Mag 195 Messing about on the river

Thanks to Tess Kincaid who organises and hosts this meme J To read more Magpies please click here.

Messing about on the river

Autumn om the River, 1889, by John Singer Sargent (1856 - 1925)

‘Would you like to come out on my boat?’ he asked. I accepted, excited at the prospect and thrilled he had invited me. ‘We’ll go on Wednesday,’ he promised. ‘I’ll bring a picnic. There’s nothing like fresh air for stimulating the appetite.’

He had told me little about his boat. That he was very proud of her could not be denied. The more I probed the less he said about her, just simply, ‘I know you’ll love her as much as I do. I can see you now, reclining as we navigate the river.’

My imagination took flight. In my mind’s eye I was leaning back against comfortable cushions in the cockpit, a glass of wine in my hand, as he stood at the wheel, the captain of his vessel. I wondered fleetingly if he would wear a blazer and yachting cap, a cravat knotted stylishly at his neck. I thought it unlikely – he was more of a jeans and tee shirt man.

It took ages to decide what to wear. It was October and the weather unpredictable. Wednesday might be very warm but could just as easily be chilly and damp. It could even change throughout the day. No matter, I could always go below if things became too uncomfortable on board.

Tuesday was bright and cold and the weather forecast predicted more of the same for the following day. Accordingly, I dressed in warm trousers and navy waterproof jacket, a spotted scarf providing just the correct jaunty air. I admired my new boat shoes, bought specially for the occasion – I knew how particular boat owners were and I didn’t want to be accused of leaving nasty black scuff marks on deck.

He picked me up in his snazzy sports car and we proceeded at speed to his mooring. We would be there in about thirty minutes, he told me, and as the minutes ticked by my anticipation grew. He handed me out of the car and put a proprietorial hand under my elbow, leading me along the tow path. I craned my neck for the first glimpse of his boat and when I finally caught sight of her I stopped in my tracks and gasped. She was beautiful – not huge, but a lovingly maintained clinker-built yacht, the autumn sun glancing off her brass rails and enhancing the rich mellow colour of her sides.

He squeezed my hand and smiled his wonderful smile. ‘You like her, don’t you? I knew you would. Shall we go aboard?’

I nodded, eager to explore his lovely craft. I was surprised when he stopped next to a scruffy skiff tied up just in front of the wonderful yacht. I was alarmed when he clambered onto it, flinging his arms out to counterbalance the dangerous yawing of the flimsy boat.

‘Come on, hop aboard,’ he said cheerily and held out his hand. As I stepped forward a cloud passed over the sun. I tried to match his enthusiasm as he sat opposite and pulled on the oars but I was uncomfortably aware of the proximity of the grey water and the sharp wind that had sprung up. Soon the rain came and as there was nowhere to go to escape it I had to sit tight, my hair streaming with water and my feet turning blue, not just with the cold but also with the dye from my new shoes. The picnic sandwiches sagged and disintegrated and I would happily have exchanged the chilled wine for a thermos flask of hot coffee.  

He turned for home – that is, the mooring – his mood undaunted. ‘Not quite a baptism of fire,’ he joked and I grimaced, shivering. I thought that at least I would thaw out in his car but it turned out that he couldn’t put up the soft top so our return journey was glacial. The car heater was inadequate against the rain and wind. I was never gladder to reach home and immerse my aching bones in blessedly steaming water.

The next time he rang – and the time after that – and the third time – I declined his invitation. In any case, I had such a streaming cold that I wished to do nothing more than shut out the world and huddle under cosy blankets.

We didn’t go out together again. The last I heard, he had sold his skiff and bought an old houseboat.

April A to Z blogging challenge Violets

This is an edited version for the A to Z blogging challenge of a story I wrote a few months ago.

My grandmother lived a short distance from our house and I visited her every day. She was a gracious old lady who had been an important part of my young life. Sometimes I stayed with her and slept in her guest bedroom, a pretty room decorated in lavender and white.

I enjoyed the bedtime ritual in her house. First I would have a bath in the claw-foot tub in her huge, chilly bathroom and then wrap myself in one of her large soft white towels and go through to her bedroom where she would brush my hair – one hundred strokes counted out in her soft voice as the bristles swept smoothly through my long straight locks. Then she would give me her box of talcum powder and I would dip the puff into the silky dust, loving the feel of the satin ribbon between my fingers. Sometimes she would dab a little of her perfume on my wrists – it matched the powder – then I would feel so grown up.

Whenever I stayed with her she gave me a sprigged nightgown to wear that had belonged to my mother when she was a child. It had a high neck and long sleeves and fell from a smocked yoke to my feet in gentle folds. There was plenty of room in it to tuck up my feet until they were warm enough to make contact with the cool bed linen.

