The Weekend Post

The Weekend Post

3^rd April 1985.

Dear dad.

That’s you just gone. Wish I’d had the chance to say goodbye properly. I know yesterday you hinted that you’d be gone before I got there...but I wished you’d stayed awhile longer. I so wanted to have one more conversation with you, to reminisce over good times.

Like weekends; Saturday morning spent watching Swap Shop on TV, while you shaved in the kitchen wearing your white vest. Watching as you cleaned and put your teeth in. I thought all men had false teeth as I only ever knew you with yours.  Both of us lying on the living room floor picking horses from the paper, you’d give me a spare betting slip so I could pick my own. I always like the pretty colours the jockeys wore but you said that wasn’t the way to pick a good bet.

The betting shop was on route to your works social club, where you spent many Saturday afternoon. Once we reached there I had to stand outside, as under 18’s weren’t allowed in. I’d peek through the letterbox unable to see anything, my ears straining to hear a TV’s rendition of the 12.30 at Newmarket. Once the bets were placed we walked to the club, my two steps to your one stride.

The club was smoky. It smelled of beer. I stood by the TV room door waiting for my bottle of coke and crisps. Once you let me stand beside you at the fruit machine until I pressed the spin button just before you held the two bars, the third bar dropped and you lost a fiver. The TV room with Grandstand is where I was sent.

If I was lucky you’d let me to go upstairs to the snooker room. The large green table dominated the dusty space.  You taught me how to play and dismissed the rule about a foot always touching the floor. However you did insist I had to keep one on my beer crate step.

On the way home, I thought it was great how you’d open the sliding door to your workmate Don’s campervan and ring the old school bell he had in there, while tootling around town with YMCA playing on tape.

You brought cockles from the fish market for me to eat from the bag. Crab sarnies at home and eating the meat from the claw with a cocktail stick. All washed down with eggymilk. We were the only ones in the family that like it. I’d hear the buzzing of the hand mixer from in the kitchen knowing that our special drink was on its way. It was the very same hand mixer that you used to show how not having respect for machines could end up in accidents. I had been scared of the machinery in the metalwork room at school. We’d been shown photographs of pupils who had had chunks of hair caught up in drills and lathes and had to have it cut off. Scarred heads stuck in my mind and I was scared to go back. Using strips of newspaper you showed me how it got tangled up in the turning blades. I always wore my hair fastened back after that. You were proud of my CSE in metalwork.  

It makes me laugh that you would make me eggymilk and I always mashed your tea. The theme tune from the program M.A.S.H echoing from the telly and you shaking your mug, called to arms your daughter, your personal tea masher, to provide you with that much loved mug o tea.  Only I knew just how you liked it and had been doing the honour since I could reach the kettle.

With you in your favourite chair and me curled up on the settee we’d watch the football results, ticking off boxes on the pools coupon. Wearing your green knitted cardie that mum made you. Your smoking cardie! You always wore it when you were in the house. That fusty smoky smell would be a comfort to me when bullies stole my 10 pence and my teacher sent you a letter. You cradled me in your arms and told me everything would be ok.

At bedtime I’d lie silently in bed, pretending to be asleep. Knowing that at 11 o’clock after mum went to bed you’d come get me, carry me downstairs and we’d curl up on your chair watching the detective Ellery Queen. I’m sure my love of detective programs came from this and Basil Rathbones version of Sherlock Holmes.

And then on Sunday morning be awakened by the big band sound vibrating the blankets off my sleepy head. You loved Glen Miller and as a result of having it penetrate through the ceiling, my bed and my sleep...so do I. Then you treated me to the sponge awakening. The cruel trick of lifting the blanket and placing a wet sponge on me, covering me again and then waiting! Minutes later laughing as I leapt out of bed soaked.

Downstairs, you were in your favourite chair, the Sunday Mirror in one hand, cigarette in the other listening to Terry Wogan on radio Two. Mum hoovering in the front room and the smell of Sunday dinner wafting from the kitchen. 

At 1o’clock we’d sit in front of the telly to watch Space 1999 and Road Runner. Dinner was served plate-on-tray style with gravy poured from a plastic jug. You were a meat and veg man, a traditional Sunday roast. We’d share the skin off mums’ rice pudding and always go back for more. The choice of two films greeted us after dinner, John Wayne one BBC1, James Bond on ITV.  Sunday telly was always boring till Dr Who or Star trek came on at teatime. But I loved sitting watching old movies with you.

