David Hadley's Blog, page 106

The Child into the World

The Child into the World

Ready to be grasped, and held there
in the open palm of one calm
understanding hand, like the patient,
safe hand of a mother, or father
taking the child out into the world

for the very first time. To see how high
growing goes and how far the distance
we have to walk down these roads,
before we can return to a place
we can understand as our home.

 

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

Headline Acts

Potemkin Fuzzpedal was once the UK's most famous nightclub and workingmen's club act during the heyday of those institutions. At least, before TV and social changes brought about the decline of those establishments. Until then, Potemkin Fuzzpedal and his Performing Accountants; a song, a dance and an internal audit were the biggest draw on that particular circuit.

For the audiences, it was the sheer thrill of live accountancy performed on stage – usually without the aid of a safety net - that was so exciting. Especially so in the workingmen's clubs. Places where accountancy was regarded as something beyond the pale and even a mere invoice was regarded with suspicion and dread.

Back in those days most people, the working class especially, lived in an almost total cash economy. Therefore, the use of accountants was virtually unknown. So to see a real one, especially performing on stage, possibly – and daringly – with one of the new electronic calculators, was a dazzling and riveting spectacle. It conveyed the full glamour of accountancy to a mass audience for the first time.

In fact, most of today's top-flight glamorous celebrity accountants say they were inspired to tread the accounting boards through an early teenage exposure to Fuzzpedal and his dancing auditors. Some even talking of their own first fumbling attempts at cash-book reconciliation under the bedcovers late at night. Often before falling into a restless sleep filled with dreams of VAT returns and tax schedules.

All in all then, today's glamorous world of performance accountancy, where some of the big name partnerships regularly sell out the world's biggest arenas has a great deal to thank Potemkin Fuzzpedal for. Otherwise – who knows – accountancy could still be – unbelievable as it sounds now – a mere profession practised in cramped offices by unglamorous people who know little of the fame, fortune and celebrity status now enjoyed by today's headlining accountancy stage acts.

 

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

All These Twisting Roads

I built this tower with the room at the top for her. I set her down in that room with only one window to look through where she could see a world out beyond the tower. I created a door for her to learn how to open.

Beyond the door were twisting corridors, long involved staircases and rooms beyond rooms that would – eventually – allow her out into the world beyond the tower. In some of those rooms, I’d hidden clothes she could use to dress herself, food to feed herself, tools she could use and maps she could follow to lead her out through that final door into this waiting world.

Out beyond the tower, I’d made a whole world for her to search through. A landscape for her to find the paths, tracks and roads that led her away from the tower and deeper into this maze of a world.

I knew she would – eventually - find her way through this world, follow the cunning paths I had made for her with their many wrong turnings and twists, dead ends and false trails. I knew that she would not give up until; she knew she’d escaped from that tower and all her imprisonment implied.

She thought she was escaping, running to be free. She thought she was fleeing the tower and whatever nameless being had incarcerated her there. What she did not know was that I’d contrived this whole world, so that in running away from me she would be running to me.

Then, one day – at the end of the last twisting road – I would be waiting there to save her.

 

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

Not Today

This is what comes from the moment; this is what turns back from the open sky and away from the sea of possibilities that laps against the shore of the now. We have walked these beaches so often before. Each time, your eyes turn towards the distant horizon where the sky meets the sea. You long to be back there, riding the waves and diving deeper than I have ever known into a world I cannot touch. Meanwhile, I trap you here on the dry land, hoping the memories of your water-born freedom will fade, until you know longer know how to dive deep into the seas that lie forever beyond my reach.

I have woken alone in the night to see you silhouetted against the moonlit window, watching the waves flickering in the moonlight. Longing for your home, until I call your land name and you return to our bed with one last lingering glance over your shoulder to what was once the only life you knew.

Then, each morning, I turn first to make sure you remain here on my dry land. I know one morning I will wake to find you gone. I will never know if you could ever return to such a dry life once you have dived deep again and swum out across that moonlight sea into a far freedom beyond the reach of land. Lost far beyond any horizon I could ever see from where I stand.

I know now that one morning I must take you down to the beach, to the edge of your sea and then let you go. I just hope, each morning, as I turn to you in our bed, that today is not that day.

