A Passing Attachment

The Promenade, 1918, Marc Chagall 

It was the end of the war, the Great War, the war to end all wars. The lucky ones, the survivors, were reunited with their loved ones. The others, the unfortunate ones, the bereaved, the deceased, the maimed, were forgotten in the spirit of euphoria that swept through the land. Later would come the harshness of facing up to a splintered future, of trying to re-establish normal life when so much and so many had been destroyed.

I noticed him standing at the edge of the crowd, watching. I moved towards him. Wordlessly, he took my hand and led me through a gate to a meadow. He produced a flask of wine and two glasses and we sat on velvet grass.

I didn’t know him. He didn’t know me. We were lost in the loneliness, the disconnection that follows the ending of a cataclysmic event that absorbed everyone for four long years. We came together for mutual comfort, to find passion and joy, however ephemeral.

You might say he swept me off my feet. 

Thank you, Tess, for this prompt. Click here to see more responses.

Words for Wednesday - Anyone for cricket?

Words for Wednesday

Delores from ‘The Feathered Nest’ offers six words as a writing prompt – virtuous, flannel, donuts, cartoons, inching, frayed. 

 

 Why not visit her and see what other writing has been inspired?

During the season commonly called Summer the sun-starved Englishman is sustained by cricket commentaries on television or radio. Often he will watch the television with the sound turned down and listen to the radio commentary.

Frequently he hears ‘Rain stopped play’. In previous times, a natural break might furnish an opportunity for cartoons to be played. Today’s commentators discuss cricketers of yore, choosing their candidates for a hypothetical all-time greatest team. They talk also of each other’s exploits on the cricket field, when dressed in white flannels, they kept wicket or stood at silly mid-off or backward short leg and tried to prevent the opposing team inching towards victory. They note the comings and goings of aircraft, pigeons and clouds and comment on their colleagues’ predilections for wine or salmon-coloured trousers.

The Faithful Fans send in cakes to the team in the commentary box, which are gratefully received and enjoyed during the long hours of a cricket match. I don’t think any donuts (doughnuts) have ever been offered, but I may be wrong.

Sometimes tempers are frayed, both on the pitch and off it; for example, an Australian batsman may miss the Ashes test series next month after hitting an English player in a bar in the early hours of Sunday morning. The victim, not badly hurt, indeed, not hurt at all, virtuously accepted his attacker’s apology. Undoubtedly they will meet again on the cricket field some time in the future and battle will be joined according to the strict and baffling laws of the game.

Charleston Farmhouse, Sussex, UK

Charleston Farmhouse, Sussex, UK

Charleston Farmhouse door - image from Charleston Farmhouse site

A conversation between Vanessa Bell and Duncan Grant

Vanessa sighed and looked at Duncan’s back, bent over his latest oeuvre.

‘Duncan,’ she said, ‘We have painted so many frescos I declare myself completely devoid of inspiration.’

Duncan’s impatience was barely discernible but she noticed his slight shrug. His voice, however, was calm, well-modulated when he replied. ‘My dear, we have been painting this place for more than fifty years. I am positive you will make a fine choice.’

Vanessa acknowledged the truth of this riposte but sucked the end of her paintbrush before responding. ‘I confess I sometimes feel we made a mistake embarking on post-impressionism. It was perhaps a little ambitious.’

Duncan’s shoulders stiffened but he did not turn round. ‘Dear heart, we have discussed this many times. I am presently involved in the intricacies of a cupboard door and cannot decide whether to have cherubs or flowers and thus I cannot engage in further debate until I have reached a conclusion.’

Vanessa pouted, though of course Duncan could not see her expression. ‘I was only voicing that which was in my mind, Duncan.’

Duncan cocked his head, considering the cupboard door, and said, ‘Our friends appreciate it. Why, Virginia was saying only the other day that sitting in our drawing room is like visiting an art gallery.’

 ‘That may not have been a compliment,’ suggested Vanessa.

Silence fell. Duncan grunted, a sound that indicated he had made a decision. Vanessa stared into space. After a few minutes she spoke again.

‘Duncan, what do you think of this?’