If the weather was nice we’d be in the garden. Not a particular talented gardener, grass and hedge cutting your speciality. Except of course your tomatoes, grown in the greenhouse you made from old window frames and plastic. With a mirrored wardrobe door as entry, you even left the mirror in it. Making things from odd items is where I think your talent lay. My favourite would be the shower you made. An L shaped bit of wood screwed to the wall, a hosepipe attached to it, with sucky things for the taps on one end and a watering-can rose on the other. It was great and worked well, even if we did have to put the water heater on for ages before hand.  I think that’s where my creativity came from.

I still have the photo of you hanging upside down out of the large cherry tree at the top of the garden. You’d climbed up to trim some branches but as usual you monkeyed around. Kath next door got the snapshot. It reminds of how un-serious you could take the world. On those rare occasions the world allowed you to.

Back indoors, the TV off button was pressed just before Songs of Praise came on. Cheese or beans on toast was the staple Sunday night tea, except in the summer when salad was the food of choice. We sit trays on knees eating while you complained about the ‘noise’ that was the top 40, counting down to number one before bath-time. Afterwards all washed and dry, I’d sit in your chair and watch That’s Life with you.  A gentle kiss sent me to bed with warmth of a fathers love.

And so back to today...

Two weeks before my seventeenth birthday, you’ve gone. Ten weeks ago we were both laughing about how I’d broken my arm while sledging and you’d put your back out at work, sneezing whilst carrying a wardrobe upstairs. That resulted in three separate stays in hospital for you and the knowledge that Cancer was eating at your bones. I watched as you slowly were reduced from the strong man who cradled me in your arms to a man who cried in pain whenever he was touched.

You saw me leave school with good grades and get my first job. But you’ll never see the adult you had a hand in raising, and you won’t be there to walk me down the aisle or cradle any future grandchildren you may have. I will never get the chance to buy you a drink and you’ll never see my eighteenth or twenty-first birthdays.

You always were a great believer in fate, the what-ever will be, will be, philosophy.  I have that too. There is a reason you’ve been taken from us so young in life. The answer will greet me when we meet again and walk painlessly side by side my two steps to your one stride.

I’m going to miss you

Puddin x

©Mills Laine

Misplaced Hero

Wrong way along the Tays,

winding, wandering, worried daze.

newflash! headline! today at four

police surround a battered war.

blue striped tape. stops the enter.

visions of the nights storm centre.

cardboard window, weathered door.

silver-fish on a bathroom floor.

oil-stained carpet hides the hall.

crimson face-paint moistened wall.

worried faces, stare not care.

solemn silence, full aware.

concerned neighbour say a word!

future lessons will be learned.

screaming cries broke through the sound,

heard by fresh ears, next door bound.

frightening fear of horror noise,

seen by tears of innocent toys.

multi-coloured hue of pain,

non kept promise, yet again.

summer shades hide blood-shot eyes.

falling tears from a million tries.

broken sprit, loss of mind,

no more times, abandoned kind.

beautiful, shy, bride mum, teen.

who fell in hell, substitute dream.

washed daily in fist shaped showers,

returning seasons, blood soak hours.

glistening razor stopped the breath

one that dragged  life to near death.

black or white, right or wrong.

shining bangles, prison song.

an anguished heart to keep the vow!

front page headline she is now.

ended a life to win that fight.

the history here don’t lose sight,

 internal innocent, face life alone,

a debt unpaid, a future owed,

a misplaced hero, mum or dad

the wrong way along the tay ...sad!

©Mills Laine

unspoken

A secret smile from

 a hidden gaze.

he sees her

she sees him

she plays the scene in

her head

would it play different

if a word had been said

 the spark of conversation

took its time

fleeting hi’s

led to a dream of

long goodbyes

at the garden gate where

once he stood and smiled

©Mills Laine

expose

Exposé

As the robe slipped off my shoulders, I was standing in front of the window.  Twitching nets had graced the street when the photographer arrived and for the first time since Sam’s mother had presented us with the hideous frilly things that adorned our living room window. I was appreciative of the privacy they provided. Until now, their sole purpose was to keep the women happy on unexpected visits. Just like other stuff in the house, including a revolting piece of china. Which had, on numerous occasions been given a gentle push!  Only to lie unbroken until it found its way back up onto the mantlepiece.