 

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

The Day We Met

I saw her as she came through the door into the café. I was sitting at my usual table, back near the far wall. There, I could sit with my back against the wall and watch everyone who came in, yet be far enough away from the counter so that I wasn’t bothered by people passing by me on their way to get served. I watched her for a few moments; liking what I saw, liking the way she moved. She had that special grace about her that fascinates me. I always like watching a woman who moves through the world with a lightness of step, a delicacy, but at the same time an ease and a confidence.

I could have watched her for a while. I had the feeling she would be someone who made a ceremony out of her coffee break. Someone who would sit, sip and appreciate, take delicate bites from her sandwich or cake, take an interest in the world around her. Me, though, I was too busy. I had something to write. For once I had something I felt I ought to write, not the usual half-baked musings on the inconsequential I’d been passing - wasting – my time on lately. That morning I’d woken up with a thought nagging my mind and now it had grown, matured, and was now something I felt I could use.

A shadow passed across my table and stopped.

I looked up.

She stood there, coffee and a cake, one in each hand. ‘May I?’ she said.

‘Yes, sure. Of course.’ I made a show of moving my laptop so she could put down her cup and plate. She sidled across the seat, knees together.

‘I hope I’m not disturbing you,’ she said, looking at me with an intensity that made me lower the lid on my laptop.

‘No,’ I lied. ‘I’m more or less done… for the moment.’ I resigned myself to never finishing that idea, of it fading away and disappearing like a rain puddle on a hot day.

‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ she said.

I looked at her. ‘No.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘Then we must not have met yet… and I’m just in time.’

‘In time for what?’ I laughed.

‘To save your life,’ she said.

 

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

Britain's Leading TV Actress

Podcast Bellydance is probably the UK's current most in-demand TV actress. From last year's surprise hit, the 1960s-set, police procedural Get us a Cup of Tea, Luv, to the turn of the Twentieth Century great house drama, set in Poshgits Hall, Time for Afternoon Tea. She has served tea to some of Britain's best-loved character actors and actresses.

Of course, serving tea, either on stage or the TV set or location, is one of the most demanding roles an actor can undertake. Especially if they have to take a cup of tea across the set or stage and hand it to another actor or actress, sometimes when saying some lines at the same time.

As Bellydance herself says: 'acting is of course just dressing up and playing pretend like we all used to do as children. However, it is of course much harder than that. We do have to remember the lines given to us by the writer and try to same them at the right time and in the right order. Sometimes we have to do this whilst doing something else as well, like walking – or even carrying a cup of tea.'

Several critics have claimed it is especially brave of Bellydance to perform her own tea-carrying stunts. Mostly without calling for a stuntman and or a body double to take over these arduous and exacting tasks, while she does the hard work of both remembering her lines and remembering to say them at the appropriate points.

'I also have to remember to blink occasionally,' Bellydance said in a recent interview where she spent most of her time learning her lines for her next scene. All while reminding herself where to breathe and – most importantly - blink. 'Luckily, I've always been cast in these demanding roles,' Bellydance added. 'Sometimes my characters have to blink several times a scene. Having to remember to breathe, blink and say the right words is demanding enough, of course. But I also think it adds depth to my portrayals of these characters if I actually carry a cup of tea in the way these characters would in real life.

Bellydance is very excited about her forthcoming role in a new film. The title of which is yet to be released. However, rumour has it she will be seen on the screen performing a full-frontal biscuit-dunking scene. We can only admire the courage she has, when saying she'll perform such a demanding scene herself without the aid of a stunt stand-in.

 

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

The Day I Wrote for Her

This was the special day I wrote for her. I chose that early morning of springtime. I chose that day when, waking up, we realise the long winter is gone. There is sunlight, birdsong, and the first returning of the green world bursting out of the dull grey winter we have left behind.

I chose a morning where she did not have to be out of bed, unwilling in the rush of mornings never noticed. She could take her time; throw off the sheets and lie, feeling the real warmth of the sun on her naked skin.

I chose a house for her to live where she could walk out of the door still undressed, facing the world in all her naked honesty, as she had so often wished deep in her secret dreams. There was a garden full of those spring flowers, already blooming and alive on this warm morning and only a single cloud to give contrast between its white and the deep blue sky.

At the bottom of her garden, I'd placed a river, flowing gentle and slow, ready for her to walk into, cold with a hint of snow. A river she could wash in and feel connected to the morning I'd brought for her.