Duncan continued to gild the latest lily. He had decided against further heavenly bodies for the present. 

‘Duncan?’

Duncan rose to his feet, groaning somewhat at the creaking of his knees and turned to Vanessa. His hands flew to his mouth but were powerless to smother his shriek of horror.

‘What have you done?’ he gasped.

‘I grew weary of so much busyness,’ she declared, a note of defiance in her tone. ‘It calms me to rest my eyes on a sea of one colour. It puts me in mind of a magnolia bloom.’

Duncan glared at the wall, his eyes round with shock. ‘It is so . . . outré,’ he declared at last.

‘I believe we may start a new movement,’ said Vanessa. ‘You will see.’

And she was right. Magnolia is the colour of choice in UK for new-build homes and those being offered for sale or rent.

Thanks to Tess for this prompt. Go here to read others’ offerings.

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The Maid's Lament

Words for Wednesday

Delores from ‘The Feathered Nest’ offers six words (actually, she’s gone overboard this week and given us twelve to choose from. Twelve!! J) as a writing prompt – bovine, clandestine, divine, engine, enshrine, incline, leonine, machine, pine, ravine, recline, valentine.  

Why not visit her and see what other writing has been inspired?

The Maid's Lament

He said our love would be enshrined,

He said our love would last –

He said, ‘To wed I am inclined’ –

The fatal die was cast.

His honeyed words seduced me,

We met near the ravine,

A clandestine arrangement -

He feared we might be seen.

I thought he looked so leonine,

He said I was divine,

And on the tallest broadest pine

He carved our valentine.

The engine of his passion

Beat hard within his breast,

At least that’s what he told me –

I know you’ll guess the rest.

Upon the greensward I reclined,

He took my hand in his;

What bliss was this, a simple kiss –

My fate was now defined.

For what came next was no surprise,

Except to this poor maid,

Like tables, eggs and groaning ghosts

I had been truly laid.

Rose-tinted glasses

Rose-tinted glasses

Waking, Walking, Singing in the Next Dimension?by Morris Graves 1979

I peer myopically at the birthday cards. As usual I’ve forgotten my reading glasses  and there’s no time to go home for them if I’m going to catch the post. Must be quick - time and tide and the Royal Mail wait for no man. How old will she be tomorrow? Twelve? Mustn’t get anything too babyish – children grow up so quickly these days.

Ah! This looks promising – quite pink but then she likes pink; it’s always been her favourite colour, ever since she was a tiny girl. Oh look, are those birds perching in leafy bowers? That’s appropriate – she’s interested in bird-watching, even identified some in my garden the other week. I wonder what they are – I’ll have to ask her when I see her.

I don’t care for verses in cards – all that supposed poetry not scanning properly and with strangely convoluted sentences to make the rhymes fit – you know the sort of thing:-

Today’s a special day for you,

Full of joy and love and laughter,

Here’s hoping Happy Birthday to you

Will lead to happy ever after.

A quick glance inside – no verse, just . . . what does it say? I squint to make out the words. ‘Thinking of you’. That’s good – short and sweet and I can scrawl ‘Happy Birthday’ underneath it. I glance at the large clock above the door – only ten minutes before the postman comes to empty the letter box. Come on, hurry up! Luckily, I know her address by heart. I write the card and address the envelope and slip it through the slot just as the mail van pulls up. Phew! Job done!

A couple of days later I’m at her house. I’ve just given her my present and I’m glancing at the birthday cards on the window sill. Hmm, very nice selection – some quite ‘young’, others more adult as befits a – what do they call them these days? A tweeny? They used to be the in-between maids, the young girls who helped the cook and the housemaid in a large household. I gather it’s spelt differently – tweenie - so I suppose that makes it all right. Ho hum – when I was young there weren’t even any teenagers. Funny how language evolves.

She smiles at me. ‘Thank you for my present,’ she says. ‘It’s lovely.’

‘My pleasure,’ I say. ‘Did you like my card? I thought you might tell me what the birds are. I didn’t have my reading glasses with me when I bought it.’

Her mother laughs. ‘We thought that’s what might have happened,’ she says.