Then we would go downstairs to the sitting room, a room full of curios and books and plants. The subdued light made the room welcoming and comfortable and though I must have stayed with my grandmother at different times of the year, it is the winter evenings that I recall most clearly, a log fire burning brightly in the grate and casting flickering shadows on the walls and ceiling. My face would grow hot as I leant forward to hold the long toasting fork ever closer to the glowing coals. Crumpets dripping with butter and honey – ‘As many as you like,’ she always said and I would hug myself with glee at the promise. At home such treats were strictly rationed and I always longed for more.

Strangely, at my grandmother’s house I never managed to eat more than the two I was given at home, but it was the thought that I could have more if I wanted that gave me a wonderful feeling of being indulged. Afterwards my grandmother would read to me as I sipped hot chocolate from a delicate china mug. When the story finished, always at the same moment that I drained the last sweetness, my grandmother would hold out her hand and together we would climb the stairs. She would tuck me in, pulling the sheet and blankets firmly round me so that I felt safe and contained. She would kiss me – ‘Night, night, sleep tight. Sweet dreams.’

I would turn on my side and draw up my knees and gaze around the room, lit by a night light – my grandmother knew I hated the dark. The pictures on the walls were of flowers that she had painted and framed - primroses, honeysuckle, bluebells. The curtains and bedspread were soft cotton patterned with tiny pink rosebuds entwining dainty violets. On the bedside table, next to the water carafe and glass, was a small charmingly decorated tin of Parma violets more treasured for their scent than their taste. They smelt like my grandmother – or should it be that she smelt like them?

The next morning I would go home, happy to join my family once more and knowing that I would see my grandmother the next day. I thought I would see her every day for the rest of my life.

My granddaughter lives nearby and visits me most days. Sometimes she stays overnight. Yesterday she burst in excitedly. ‘Look, Grandma, look at these. Aren’t they lovely? Mummy put them in a special box for me. She said you’d like them.’ She thrust a tissue wrapped parcel into my hand and hopped from foot to foot, impatient for me to open it.

The first thing I saw was the lid with its painted flowers and I knew, before I removed it, what was inside. Slowly I took off the top and there, nestled in shreds of lavender paper, were Parma violets. The released scent filled the air. I offered one to my granddaughter. She smelt it then put it in her mouth. ‘Ugh!’ she said and I smiled. I don’t like the taste, either, but the smell reminds me of my grandmother – it was the cologne she always wore. 

Magpie Tales #63 Kaleidoscope

Thanks go to Willow who organises and hosts this meme J To read more Magpies please click here.

Image copyright Tess Kincaid

Kaleidoscope

The day I was given my kaleidoscope was one of the happiest of my childhood. I was entranced by the colours and the ever-changing patterns.  I took it to Danny’s house, excited to share my new treasure with him. Danny was older than me and more worldly but I could see he was impressed.

He said, ‘How does it work?’ and I showed him but he shook his head impatiently.

‘No, I mean where do the patterns come from?’

I didn’t really understand but mumbled something my father had told me about mirrors and pieces of coloured plastic. Danny scoffed, ‘I don’t believe that.’

I asked him how he thought it worked and he pondered a while and then said there might be a small roll inside like a musical box but with pictures instead of spikes. I was struck with his knowledge of things mechanical and cautiously agreed that he might be right but I was sure my father had mentioned mirrors.

Danny said, ‘Let’s find out.’

I was reluctant but he was insistent – and older – and I really wanted him to carry on being my friend, so I went along with his suggestion. Danny took out his penknife and prised off one end of the kaleidoscope. A shower of bright plastic shapes fell onto the floor and Danny conceded that my father had been right about those. He maintained his suspicion about the mirrors, however, and quickly ripped open the other end of the cardboard tube.

When he saw the mirrors, he grunted and said that though his idea about the roll of pictures had been a good one, the mirrors and coloured plastic worked just as well. I nodded miserably, tears threatening, and asked Danny to put my kaleidoscope together again. He did his best with sticky tape but it didn’t really work properly. Danny was better at taking things apart than mending them, I realised.

Our friendship continued for a while after that but then we drifted apart, going to separate schools in different towns. I never forgave Danny for breaking my special toy, though it was more than fifty years ago.

The day I was given my kaleidoscope was one of the unhappiest of my childhood. 

Magpie Tales #36 When is a door not a door? When it’s ajar!

Francis gazed groggily at the door. He had not expected it to be open. Hurtling down the stairs and skidding across the polished tiles he had crashed into the unforgiving wood. The pain that exploded in his head and shoulder soon gave way to a dull persistent throbbing. There would be plentiful tender bruises later, not that anyone would see them.