            The photographer had unloaded equipment from a large black bag, which was big enough to take a body but held only a small number of technical bits and bobs, folded sticks and round long lens things –photography is not one of my strong points! – And what to me looked like children’s umbrellas’. All of which were now positioned around the living room. Making it resemble one of those ‘cute baby competitions’ stands, you find in shopping centres. I’m sure at one point I saw a furry hand puppet lurking in the bottom of that bag!

The uneasy silence in the room was broken by a mechanical whirring followed by a couple of clicks.

‘Hold it right there, that’s great, lovely shot’.

Whirrrr click, click, click

The sounds didn’t mask the thumps of the beating muscle in my chest. I felt embarrassed, exposed and on show like a side of pig in a butchers shop window. It had been years since anyone had seen me naked, I had even denied Sam the privilege. Ok so I had lost a few kilos, 19 to be exact - that’s 3 stone in old money! - But I was fully conscious of the fact I was still a little big. My middle aged spread had expanded so much it needed chair to itself. Spare tire is what they call it, the image of a car tire wrapped in my skin with go faster stretch marks sprung to mind. Trying not to laugh I grinned, showing off my recent dental work.

’hold it, yes love that shot, smile at the camera, work that look’.

Whirr click, click, click

The grin had resulted in a giggle. The giggle turned into what was now a full belly laugh. It was no good, I needed a timeout, I had to cover up and take a breather. I always found laughing helped me deal with the pain of cruel people pointing and whispering that now I would burst into laughter without even trying. I’d put on a brave face at the gym, walked the treadmill I now ran on and rowed myself around the world at least once. My personal trainer Daryl thought I was doing great and that he was proud of the progress I had made. Personally I think he was just attempting to chat me up!

On weigh-in nights I muscled my way into the church hall and prayed I wasn’t the biggest one there. The first night, in front of 15 complete strangers and the leader....Beth - I like to inform you where I buy stuff from - Gibbons. I stepped on the Speaking Scales, which retail on Amazon for £55 apparently! And waited for the

‘Whoa that’s some weight, cough, cough!’

It didn’t actually say that but to me that’s exactly what I heard! Beth said I would start seeing a difference straight away. At the time I remember thinking -not a chance- but now three years on I see she was right.

 I attempted to pull myself together with some long deep breaths.  I could tell my immature giggles hadn’t washed well with my guest who was looking at the clock on the wall. A pretty timepiece brought as a wedding gift. Sam’s mother thought it was lovely and I suggested we give it to her as a birthday gift, with the ghastly china all wrapped in the frilly nets.  Sam was having none of it. Its practicality and good timekeeping won its case against me, so there on the wall it sits, hiding the actual colour of the paint, the same as every picture hanging in the house. Maybe it was time I decorated!!!

I could tell by the clock glance the photographer seemed impatient to go...not that that holds any surprise; I mean I wouldn’t want to see my naked flesh let alone photograph it! In fact thinking about it, I haven’t looked at my naked body in a mirror for oooooh 10 years, god has it been that long! So off with the robe...again! It’s a bit chilly outside for September; we haven’t had to put the heating on yet, so I’m sure my nipples must be standing out like chapel hat-pegs. It’s funny the things you think about when unmasked to some stranger you contacted on a website advertising their photography business. We’d emailed back and forth over possible times, dates and places. Then met up for an informal chat about this present for Sam as an anniversary gift...after all 25 years married is a big thing these days! The photographer had thought it was a fantastic idea.  

Whirr click, click, click

Whirr click, click, click

 ‘Right, I’d like you to turn and face the wall...lets see that lovely behind of yours....ok hold it, good...sexy shot’.

Whirr click, click, click

Sexy shot...ehhh!! I don’t think so but then again maybe it was. After all, my bum is definitely my best feature always has been. I remember as a teenager squeezing it into a pair of tight skinny jeans. Styled together with a rather striking patterned jumper...tucked in! I was never one to follow fashion but thought I looked so sexy when actually looking back, sexy was not the look I’d achieved!

‘Lift your head a little, a bit more, that’s it now smile... yes!!’

Whirr click, click, click

Whirr click, click, click

It was around that time that I met Sam. Who turned out to be the love of my life, not that I knew back then of course! It didn’t start off as the romance of the century, I mean sliding across the dance floor in platform shoes, and then slipping in a pool of beer is not what one would call graceful. But I always admitted it was the gentle thwack of me kicking Sam in the ankle that secured our mating.  

‘Can you lie on the sofa?’

‘Can I What? Oh yeh, ok!’