I confess I’m a little puzzled and look more closely at the card I sent. Now, my glasses allow me to see that as well as my scribbled greeting, ‘Thinking of you’ is followed by ‘at this sad time.’ I look again at the front. White doves are depicted prettily posed on pink roses.

I gasp but my granddaughter and great-granddaughter laugh again. My son comes into the room. ‘I don’t think you’ll forget your glasses again,’ he says and hugs me.

Thanks to Tess for this prompt. Go here to read other offerings.

Words for Wednesday

Words for Wednesday

Delores from ‘The Feathered Nest’ offers six words (actually, technically it’s eight this weekJ) as a writing prompt – blank, dashing, flashlight, four leaf clover, shadowy, trembling. Why not visit her and see what other writing has been inspired?

It was twilight when Jess left school. Usually she walked with her friends but they had stayed on for play rehearsal.  Knowing she would be walking home alone today her mother had reminded her to take her flashlight but Jess had forgotten. She wished now she had its bright beam to slice through the gathering darkness.

Dashing past the house everyone claimed was haunted she glanced at the blank windows and shuddered. Shrubs and creepers straggled about the door and she thought she glimpsed a shadowy figure half hidden there. It moved towards her, a man, tall, big, strong. Jess gasped and urged her trembling legs to carry her faster.

The next morning her parents identified the pendant Jess had been wearing when her body was recovered from the river. ‘We thought it would bring her luck. Silly superstition, really,’ her father said in a gruff voice. He ran his finger over the four leaf clover resting on his palm as his wife wept in the arms of a policewoman.

The Ponytail

The Ponytail

Ponytail by Last Exit

Bank Holiday weekend – cars crawled round the car park searching for a space and then their drivers crawled round the supermarket, queueing to select their purchases, seeking the best bargains and hoping the fine weather would keep. Harassed mothers towed small children, refusing their requests for the sweet and sticky treats so temptingly displayed. Students sauntered along the aisles, filling their baskets with bottles and cans of alcohol and calorie-laden snacks. Lovers wound their arms round each other and ambled around the vast emporium, oblivious to everyone else and preventing them from finding the items they sought.

I was in a hurry. I had not intended going out to shop but my grocery order had been delivered with some of the vital ingredients ‘unavailable.’ Most irritating, particularly as I had guests arriving for dinner in a few hours.

Having found everything, apart from water chestnuts, I looked for the fastest-moving queue. Every check-out desk sported a long tailback of shoppers anxious to unload their trolleys and get home to their barbecues, their drinks parties, their assignations or simply their precious, limited time off. Bank holidays are rare in the UK and each one is anticipated with pleasure.

I joined a queue and began my usual pastime of covertly scrutinising the purchases of my fellow shoppers. Then I began to watch the people in front of me. Each trolley load was swiftly checked out – there was an orchestra of beeps from the check-out desks. Surely the cashiers must hear them in their sleep.

I focussed on the woman in front of me. She had the usual array of tasty treats many people buy to pamper themselves – luxury chocolates, a couple of bottles of good red wine, a glossy magazine and a fine selection of fresh vegetables, fish and meat. I judged she had a family waiting for her to return and cook a delicious meal. I noted her hair – expensively cut and coloured and artfully arranged in a high ponytail, with loose tendrils curling at the sides. Dainty diamond drop earrings threatened to tangle with them and I watched to see if they would catch but they didn’t. At her neck was a silk scarf, one end casually tossed over her shoulder, complementing her crisp blouse. She was so slender! I glanced down at her feet, neatly shod in smart loafers, her slim, pretty ankles just visible beneath the hem of her long, flowing skirt. I looked at my own ensemble and felt shabby in my trainers and gilet. I was envious. It seemed this young woman had all the time and money required to be beautifully presented at all times. Her nails were manicured and polished to perfection and adorned with beautiful rings. A gold charm bracelet caught the light as she packed her items.

With the final things in her bags she turned to pay. With a shock I realised, far from being young, she was a woman of very mature years. Suddenly the hair and clothes seemed wrong, too young, not suited to her age. She caught my eye and smiled as she said, ‘I could have worn purple, you know,’ and I blushed.

