Bev Allen's Blog
March 13, 2017
New Blog
I know telling you about a blog on a blog is a bit odd, but I am doing more and more here
https://kentishmaid.wordpress.com/
I have worked out how to add pretty pictures over there, something I never mastered here :-)
You will find news of my new anthology there, its full of weird tales like the one about the man who has an affair with his garden pond.
Also "The Tattooed Tribes" is republished with a new cover.
Take a walk on the wild side with me.
There will be a new book very soon, "The Lord of the Faran Hills". A fantasy adventure full of mercenaries and muskets.
https://kentishmaid.wordpress.com/
I have worked out how to add pretty pictures over there, something I never mastered here :-)
You will find news of my new anthology there, its full of weird tales like the one about the man who has an affair with his garden pond.
Also "The Tattooed Tribes" is republished with a new cover.
Take a walk on the wild side with me.
There will be a new book very soon, "The Lord of the Faran Hills". A fantasy adventure full of mercenaries and muskets.
January 13, 2017
My Son. My Son
Its been a while, but here is a new short story for you.
My Son, My Son
A machine gave a sudden and unexpected burst of sound and she jumped in shock and terrible anticipation, but the noise stopped and no nurse or doctor rushed in response, so she assumed it wasn’t important.
But, her tired brain insisted, it is important, every line and every number on every monitor is important. This is my son lying here and he is dying.
She took his still hand, the one without the cannula and held it in a soft grip, her own hand shaking with fatigue. She’d not slept of what seemed like days and she’d been here ever since he went into surgery hours, hours ago. How long had he been in theatre? She didn’t know, time had become meaningless. At one point they had suggested she went home for a while, but she couldn’t leave him, not at a time like this.
She watched his face, hoping for some sign he was still there, still able to know her and remember what and who she was. As she held his hand and looked at the long fingers, so very like her own, she tried to remember every part of his life, as if by remembering she could hold it forever in amber. His birth over thirty years ago now, the pain and the fierce aching joy when they had laid him on her. She had counted his toes and those long fingers, loving every precious part of him. All she had wanted was to protect him and keep him safe, but now he was leaving her.
Many memories came flooding back, the little boy for whom walking was a whole new adventure, who came toddling towards her, arms out-stretched and laughing with delight; the little boy who learning to ride his first bike and shouting with pride when he climbed to the very top of the tall slide. The bigger boy who ran excitedly out onto the rugby pitch, who stepped confidently onto the stage and grinned at her from a dozen school photographs.
Then there was the young man in a cap and gown and the wonderful new job. Where had the years gone?
All the images wove themselves together and came back to this hospital bed and the unmoving form and the soft continuous buzz and blip of machines.
He was dying, her precious son was dying and all she could do was watch and wait.
A nurse came in, checked the machines, checked him and then asked if she needed anything. There was nothing, she couldn’t think of anything she could possibly need, but she automatically thanked the woman and never noticed when she went away.
Around her, behind the curtains ward life ran through its routine of checks and cleaning and medication and more checks, but she never noticed, her eyes and her mind were reserved for him, her precious son.
Her body must finally have betrayed her into sleep, because the pressure on her hand briefly confused her.
Their eyes met, one set dazed by drugs and pain, hers bright with tears.
“Is it over?” The voice was soft, barely a whisper.
“Yes, dear.”
“All gone?”
“Yes, dear.”
The smile crept across the pale face, a deep joy lifting the corners of the mouth. Then there was a deep contented sigh and sleep returned.
She thought as she watched, my son is dead – Freddy is dead, slain by his own will, but Felicity is now alive, as she always should have been.
I had a son, she thought, and I loved him more than life itself. I had a son, but he is dead and now I have a daughter. She looked down at the girl lying in the bed for a long time; then she bent over and kissed her.
(c) Bev Allen 2016
My Son, My Son
A machine gave a sudden and unexpected burst of sound and she jumped in shock and terrible anticipation, but the noise stopped and no nurse or doctor rushed in response, so she assumed it wasn’t important.
But, her tired brain insisted, it is important, every line and every number on every monitor is important. This is my son lying here and he is dying.
She took his still hand, the one without the cannula and held it in a soft grip, her own hand shaking with fatigue. She’d not slept of what seemed like days and she’d been here ever since he went into surgery hours, hours ago. How long had he been in theatre? She didn’t know, time had become meaningless. At one point they had suggested she went home for a while, but she couldn’t leave him, not at a time like this.