Lying down on our brand new leather sofa I felt more uncomfortable than ever, naked skin and leather are rarely friendly. You see both, when introduced have the tendency to be rather vocal, which to the ears of a child would be humorous. But in my case would be decidedly rude. Standing up, I grabbed the robe.

‘Back in a minute’

Darting out the door into the hall, I took a moment to catch my breath. It was a relief to have the robe on even if it was just for a few minutes. After retrieving a fleece blanket from upstairs and covering the adhesive nature of the sofa I disrobed and repositioned myself in an attempt to feel confident...

 ‘Oh yes, love it! Work the camera; give me some pouting looks’

Whirr click, click, click

 ‘Pouting looks?’

Whirr click, click, click

Of all the expressions a face can have, pouting was not one I considered to be my best. Now, the startled rabbit clinging to the road, frozen in the lights of an approaching car look. That one I could see. I tried to pout but the photographers constant smirk told me it just wasn’t going there!

‘Ok how do you feel about using props?’

‘Props!! Like what?’

As if lying here naked calls for the use of anything except clothes.

Whirr click, click, click

 ‘Err, I was thinking about... I mean, how would you feel about the possibility of using a cat or your dog maybe?’

‘A cat or the dog! Are you mad?’

Whirr click, click, click

My vocal dismay at the knowledge of extra eyes spying and long wet tongues slurping anywhere near my naked form resembled a scene from Monty Python.  A high pitched squeaky voice sounding out my alarm!

‘We don’t have a cat and there’s no way I’m posing with the dog!!!  Sharp teeth and claws plus bare skin do not mix’.

I’d already had the misfortune of our mongrel Bunker licking my backside, after finding it protruding from underneath the duvet one Sunday morning a week or so back.  He was... at this moment though playing nicely out the back with the neighbours washing! He does that! I’m not sure why...

            I could see the photographer’s face straining with high ideas - the next David Bailey! – looking around searching for something, anything that could be used for that ‘perfect shot’. It seemed that purely out of desperation they would border on the surreal, what with the cat and the dog suggestion. What would be next the neighbours chicken!!  Itself sounding way too kinky to me, which I might add, was not in the agenda for this gift! So to save myself I suggested a break:

            ‘Fancy a coffee? lets take some time out and have a look at what you’ve got so far’

            ‘Sounds good’

            Relieved and securely covered by the robe I walked confidently across the room to the kitchen and put the kettle on.

            ‘So what gave you the idea for this photo?’

The photographer now stood in the kitchen doorway; over coffee I told them all about a magazine article I’d read. About a woman who had this nude photo done as a gift for her husband.  My weight issues and also how Sam had always been there for me. From skinny jeans to Bunker! How I felt more confident now, comfortable within my skin and wanted to show it. Well I thought it was original.

‘That’s amazing, well done...I’m sure Sam will love it.’

‘Oh I  hope so’

The desperation in my tone met with an understanding nod from the photographer and a reassuring confirmation that Sam would. A photograph of me in my altogether! I remembered that Sam found that phrase hilarious especially when in reference to the song by Danny Kaye. Humming the song to myself, the photographer’s lap-top buzzed with the slideshow of my nakedness. Of the sixty odd photos taken there was only five that were ok....one of them showed me standing at the window, just a silhouette against the daylight...I liked it and would have been happy to go with that one but the photographer was sure the perfect shot was still to come.

After coffee and feeling more confident than before, I disrobed and lay on the sofa....secretly hoping the *dog/cat* idea had been diverted.  

‘Ok, now I want you to give it all you’ve got. Work the camera. It’s all about you.’

Whirr click, click, click

Laughing, we both flirted with different ideas. I worked the camera! Lying as sexily as I could, using the whole sofa.  I flipped and I bounced. Posed and pursed my lips together in a comical fashion. The more I did the more confident I felt.

Whirr click, click, click

Maybe it was wrong to feel this relaxed. I mean naked in front of a photographer when I couldn’t in front of Sam. Tonight though I would! I would undress in the bedroom - with the lights on - and not in the cupboard Sam lovingly described as ‘our dressing room’. Not that it ever was a cupboard; it’s the small passageway leading to our brand new en-suite. Which according to our fourteen year old son Daniel was not a proper en-suite bathroom but was just ‘a toilet with a shower in it’. Ok I admit it’s small, but it’s big enough for two and that suits me just fine. Plus it meant I was not privy to the tantrums between Daniel and his sixteen year old sister Emma at stupid o’clock every morning.