All the way home the words of Jenny Joseph’s poem went round and round in my head. ‘When I am an old woman I shall wear purple With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me’ and I resolved to be less judgmental in future.

Thanks to Tess for this prompt. Go here to read other offerings.

Romantic Friday Writers,- Letters

The challenge from Romantic Friday Writers is LETTERS.

Why not visit to see what others have written?

As Miriam heard the flap of the letter box clatter old memories were awakened as so often these days. She recalled how her heart leapt into her mouth and she had to caution herself against disappointment. Many mornings the mail brought only bills and appointments for her parents who sighed and clucked and shook their heads over them. On the days when an envelope for her dropped onto the door mat she smiled before even opening it.  Some days a bundle of letters arrived and she had to put them in date order before opening them.

Every time she slit the envelope she imagined she could catch the writer’s scent. She read the letter quickly, savouring the dearly-loved handwriting and ran her fingers across the black ink before reading it again, more slowly. Every pen stroke was precious, proof of William’s love for her.

My Darling,       

                     It has been so long since I held you in my arms and kissed your lovely face. I miss you more and more with each passing day and cannot wait to be with you once again.

                     A few of us went out on the town last night. It’s not much of a town and there wasn’t much to see but it was good to be on terra firma. Getting one’s sea legs is one thing, regaining one’s land legs quite another. I smile when I remember how you laughed at my rolling gait the last time I was home on leave.

I wish I could tell you more of my daily life

but you know that is not possible. One day . . .! Maybe that day will come soon – I’m sure we all hope so.

Until then, be patient my darling and know

that I love you with all my heart. I long for the day when we can be together forever, you, me and our children, I hope. Am I presuming too much? You do want children, don’t you? I know you do – didn’t we decide on five? They will be the most beautiful ever seen, I know. I will never do anything to hurt you, my dearest one, my angle. Keep safe, sweet one. I shall.

                     Yours always and for ever

                           William

                            x  x  x

Miriam giggled a little at William’s spelling of ‘angel’ but loved him all the more for not being absolutely perfect. She brought the paper to her nose and sniffed it. William’s hands had been the last to touch it – well, she knew that wasn’t strictly true; all mail had to be censored but she thought the people who did that must recognise love letters and skim them quickly, almost without touching them.

She must write back immediately. William had told her so often how important her letters were and how they brought a little normality into his life. ‘All the chaps feel the same,’ he had said when they parted after his last leave. She had promised then that she would write every single day. Sometimes it was hard to think what to write. Her life was very ordinary, her days spent reading or sewing, sometimes gardening or studying a new piece of piano music. On the most trying days she enclosed a pressed flower and told William something about it.

She sat at her writing desk, looking out over the garden, one finger gently touching her lips and remembering William’s ardent kisses. She picked up her pen and unscrewed the cap.

My Dearest William,

                           It gave me such joy to receive your letter this morning. It makes the sun shine brighter, the birds sing more sweetly, the air feel fresher. Such nonsense, I know, my darling, but truly your letters lift my spirit in a way nothing else can, apart from your presence, naturally.

Of course I understand the secrecy

that must necessarily surround all of you – I would not have it otherwise and no-one I know thinks any differently. I’m sorry the town wasn’t up to much, though part of me feels quite glad, I should not like to think of you being tempted by glamorous ladies in smart clubs. No, don’t worry, my love – I know your heart belongs to me. Have you not told me so often enough? And are you not a respectable married man? Yes, I do want children – the more the merrier, I think, but five will do to start with.

Keep safe, my darling. I love you

and I always will.

                           Your Miriam

                            x  x  x

Miriam bent to pick up the mail, groaning a little - her back felt worse this morning after a restless night. She sifted through the pile, sighing and clucking and shaking her head at the proliferation of buff envelopes. She tossed them onto the hall table – they would keep until later. For now she would take her tea onto the patio and sit in the morning sunshine and listen to the birds.

It had been just such a morning when William’s last letters were delivered but she had delayed opening them. It had been a shock, receiving them from beyond the grave as it were, for the telegram informing her of William’s death had arrived just the day before. 