She watched his face, hoping for some sign he was still there, still able to know her and remember what and who she was. As she held his hand and looked at the long fingers, so very like her own, she tried to remember every part of his life, as if by remembering she could hold it forever in amber. His birth over thirty years ago now, the pain and the fierce aching joy when they had laid him on her. She had counted his toes and those long fingers, loving every precious part of him. All she had wanted was to protect him and keep him safe, but now he was leaving her.
Many memories came flooding back, the little boy for whom walking was a whole new adventure, who came toddling towards her, arms out-stretched and laughing with delight; the little boy who learning to ride his first bike and shouting with pride when he climbed to the very top of the tall slide. The bigger boy who ran excitedly out onto the rugby pitch, who stepped confidently onto the stage and grinned at her from a dozen school photographs.
Then there was the young man in a cap and gown and the wonderful new job. Where had the years gone?
All the images wove themselves together and came back to this hospital bed and the unmoving form and the soft continuous buzz and blip of machines.
He was dying, her precious son was dying and all she could do was watch and wait.
A nurse came in, checked the machines, checked him and then asked if she needed anything. There was nothing, she couldn’t think of anything she could possibly need, but she automatically thanked the woman and never noticed when she went away.
Around her, behind the curtains ward life ran through its routine of checks and cleaning and medication and more checks, but she never noticed, her eyes and her mind were reserved for him, her precious son.
Her body must finally have betrayed her into sleep, because the pressure on her hand briefly confused her.
Their eyes met, one set dazed by drugs and pain, hers bright with tears.
“Is it over?” The voice was soft, barely a whisper.
“Yes, dear.”
“All gone?”
“Yes, dear.”
The smile crept across the pale face, a deep joy lifting the corners of the mouth. Then there was a deep contented sigh and sleep returned.
She thought as she watched, my son is dead – Freddy is dead, slain by his own will, but Felicity is now alive, as she always should have been.
I had a son, she thought, and I loved him more than life itself. I had a son, but he is dead and now I have a daughter. She looked down at the girl lying in the bed for a long time; then she bent over and kissed her.
(c) Bev Allen 2016
September 12, 2015
January 18, 2015
Quine and Salsify
After reading my short story "A Solemn Curfew" in the "Secrets of Castle Drakon" anthology a couple of people have asked me what salsify is and if it is as good as Quine thought it was.
The answer is a definite YES.
One of the lesser known root vegetables, it looks like an elongated brown carrot, but when you peel it, it is creamy white on the inside.
It's like apple, it goes brown in the air, so have ready some water with a drop of lemon juice in it when you have peeled it and cut it into batons.
You can just boil it and serve it like a carrot, or mash it like a potato, but the most delicious way is how Quine served it.
He cooked it in water until just tender, then he egged and bread crumbed each piece and then he deep fried it. He, in his 14thC style kitchen would have used lard, but today I would shallow fry the bits in olive oil adding butter to make them go really crisp.
You occasionally see salsify in the better supermarkets and at farmer's markets, it is well worth buying when you do.
Enjoy1
The answer is a definite YES.
One of the lesser known root vegetables, it looks like an elongated brown carrot, but when you peel it, it is creamy white on the inside.
It's like apple, it goes brown in the air, so have ready some water with a drop of lemon juice in it when you have peeled it and cut it into batons.
You can just boil it and serve it like a carrot, or mash it like a potato, but the most delicious way is how Quine served it.
He cooked it in water until just tender, then he egged and bread crumbed each piece and then he deep fried it. He, in his 14thC style kitchen would have used lard, but today I would shallow fry the bits in olive oil adding butter to make them go really crisp.
You occasionally see salsify in the better supermarkets and at farmer's markets, it is well worth buying when you do.
Enjoy1
January 14, 2015
The Tattooed Tribes Part II
Now out on Amazon.com and .uk
My new book "The Tattooed Tribes" is now available. Tattooed warriors and eco-heroes battle to save a kidnapped maiden and save a whole planet from environmental devastation .
My new book "The Tattooed Tribes" is now available. Tattooed warriors and eco-heroes battle to save a kidnapped maiden and save a whole planet from environmental devastation .