Whirr click, click, click

Whirr click, click, click

The hands of the twee timepiece, circumnavigated the pretty face. Not that I had noticed, I was having fun now. The passing minutes had turned to hours as I tried different positions, standing, sitting, even lying on the floor. I soaked up the attention. Laughed and flirted with the camera. Pretending it was Sam I was posing for.

I was totally unaware of the bus pulling up outside the house, or the key opening door sound coming from the hallway. And I was blissfully blinded to the approaching storm that had entered. Maybe I should have taken a second when the photographer arrived to double lock the front door. I wasn’t sure how long the kids had been standing in the doorway or what must have been running through their minds but when I turned wearing nothing but a smile I could see by the frozen gaze that this was going to take some explaining!

At that moment the uneasy silence of the room was broken by the double barrelled  sound of...

DAD!!!!!

©Mills Laine

The Letter

My first TMA (edited)

The Letter

As Judith sat at the back door, the coldness of the concrete step penetrated its way through her clothes to her skin, forcing a shiver up her spine. The men she was watching had arrived around the same time as the morning post; the letter delivered was still clutched in her hand. As she watched the men unload their equipment, her mind started to wander. They had come to take down the last of three old trees at the bottom of her garden. It had seen better days and was badly damaged after its latest conflict with nature. She had watched it grow along with her family. On hearing the hypnotic buzz of the chainsaw the memories trickled in...

When they had moved there, the house seemed big and empty, the tree tall and impressive. Its twisted branches entwined and tangled themselves around a rather large centre. A wooden bench had been constructed around its base; with a little tidying up this was to be a favourite spot. When in the following year Judith found she was pregnant; she had relaxed in the shade under its canopy. Nine months later they were blessed with a son, Craig. She had cradled him to sleep beneath its overhanging branches. Played hide and seek with him around its huge trunk. And when he was older watched him climb with a worrying beat in her heart. Sure enough seven years later the cries of a broken bone fall could be heard that summer’s day.

Judith could see the men now fastening rope to one of the largest branches, standing on the spot where her husband Mike had fixed the rope swing. Craig had spent many happy days climbing and swinging, the rope swing also served as a means to escape the tree-house that arrived for Craig’s eleventh birthday. ‘A den in the sky,’ he said. Although the house remained the same, the tree-house underwent many renovations, painted, extended and finally dismantled as the years passed. He had used it as a den for him and his friends, a retreat away from chore requesting parents, somewhere to study for his exams and a resting place for a pint after work.

When the first serious girl  came along, the tree became a special place for them, names were carved in its wood, the swing widened to take two and the tree-house freshened up for the acceptance of this chosen lady, and it was there that he had proposed much to the joy of Judith and Mike. It was after then that Craig decided the tree house was no longer ‘cool’ and went at it with a sledge hammer, shards of wood lay scattered on the ground and splinters had been catapulted as far as the eye could see. They all had a good laugh at that. When Craig first came in and said he had joined the army, Mike shook his hand with pride and Judith held him with worry. On the day he left she had tied a ribbon on the tree and everyday after said a little prayer in the hope that he would return home safe.

One by one the cut pieces were lowered to the ground. The rusty leaves were shaken to the core, those that fell now lay flattened on the soft earth, the rest hung, saddened at the devastation surrounding them. The tree now resembled a totem pole, Judith forced a smile remembering Craig dressed as a cowboy. It was a shame; the largest branch had been ripped off by the winds wrath and now its white flesh was open for rot to get in. It had to go! Judith was sad at the news, she remembered to remove the ribbon that had been attached for nearly ten years, torn and rotten it disintegrated in her hand that very morning. When the last branch was off and the straight trunk with the large ripped off section was left. Judith recalled what the man had said...’far too much damage, it won’t live, best say goodbye and get rid’ he made it sound like nothing. A tear welled up in her eye and she could no longer fight it back, as the chainsaw cut through the thickness of the trunk and the heavy wood crashed to the ground. With the sickly sweet smell of its life blood filling the air while it seeped and dripped away she looked down and read again the words ‘killed in action’.

©Mills Laine

lovejoy

Things were looking neat for Lovejoy

Louise passed the leaf back; Lovejoy looked at it and popped it into his pocket.

It had stopped raining; the smell of the wet grass filled the air with a fresh, clean fragrence.

“Sit here often Ernest? Writing poetry?”

Lovejoy paused to answer, saying yes should have been easy but somehow the idea that he sat alone in the park on rainy days would seem less exciting to vibrant Louise.