Francis sat down, then stretched full length on the floor. The marble was cool and comforting and he began to feel his body relaxing. A little sleep would help, he was sure, and then he would continue the day’s tasks. Just as his eyes were closing and his muscles were starting the twitching journey to slumber he heard Lucy calling his name.

‘Francis, what have you done, you silly boy?’ she was saying as she approached him. ‘I heard you colliding with the door. You really should look where you’re going. I shall have to stop you playing indoors if you can’t be more careful.’

Though her words sounded reproachful her tone was gentle and loving. Francis looked up at her, his eyes pleading for understanding. Unable to speak, he was nonetheless able to convey his meaning.

Lucy smiled at him and patted his head. ‘Come on, then,’ she said, ‘Let’s go for a walk.’

All pain forgotten now, Francis wagged his tail and nibbled her fingers gently and together the two of them went out into the green and golden day.

Thank you to Willow from Magpie Tales who hosts this weekly prompt.

Monday's Child #15 Fever!

The child tossed and turned in her tangled sheets. She had been so grateful to slide in between the cold cotton covers and rest her aching head on the smooth pillow. Her mother had tucked her in and kissed her and told her to sleep.

She was a good child and tried to obey but her throat hurt and her skin burned and everything around her had taken on an unusual and frightening aspect. The woodland animals on the wallpaper no longer looked amiable and endearing. Their teeth would tear at her fragile flesh and their paws revealed sharp claws to rake at her hot, dry eyes. The fairies, so pretty and delicate on other days, wore malevolent expressions and prepared to dance round her, poking and pinching, pulling her hair. She shut her eyes to deny them reality then cautiously opened them again, determining not to look at them. She raised a hand to ward off the sight of them then watched in terror as her thumb grew out of all proportion. She stuffed it in her mouth to prove it was her own small digit but it seemed almost too large to fit. She drew it out and stared at it in horrified fascination.

She wanted to cry, she wanted her mummy, she wanted to be anywhere but in this bed of nightmares. Her eyes closed as she started to sob and a short while later she felt a hand on her forehead and a cool cloth dabbing her face. That felt so good. Cautiously she glanced at the wallpaper. The woodland scene was as it had ever been, fairies with gossamer wings dancing with rabbits and foxes, badgers and birds. Still wary, she peeped again at her hand and was relieved to see her little thumb returned to its normal size.

Years later, she could clearly recall the strange experiences of that time. It helped her when nursing her own feverish children and yet she was never quite sure that it had merely been delirium. It was as real to her as the belief that she really had been able to fly. Dreams and nightmares – an interpretation of actual events?

Thank you to BKM of 'Monday's Child' for organising and hosting this prompt-led exercise.

Magpie Tales #33 Acqua di Parma

The other day I was thinking of my grandmother, a gracious old lady who was an important part of my young life. She lived a short distance from our house and I visited her every day. Sometimes I was allowed to sleep in her guest bedroom, a pretty room decorated in lavender and white.

I enjoyed the bedtime ritual in her house. First I would have a bath in the claw-foot tub in her huge, chilly bathroom and then wrap myself in one of her large soft white towels and go through to her bedroom where she would brush my hair – one hundred strokes counted out in her soft voice as the bristles swept smoothly through my long straight locks. Then my grandmother would give me her box of talcum powder and I would dust my body with the sweetly scented puff, loving the feel of the satin ribbon between my fingers.

Whenever I stayed with her she would give me a sprigged nightgown that had belonged to my mother when she was a child. It had a high neck and long sleeves and fell from a smocked yoke to my feet in gentle folds. There was plenty of room in it to tuck up my feet later until they were warm enough to make contact with the cool bed linen. 

Then we would go downstairs to the sitting room, a room full of curios and books and plants. The subdued light in this room made it welcoming and comfortable and though I must have stayed with my grandmother at different times of the year it is the winter evenings that I recall most clearly, a log fire burning brightly in the grate and casting flickering shadows on the walls and ceiling. My face would grow hot as I leant forward to push the long toasting fork ever closer to the coals. Crumpets dripping with butter and honey – ‘As many as you like’ she would say and I would hug myself with glee at that possibility. At home such treats were strictly rationed and my sister and brother and I always longed for more than we were allowed. Strangely, at my grandmother’s house I could never manage to eat more than the two we were given at home, but it was the thought that I could have more if I wanted that gave me more of a warm feeling than hot food ever could. 

After the crumpets my grandmother would read to me as I sipped hot chocolate. When the story had finished, always at the same moment that I drained the last sweetness from the dainty china mug, my grandmother would hold out her hand and together we would go upstairs and she would tuck me in to bed, pulling the sheet and blankets firmly round me so that I felt safe and contained, much as a baby must feel when wrapped snugly in a blanket. She would kiss me – ‘Good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite. God bless.’