December 28, 2014
The Secrets of Castle Drakon
If you follow my profile you will see a new title has appeared under the books I write or have written for.
This time it is a giant anthology of weird and wonderful tales commissioned by my publisher. Any of you who have read my story "Maud: A Garden Tale" know I have a secret addiction to writing odd stories with a bit of a twist.
The one in the above is called "A Solemn Curfew", I took the title from a line in The Tempest ‘.. to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice to hear the solemn curfew..’. Its a whole new take on "the kitchen sink drama" :-)
The anthology is currently free on Amazon and there are loads and loads of other stories in it, so you are sure to find something you like.
This time it is a giant anthology of weird and wonderful tales commissioned by my publisher. Any of you who have read my story "Maud: A Garden Tale" know I have a secret addiction to writing odd stories with a bit of a twist.
The one in the above is called "A Solemn Curfew", I took the title from a line in The Tempest ‘.. to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice to hear the solemn curfew..’. Its a whole new take on "the kitchen sink drama" :-)
The anthology is currently free on Amazon and there are loads and loads of other stories in it, so you are sure to find something you like.
December 4, 2014
The Tattooed Tribes
Thank you to all who read the preview of the above I posted last. The real thing is now available on Amazon to pre-order ahead of its release in the New Year.
http://mybook.to/TheTattooedTribesByB...
http://mybook.to/TheTattooedTribesByB...
July 21, 2014
A Preview
My second novel is called "The Tattooed Tribes". It will be published by Thorstruck Press. Here's the opening few pages. Let me know if you want to read more.
Some large insect had found its way into the depths of one of the woven basket which decorated the walls. The resulting deep drone and soft thuds was adding to the tension filling the room.
Silently a young apprentice edged away from his post by the door; lifted the basket down and gave it a firm shake.
The insect fell out; flew across to a closed window and began to beat itself against the glass buzzing twice as loudly.
The three men at the far end of the room looked up with varying degrees of disapproval. Carefully avoiding eye contact, the boy opened the window and freed the creature, before returning to his place by the door.
Jon Harabin had been contemplating the tattoos covering his hands and wrists for want of a better occupation, but now his eyes went from the apprentice to the young woman who had been sitting in front of him, totally silent for the last three minutes and said,
“Well?”
The word seemed to break her trace.
“Sorry?” she said a note of faint bewilderment in her voice.
“I asked you why you wish to be apprenticed as a Tribal Liaison Officer,” he repeated with studied patience.
She gave a coy smile and fluttered her eyelids at him.
“I just do,” she replied.
The apprentice paused in his study of the floor boards and slapped a hand over his mouth to smother a laugh, but catching Jon’s eye became very solemn, very quickly.
“Okay…Phoebe”, Jon said, after consulting the file in front of him. “We’ll try this from a different angle. How long have you wished to be a TLO?”
“Ages,” she responded, leaning forward slightly to allow him a more generous view of her cleavage.
Jon’s left hand clenched, making the tattooed animals there writhe.
“Was this after you read ‘Love under the Canopy’ or before?” he asked.
“Before,” she replied instantly. “It was after I saw ‘Passion in Paradise’”.
The apprentice turned his back to hide his face, but his shoulders were shaking.
Jon glanced at the men on either side of him, one was gazing resolutely at the ceiling; the other had his head down.
“In view of the extensive research you’ve under taken,” Jon continued. “How do you see your role as an apprentice?”
“Well, um...I’d...you know.”
“No, Phoebe, I don’t know. I’ve not read the book, so I’m ignorant of what you think you’ll be required to do.”
She giggled,
“You must have read it.”
“No,” he replied with stern finality. “But I have read this!”
He thumped a weighty tome on the table.
“’The Requirements and Standing Orders of the Tribal Liaison Guild’, have you?”
She looked both mulish and sulky.
“If I’d known you were going to be mean, I’d never have applied,” she snapped. “And you’re a fake, nothing like it says in the books.”
The apprentice gave up the effort and howled with laughter.
“I think you’d better go, don’t you?” Jon said.
She flounced out of the room, giving the laughing boy a passing blow with an elbow as she went.
Jon dropped his head in despair.
“How many like her have we seen today?” he asked.
“I make her the ninth,” the man on the left replied. “And if you laugh like that again, my lad, there’ll be trouble.”