“Err yes. I find it quiet, not many people about”

“Yeh I can see that, I hoped you didn’t mind me coming over.”

“No not at all” he looked up just in time to see a shaft of sunlight bounce off the wet ground.

“Would you like to go somewhere for a coffee?”

“Oh gee that would be neat could do with something to take the chills away”

They both stood up at the same time. Lovejoy noticed that he was much taller than Louise. Her with a delicate frame, him with his gangly legs and hardly any definition of muscle.

“Hey you’re quite a tall fella aren’t you Ernest?”

Lovejoy was starting to like the way she says his name, he felt a warm feeling growing inside.

They walked across the grass towards the gate. There was a small café not far from the park. He would take her there. It was quiet, just right for a chat and coffee. He felt the urge to reach out for her hand but he kept his in his pocket. Too soon, he thought!

“So do you live near here, Ernest?”

“Yeh, I have a place just down the road not to far.”

“I’d like to live here. Edinburgh’s a beautiful city.”

“Yeh, very atmospheric, good for writing.”

“You looked very peaceful and relaxed when I came over.”

Peaceful, relaxed, no one had ever said that about him before. Most people said he was boring and sad.

“Do you always speak to strangers? It isn’t always wise, I could’ve been anyone.”

“Yeh, I know, but as my dad always says, “you can’t go around treating everyone like a some sort of madman. How will you ever get to meet new people if you don’t show a little trust?”

Lovejoy nodded, he was glad she’d chosen him today.

“And anyhow 5 minutes conversation with a new face beats 20 pages in a diary.”

They reached the café. Lovejoy pushed on the door and held it open for Louise to walk though. The café was small but clean with 6 tables, 3 either side of the gap from the door to the counter. An older woman stared as they entered then picked up her note book, came over and asked them what they wanted.

“2 coffees please” Lovejoy said

“Would you like any food?”

“Err not for me thanks” he turned to Louise. Louise was shaking her head.

That warm feeling was back, this felt comfortable he thought.

“So Ernest, who’s your favourite poet?”

“Keats” he said

“Hey wow, I love Keats. His ‘Ode to Autumn’ reminds me so much of here.”

Oh this was getting quite spooky, a coincidence maybe or fate. He felt like putting pen to paper but it would’ve seemed rude, maybe he’d remember it and write it later.

The coffees arrived, he watched as Louise slipped 2 sugars and milk into her cup, Lovejoy did the same.

“So how long you been writing” he said

“Oh years” she replied “I write anything and everything but not good enough to be published. You?”

“The same” there was that word again, it kept coming up time and time again ‘same’ likes the ‘same’ poet, drinks her coffee the ‘same’, unpublished the ‘same’ as him. That warm feeling started to grow as they sat there chatting about poetry, the weather, the creep and Edinburgh.

“What times your train tomorrow?”

“9.45 Edinburgh to Glasgow Express” she said

“Where are you staying?”

“Haven’t got anywhere, maybe I’ll just bum on the station platform.”

Lovejoy looked wide eyed at this, he couldn’t have her sleeping there it would be very dangerous.

“Look I know this seems a bit forward but you’re welcome to stay at my place you can have the bed, I’ll kip on the settee.”

“Well Ernest that’s really nice of you but I’ll be ok”

“No I insist. The train station is not the place for a woman to bed down you get allsorts down there especially at night.”

“Well ok then, that is if you really don’t mind.”

Lovejoy felt his heart beating really fast now, he’d be alone with her, she’d be there in the morning when he woke up, these were the things he’d dreamt of.

They left the café. In the distance the nearby clock was chiming six, they’d been chatting for hours.

“is it far to your place?”

“No just down here, got to get some ciggies first though.”

“Yeh I need some too.”

The local shop keeper looked at Lovejoy when they walked in. it was the ‘ooohh what’s going on here then!’ look.

Lovejoy brought a couple of packets and handed one to Louise. They left the shop leaving the shop keeper staring curiously.

A few minutes later he was turning the key in the door; he pushed it open, turned on the light and beckoned Louise to enter first. He followed closing the door behind him.

“Hey this is a really nice room Ernest.”

With books lying all over, he was surprised she could see the room.

“Sorry about the mess” he said

“Hey, no worries.”

He went over to the small kitchen area in the corner, found two cups and proceeded to make coffee.