Miriam gazed at her wrinkled hands and felt afresh the emptiness in her heart, less agonising now, more of a dull ache. There had been no children, no little part of her beloved husband to cherish. At least she still had his letters and that was as much as she had known of him those long months he had spent at sea. She had, too, the letters she had written him. They had been returned unopened and that was how they had remained for she needed no reminders of the optimism and love she had felt.

She sighed and got up. ‘Life must go on,’ she chided herself, but some days she wondered why.

                          

                            

               

Words for Wednesday

Words for Wednesday

Delores from ‘The Feathered Nest’ offers six words as a writing prompt – tissue, cemented, boardwalk, rolling, bubbles, balding. Why not visit her and see what other writing has been prompted?

‘I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky . . . ’ John Masefield’s poem evokes such a romantic vision of the sea but the reality, on these overcrowded shores, is often very different.

If you are lucky enough to find a sandy beach the boardwalk is likely to be splintered and in need of repair. Then comes the search for a spot to dump all the essentials for a day at the seaside – the windbreaks, the cool box, the folding chairs . . . ah, there’s a place, just there, between the pale, balding man and his brassy wife and noisy offspring and the loving young couple who are oblivious of everyone else, cemented to each other in a most unseemly way.

In that peculiarly British way you will then avoid any eye contact as you lever yourself and your family into a space smaller than your sitting room sofa and proceed to unpack your belongings, At last you can relax and enjoy the waves rolling in, bubbles of foam tipping the crests. ‘White horses’ you tell your children and they giggle, then ask if they can go and paddle.

‘Of course you can,’ you say and accompany them to the water’s edge to find that the ‘white horses’ are formed from cast-off tissue. Not only that, it’s tissue you would normally find in the bathroom, wound around cardboard tubes. Hastily, you grab your children’s hands and promise them ice-creams as you swear that next time you fancy a trip to the coast you will look first at the list of Blue Flag beaches.

                    

Cling – to hold tightly, be emotionally over-dependent, refuse to let go

Cling – to hold tightly, be emotionally over-dependent, refuse to let go

This is a reworked post from February 2009

I'm a reasonably independent woman, not often prone to temperamental outbursts. I have reached a point in my life where I am content with my lot. I am fortunate that I am physically strong (though currently keeping company with sciatica) and enjoy good health. I want for nothing, other than that which avarice dreams of. Even so, I know that material possessions and riches do not bring happiness. I love the members of my family and I think they love me. We embrace affectionately, support each other emotionally and respect each other's privacy. Why then, given these parameters, can I not cope with clingfilm?

Other people efficiently manage to encase widely differing objects; jugs of stock are staunchly refused permission to spill, cakes are neatly parcelled and hermetically sealed, the onions of winter salads resolutely try but fail to send their fumes beyond the plastic. Portions of fruit and slices of vegetables, roast chicken carcasses and too-generous casseroles all consign themselves to the constraints of this thin clear self-adhering plastic material.

They do all this until I try to marshal them. To be more precise it is not the contents that prove problematic but the clingfilm. Does it recognise in me a person who secretly longs to be enfolded in strong arms and held close till, breathless with passion, I beg for release? Well, of course not, but I have to distract myself with idle thoughts as I wrestle with the wretched wrapping that clings to itself and to me as if scared to let go. I mutter and curse as the film tightens and thickens and eventually manage to reduce it to a sulky pellet which I would love to hurl into the rubbish bin but cannot as it still seems loath to leave me.

Thus, the contents of my fridge are left unwrapped, tainted with onion and curry, the chicken carcasses dry out to firewood consistency, the lemon halves shrink to husks, the cabbages wilt and everything that was once fresh and crisp limps into unappetising decrepitude.

I look enviously into others’ fridges, at the tidy array of dishes and pots stacked carefully on each other, courtesy of clingfilm, and decide that I really must try again to master it, to no avail. I have wasted more yards of the dreadful stuff than is good for my temper. There are not many things that defeat me but clingfilm is one of them.

There must be a knack to it but if there is I certainly have not acquired it and sadly, I fear I never shall.