Let Andrew look for her; let him find her, even. There was nothing he could do now. She leaned out of the window and snuffed the salt on the air and the words were banner-high in her head again before she could help herself.

I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills.


Nicola Slade

Bob The Books

With watchmaker’s precision, Robert inscribes an inverted ‘V’ against the final figure on the bank statement, rules a red line beneath it to mark the month’s end. The bank account, adjusted to allow for cheques still uncleared, agrees with his total in the café’s cash book; reconciled to the penny, the weights of debit and credit in perfect balance. Robert Whiteside, negotiator of numbers, reconciler of differences, returns the ledger to its shelf in the windowless back room with a quiet reverence.

Now his mind is free of the accounts, noises from outside begin to find their way to him. Human voices and mechanical maneouvres; the random chaos of the café. Chelsee will be hot and bothered, boiling with endeavour.

It’s time to go home. Robert feels the first small waves of panic lap against his temples; a coolness above his upper lip. He forces himself to control his breathing as he clasps his hands around the door handle. A short walk, that’s all it is.

Three, two, one…

Zero.

Robert snatches the door open and steps into the disordered stew of clientele. If he keeps his glance aimed straight ahead he has a chance of escaping without incident. And yet disorder claws at the periphery of his vision: the new woman by the radiator, her car with the number plate not in the middle of the bumper: he’d seen it outside the B&B and couldn’t walk past it. The other two with their shrieky voices and cloying scents; Chelsee, distracted again.

“Bye, Bob,” reaches him as he finds the door. “See you tomorrow.”

He’s outside, head down, counting the paving stones.

One, two, three…

A cacophony of gulls swooping above him, swirling with the wind, clamouring for the attention he refuses to give.

…nineteen, twenty, twenty-one.

His key in the lock, unlatching, pushing open the door; and then turning, shouldering it shut against the chaos. Closing his eyes and feeling the calm order of his home cocoon him once more.

The cat will need feeding. Seven spoonsful.


Peter Drobinski

Greyling Bay Café

Chelsee crushed the sweat from her forehead with the tea towel then looked round, her neck burning under the collar of her overall. Nobody had noticed. She breathed out, and a popper on the overall unpopped.

The dreary woman sat by the radiator stirring her tea to death, staring out across the bay. She probably thought the caff was too working class. Stuck up, miserable cow.

Another dribble of sweat ran down behind Chelsee’s ear. She shuddered. Tanya and Rachel were huddled over their drinks, laughing, co-conspirators. Rachel twisted her wedding ring as she sniggered over some bitching titbit, and slid a sideways glance at Chelsee.

Cadell the heroic, Cadell the wonderful, Cadell the two year old prodigy wriggled free of the chair, clutching the biscuit he’d been mumbling over and toddled over to the dreary staring woman. Chelsee hoped he would smear the soggy biscuit over Mrs Snootyboots, draw on her like a blackboard, but he didn’t.

Sweat trickled down the valley between her buttocks. So freezing outside, so hot inside. They called it a bun in the oven, didn’t they? But this wasn’t a bun, it was a time-bomb, tick-tick-ticking away. She blundered to the loo, grasping the seat with both hands as she puked. Great chunks of envy soured with despair.

She looked at her wrists, porcelain thin, poking out of last year’s cardigan. The thin tracery of old scars freshly overlaid by the purple and yellow from where dad had mashed her flesh with hands hard as coal.

He’d kill her when he found out. He’d bloody kill her.


Linda Gruchy

Invisible Ice

Louise hunched against the radiator. The café was steamy but no heat reached across the counter to the customers even though the skinny woman brewing up tea had sweat running down her forehead. Maybe the cold is inside me, Louise wondered: maybe I should be drinking antifreeze? Hysteria threatened, sourness rising in her throat. She picked up her mug of tea using both hands to steady it.

Well, here I am, though God knows where “here” is.

She had slammed the door behind her, tossed the keys on to the estate agent’s desk and gunned the car towards the motorway. Go West, young woman. It would be difficult to go much further west without swimming, so here she was. Car parked outside the B & B, suitcase unpacked, registered for a week while she looked for somewhere to live, details already with a local agency.

A “stranger in a strange land”. “New beginning;” “fresh fields”. All that kind of crap. The lifeline she was clutching at was that nobody knew where she was. Dead to the world. Old life over. Gone. Andrew would search for her, of course, and he’d be efficient. Efficiency was his middle name after all; well no, actually his middle name was Daniel, but still.... Discreet questions, that’s how he’d start, then phone calls, online enquiries, perhaps even a detective; he’d try the lot but he would fail. Dogged Daniel, dogging her footsteps. The view from the steamy window was bleak and the beach deserted apart from an old man shouting at the seagulls and another figure (male? female? hard to tell) standing in front of an easel, wrapped up against the chill and painting the old man’s picture. If I walked into the sea, would they stop me, she shivered: would they even see me? I think I’m invisible; I’m nothing. A nothing-creature made of invisible ice.

“I got a bikkit,” confided a small voice at her elbow, startling her out of the dark thoughts. It was a small, round child, not obviously male or female, just a generic toddler creature. It held something up to view. “It’s a rectangliar bikkit.”

“Don’t bother the lady, darling.” The mother sounded half-hearted, deep in conversation and, the gesture made, she turned back to her friend.

“Look,” the small voice was polite but persistent. “There’s bumps on my bikkit. There’s ninety-seventy-nine.”

Louise stared at the child and mumbled something that seemed to satisfy its proud boast, then she exhaled a long, sighing breath.

Not invisible then, after all.

It was a start.


Nicola Slade