Louise found a clear space on the floor and sat down. To her left was a book on ‘Keats’, as she picked it up it fell open at a page that had been read a hundred times or more, thumb prints marked the page and the corner was folded down. She started to read, ‘Ode to Autumn’ so he likes that one too! She thought, just then Lovejoy appeared with the coffees, he crouched down beside her, he’d never sat on the floor before, this was nice, no! This was ‘neat’.

They sipped their coffees and Louise started to read the poem. When she had finished she turned her head towards Lovejoy and found him looking right back at her, he blushed, the warm feeling going to his head.

“I’ll walk you to the station in the morning. It’s not far from here.”

“Thanks Ernest, you’re a really nice guy.”

Nice guy! No one had ever called him that before.

“So tell me about yourself? Where do you work?”

“In a library.” He said.

“Oh shit, I’m sorry I went on about how boring I found it.”

“No its ok, I find it boring too!”

“So why do you work there then?”

“Cause I love reading, gives me loads of inspiration, all those free books.”

“Never thought of it that way before.”

They both laughed and the air was filled with the warm feeling that had filled him ever since she came into his life. He carried on talking about his life sometimes sounding as boring as some had said he was, but not Louise, glued to every word she listened intently. They both laughed at odd moments but it all felt comfortable. Lovejoy laughed at how his voice sounded, he lit a cigarette and handed one to Louise but she had fallen asleep, he wanted to sweep the hair off her face, but she might wake then what would she think. So he just sat and stared gazing over her from her hair down over her face, the eyelids closed over those beautiful vivid green eyes, the small lips that covered the perfect little white teeth, down to her neck just showing enough that he wanted to kiss it, over the delicate curves of her body from her breasts to her hips, down her legs to the petite feet sitting in large walking boots. He made another coffee and went back to his spare on the floor. How he wanted to feel her skin on his, those green eyes looking lovingly at him as they shared the warm feeling….

When the alarm woke him, he was lying on the floor, under the blanket usually found on the settee, he sat up and looked round, Louise was asleep in the bed she must have woken and moved covering him on the way. He went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face, the morning was clear and bright, he had a shave and felt the day getting better. Lovejoy made coffee and gently woke Louise she smiled at the sight of him, a knowing, welcoming smile.

“What time is it?”

“9.00”

“I’ll have to get up, got a train to catch.”

“It’ll only take 5 minutes to walk there, drink your coffee, there’s hot water if you want a shower.”

“Gee thanks Ernest, you’re quite a gentleman”

A gentleman! That’s something else, that’s never been said to him.

Lovejoy sat by the window while Louise was in the shower, he wanted to go in, take her in his arms and never let her go….but no she would go, and he would be left alone again!

Louise came out looking as lovely as ever. They got their things together and left the flat, got to the station just in time to see her train pull in. The warm feeling had turned into despair that she was leaving. But he said nothing.

“Well goodbye Ernest, I’m so glad to meet you, give me your number and I’ll call you when I get to Glasgow.”

Lovejoy put his hand out for her to shake but instead she moved forward and kissed him gently on the lips. Lovejoy felt the warmth of her body pressed against his, grab her, hold her, never let her go, the thoughts buzzing around his head. He waved when she got to her seat, then turned he didn’t want to see her leave.

Lovejoy took a slow walk back across the park, stopping for a moment at the Pavilion. Why didn’t he ask her to stay, he could’ve lived forever looking into those bright vibrant green eyes. Oh well maybe he could write about it.

The key turned in the lock, his room still had the fragrance of Louise, he made coffee, lit a cigarette and turned on the radio, it was on the news but he wasn’t listening till something caught his hearing, TRAIN CRASH, NO SURVIVORS, 9.45 EDINBURGH TO GLASGOW EXPRESS.

“What? Train crash, 9.45, express, Edinburgh to Glasgow, no survivors NOOOOOO!!!!!!!

Lovejoy ran, turned on the TV, pictures of the derailed train filled the screen as Lovejoy’s eyes filled with tears, he should have said something, stopped her getting on that train, there’d be no phone call now, outside it had started raining again.

He wiped his eyes and took out his notebook, the scarlet heart shaped leaf dropped to the floor, He picked it up and thought ‘neat’. Starting to write ‘Ode to Louise’ the tears started to flow again.

The knock startled him; he wiped his face and went to the door. Opening it he was just about to tell the ‘who’ on the other side to sod off when he heard a familiar voice.

“Hi Ernest, I decided not to go.”

The warm feeling was so strong he couldn’t help but to pull her forward, kissing her gently on the lips, holding her never letting her go.