Then, when she got back home, she would find her favourite breakfast and hot black coffee waiting for her out on the patio and a soft robe to take away the chill of the snow-melt water.

And I would be there too, patiently waiting in the shadows for her to come back to me.

 

Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

The Days of the Deluge

It was, as they later said, something approaching a bit of a bugger. However, at the time everyone was too busy erecting their defences against the feared encroachment. Each town, village and hamlet in the area had lookouts posted at strategic points around the area to ward of the approaching flood. Local shops reported a run on sandbags and other defences as well as wood and nails to board up doors, windows and any other weak points where the deluge could worm its way inside.

Still, as the time approached ever nearer, people grew more and more nervous. Some began stockpiling food, fearing they could be cut off from civilisation once it began. All had little or no idea when they would walk the streets in safety again.

It began slowly, the lookouts reported the first signs of the beginning early one morning with reports of TV news vehicles sighted on the horizon and a local radio reporter found wandering the streets.

These were early days, though.

Then it began.

First it was somewhat desultory, a few election leaflets posted through the door with the party activists fleeing before the disturbed householders could complain. Some hoped that if they kicked up enough fuss in these early days then they would be safe.

But it was not to be.

Soon the flood began as doorbell after doorbell was rung, as loudspeaker van after loudspeaker van began to plague the streets. Soon the dribble of leaflets turned into a flood.

People were too scared to stay at home in case they were trapped there by the politicians seeking their vote, and too scared to venture out in case some roving rabid media report captured them for an impromptu vox pop.

Most just cowered inside, curtains drawn, lights and TV off. All living off cold canned goods until the word filtered through that the by-election was – at long last – over. Only then could they, if they'd survived, pick up the pieces of their shattered lives and try to live as normal a life as possible once again....

Until the next time.

 

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

The Maiden Flight

Even then it was not quite all that we were led to believe, even if the optional courgette was included. Still, for that sort of price it is hard to complain, although that doesn't stop some from trying.

Anyway, once the flight engineer had lubricated all the necessary parts, it was time to take our positions for the maiden flight. Although, by this time the maiden herself was busy checking her phone diary trying to find some urgent appointment elsewhere, preferably not on the intended flightpath.

However, the various health and safety checks were now complete, a mere five and a half years after the idea was first mooted. Some still say, however, that the first year of preparations for the maiden flight, or to be accurate, maiden's flight of the decade saw the greatest influx of health and safety inspectors into one location the world has ever known. Such is the nature of progress.

Some do say that if Wilbur and Orville Wright had been subject to the same amount of health and safety scrutiny their machine would have been unable to take to the air. Mainly because of the extra weight of the warning stickers, alert notices and other such safety paraphernalia mandated by such inspectors.

However, our maiden had her high-visibility jacket, safety helmet and – of course – her mandatory emergency courgette, so there was very little the inspectorate could do to halt it. Except check there wasn't another form somewhere in the regulatory universe that would give them more justification for their existence.

So, there she stood at the runway, with all mandatory health warnings, safety instructions and emergency gear all around her, ready for the take off.

It was only then that some small boy, usually found around the feet of fashion-conscious emperors, pointed out that in our haste to comply with all the health and safety inspections, and locate a suitable safety courgette, we'd somehow forgotten to build the plane.

Still, we have until next Tuesday before our maiden is due elsewhere.

 

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

These Stories We Tell Each Other

We tell one other stories of these times and places. We have no choice.

Without the story of the morning about how the sun rises beyond those far hills, our days could not begin.

Without the stories of the animals moving across these landscapes and the tales of how the plants grow we would have nothing to eat. Then our dry bones would be the only story we could tell to that warming sun. Without the long twisting tale of the river we would have no fish, nothing to drink and no way of taking ourselves down to where the sea waits. Its waves tumbling over one another in their haste to hear us tell the great legends of the sea and the tales of the seafarers who risked all to travel across it is search of more tales to tell. The tales of distant lands and peoples who each have their own stories of how this world came to be, and their place inside it the sailors tell us on their return.

Without you, I would have no tale to tell of how it feels to wake and not be alone with only the trees and the animals to sing my stories to. Without your stories of children that grow inside you, then break free to run across these hillsides making the stories of their own life then there would be no-one to tell all these stories to.

And what else is there, except these stories we tell one another?

 

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]