I would turn on to my side and draw up my knees and gaze around the room, lit by a night light – my grandmother knew I hated the dark. The pictures on the walls were of flowers, primroses, honeysuckle, bluebells, that my grandmother had painted and framed. The curtains and bedspread were made of the same floral material – tiny pink rosebuds entwined with delicate violets. On the bedside table, next to the water carafe and glass, was a small charmingly decorated tin of sweets more treasured for their scent than their taste. They smelt like my grandmother – or should it be that she smelt like them?

The next morning I would go home, happy to join my family once more and knowing that I would be seeing my grandmother the next day. I thought I would see her every day for the rest of my life but of course that could not be so.

My granddaughter lives nearby and visits me most days. Sometimes she spends the night in my spare bedroom. Yesterday she burst in excitedly. ‘Look, Grandma, look at these. Aren’t they lovely? Mummy put them in a special box for me. She said you’d like them.’ She thrust a tissue wrapped parcel into my hand and hopped from foot to foot, impatient for me to open it.

The first thing I saw was the lid with its painted flowers and I knew, before I removed it, what was inside. Slowly I took off the top and there, nestled in shreds of lavender paper, were Parma violets. The released scent seemed to fill the air. I offered one to my granddaughter. She sniffed it then put it in her mouth. ‘Ugh!’ she said and I smiled. I don’t like the taste, either, but the smell reminds me of my grandmother – it was the cologne she always wore.

Thanks go to Willow who organises and hosts this meme. To read more Magpies please click here.

Microfiction Monday #48 Mysteries!

Lovely Susan from 'Stony River' organises and hosts this weekly meme. Thank you Susan J She provides a picture to prompt imagination and the challenge is to create a story in 140 characters or less – including punctuation! Click here to read more marvels of microfiction – and perhaps join in. It's fun!

Here is this week's picture accompanied by my story.

The girls were rooted to the spot. Light shone behind them. One had grown a cross on her hat. Strange symbols appeared on her sister's coat.
(140 characters)

Magpie Tales #31 A waste?

My brilliant girl, my only child – I had such hopes of her. After her father's departure from our lives we were a close, even closed unit. Our thoughts entwined, we were always in harmony. There was no need for any other in our family. We shared the same sensibilities, laughed and cried at the same things. Music was special – she played the flute and I accompanied her on the violin. We gave concerts but we knew we were never more than gifted amateurs. 
She excelled at everything she tried. She was athletic and languages came easily to her but it was Physics that fascinated her and which she eventually studied at degree level. She didn't go away to study but chose rather to attend a local university – it was a mutual decision arrived at after lengthy discussion. Nothing was ever hidden between us – we talked about everything and rarely disagreed. After completing her MSc she thought it was time to travel further afield to work on her doctorate. I'll never forget the feeling as I waved her off in her little car, stacked to the roof with all the things from home that she felt she couldn't live without.

She phoned me as soon as she arrived at her new lodgings. She sounded so excited that I felt a momentary pang of regret that I had not encouraged her to spread her wings earlier. As the days wore on her calls became briefer and then less frequent. I was content that she was happy and was myself very busy, working long hours. When she came home at the end of the first term our initial awkwardness with each other soon dissipated and we resumed our familiar relationship. She told me of the musical group she played with and the choir she had joined. She had made many friends, she said, and though I listened carefully I could discern no allusion to boyfriends, or at least not a particular one. I had a sense of her drawing away from me a little but thought it was natural that her new circumstances should affect her – after all, we were not sharing the same home or daily life any more.

During the second term she phoned less often than before and I began to call her more regularly. She was perfectly amicable but I sensed a certain reserve in her voice and wondered if my calls were irritating her. I asked her but she laughed and said I was imagining things, she was just very busy.

It was during the holidays – it must have been March, the Easter break – that she told me she had momentous news. She was very composed, almost detached as I sat opposite her in the warm kitchen. I was startled by her news but tried to hide my agitation. She had, after all, another term to complete. Her research was progressing favourably and her colleagues appreciated and applauded her work. This she told me quietly and matter-of-factly and finally, almost as an afterthought, she told me she would be leaving almost immediately.

I protested, calmly at first and then more vehemently until I realised she had made her decision and there would be no recanting. I stared at my daughter, suddenly a stranger to me, as she gazed at me and through me, a slight smile on her face, as if she were already departing this world.

Yesterday, I drove her to her new home. I waited while she changed her everyday clothes for the vestments she will wear from now on. We said our farewells and I left, with tears on my behalf and a look of tranquil understanding on hers. As I looked back I saw her turning away from the window, a new novitiate in a silent order of nuns.

Willow organises this weekly prompt. Thank you, Willow! Click here for more Magpies.