©Mills Laine

daymares & nightmares

Daymares and Nightmares

She stood by the window. The view was unimpressive: a footpath, a road, the houses on the other side. Nothing changes! she thought. She looked up, can’t really see much of the sky. She loved the sky, especially in the winter with the low sun casting long shadows, the blue and pink of an early sunset, the yellows and browns of an approaching storm. The way the snow looks dark against the blue and white when it reaches the ground.

She envied the birds being able to fly through it. She wished she could fly, fly away to a far off place where this world couldn’t find her, but no! Here is where she was, here is where she chose, but it wasn’t a good choice in the long run.

At first this place was new, clean, hers but now it was cold, frightening, dangerous and seemed to belong to someone or something else: yes! a something. Not a person or animal but a thing. A thing that comes in, takes over, destroys lives, and doesn’t care if you care or not, an emotionless thing with no feeling, no sense of time, no sense of dignity.

She turned away from the window and looked at the room. In the corner was the television on some channel. She didn’t know what, it was just on as it always was. The stereo that came into the house like a lot of other things it didn’t belong to her, it was just there. On the fire place were ornaments that she’d had for years. They belonged to her. She could take them with her, if she wanted.

Wanted!

What did she want?

To get out, be free, yes but not just her, all of them. She looked down at the threadbare carpet, covered in oil stains from when this room was used as a garage but not anymore, the only thing left were the oil stains. Two chairs were up against one of the walls, odd chairs that were given to her by someone. She couldn’t remember who! There was no settee, just a double mattress folded to look like one. They pulled it down to sleep on at night, but in the day it got sat on by strangers, friends, family and dogs. The room smelt of dogs. There were three there at this time, three dogs and two cats. She could hardly believe they had dogs when they could barely feed themselves, but they had them and they all slept together in the one room. They used to sleep upstairs till the night “they” came, searched the place then left. After that she preferred to sleep downstairs.

The room needed decorating. Wallpaper had started to hang off the walls. The paint was stained with cigarette smoke. The gloss was chipped and there was a huge hole in the door. She’d tried to make it look nice once before the uncaring thing came and took over. She’d lost control over it; it had taken her too, deep into the night it would call to her and she would obey by choice. It helped her forget… it. It helped them all but it didn’t really, it confused them into thinking it was helping, this thing that takes over, takes part of you till there’s no you left.

She turned back towards the window again, a large window that seemed to take up the whole wall. A place where she could stand and look out, a place where she could dream away the hours till that time again when she would forget. Hers dreams were of escaping, going to a place where it couldn’t find them. There must be a place, where they could go with or without belongings, where it wouldn’t find them.

She started to plan their escape: get a car, pack their stuff and leave in the middle of the night, so no one would see. A safe place.

Get a car? That meant trusting someone.

Who could she ask?

Not the usual crowd, THEY don’t want them to go, THEY have a relationship with it, it would then know and would hurt them by making them go without that’s what it did, hurt whenever she decided to leave it.

How would she do this?

Trust, trust who could she trust?

This question would be on her mind for what seemed like an eternity.

She hated being alone here. She knew where it was hiding. She could get it out and kill it, but then the others would get angry and maybe kill her. Then she’d never be free. That’s what it does; it puts fear into safe places.

People wandered passed the window going about their daily routine. She had a routine too, but it was controlled by it. She wondered if the people outside knew what she knew, or did they just get on with things unknowing. She wished she was unknowing, never leant to say its name, never got used to the smell of it. This thing that crept up on them till they had succumbed to its charm, she laughed! It doesn’t have any charm just a bad smell.

When she slept she thought of it, not dreams just nightmares. In the day she thought of it not daydreaming but daymares. Nightmares and daymares not a world fit for anyone but this was her world, the one she chose.

Now she wanted out.

The safe place where it wasn’t, the country maybe? A bit of persuading would be needed. Some may not be very happy going. They wouldn’t have a place to stay but no place is better than this place.

She knew this was a good idea. A plan was forming. She was getting back control. It would hurt her but it was hurting now. She didn’t have a choice once but she did now. She was going to get free and she would take them with her, even the dogs.

This would be a new: clean world her world that she chose. A safe place she could relax in. A place where she could go into the dreams not just look at them through the window.

She would be the one who makes the decision to leave it. She would get them out, yes! all out. She’d be known has a heroine.

Funny how the name of your fear can be turned into something good.

©Mills Laine