This was directed at his apprentice, still in the throes of hilarity.
“You’re enjoying this,” Jon accused. “Both of you.”
Senior Tribal Liaison Officers Cunliff and Machin exchanged grins and nodded.
“It’s your fault,” Jon growled. “If you’d not agreed to take that bloody woman up into the hills, she’d never have written that bloody book.”
Cunliff threw his hands up in defence.
“Orders are orders,” he protested. “And how was I to know what she’d go home and write that.”
Love under the Canopy” had taken Earth by storm. After nearly five hundred years of senseless conflict, The Great War had finally ended little more than fifty years ago and in the time since most authors had written and re-written their war epics and the public were bored with the subject and ripe for something new.
Tatiana LeJuene had gone looking for inspiration and colour among the colonies so long cut off from the influence of civilisation.
None had fired her imagination as much as the forest world of Boskgrun. It had seen barely fifty years of settlement before war had left it to its own devices - forgotten, abandoned and cut off from all technology.
Enchanted by all she had seen, she had returned home to write a towering epic of conflict and love between the tribal culture that had grown during the time of isolation and the new settlers seeking homes away from the shattered inner worlds.
She had peppered her work with eulogies on the scenery she had encountered, hints of mysterious rituals and customs, and she had peopled it with sultry tribal maidens, passionate half-savage warriors and a brave and handsome Tribal Liaison Officer.
It had taken the home worlds by storm, firing the public imagination and generating many, many imitators.
Suddenly, from being nothing more than back-water specialists working to reconcile the descendents of the first colonists with the newly arriving ones, Tribal Liaison Officers had become the romantic heroes and heroines of legend and their profession the dream job of thousands.
Some large insect had found its way into the depths of one of the woven basket which decorated the walls. The resulting deep drone and soft thuds was adding to the tension filling the room.
Silently a young apprentice edged away from his post by the door; lifted the basket down and gave it a firm shake.
The insect fell out; flew across to a closed window and began to beat itself against the glass buzzing twice as loudly.
The three men at the far end of the room looked up with varying degrees of disapproval. Carefully avoiding eye contact, the boy opened the window and freed the creature, before returning to his place by the door.
Jon Harabin had been contemplating the tattoos covering his hands and wrists for want of a better occupation, but now his eyes went from the apprentice to the young woman who had been sitting in front of him, totally silent for the last three minutes and said,
“Well?”
The word seemed to break her trace.
“Sorry?” she said a note of faint bewilderment in her voice.
“I asked you why you wish to be apprenticed as a Tribal Liaison Officer,” he repeated with studied patience.
She gave a coy smile and fluttered her eyelids at him.
“I just do,” she replied.
The apprentice paused in his study of the floor boards and slapped a hand over his mouth to smother a laugh, but catching Jon’s eye became very solemn, very quickly.
“Okay…Phoebe”, Jon said, after consulting the file in front of him. “We’ll try this from a different angle. How long have you wished to be a TLO?”
“Ages,” she responded, leaning forward slightly to allow him a more generous view of her cleavage.
Jon’s left hand clenched, making the tattooed animals there writhe.
“Was this after you read ‘Love under the Canopy’ or before?” he asked.
“Before,” she replied instantly. “It was after I saw ‘Passion in Paradise’”.
The apprentice turned his back to hide his face, but his shoulders were shaking.
Jon glanced at the men on either side of him, one was gazing resolutely at the ceiling; the other had his head down.
“In view of the extensive research you’ve under taken,” Jon continued. “How do you see your role as an apprentice?”
“Well, um...I’d...you know.”
“No, Phoebe, I don’t know. I’ve not read the book, so I’m ignorant of what you think you’ll be required to do.”
She giggled,
“You must have read it.”
“No,” he replied with stern finality. “But I have read this!”
He thumped a weighty tome on the table.
“’The Requirements and Standing Orders of the Tribal Liaison Guild’, have you?”
She looked both mulish and sulky.
“If I’d known you were going to be mean, I’d never have applied,” she snapped. “And you’re a fake, nothing like it says in the books.”
The apprentice gave up the effort and howled with laughter.
“I think you’d better go, don’t you?” Jon said.
She flounced out of the room, giving the laughing boy a passing blow with an elbow as she went.
Jon dropped his head in despair.
“How many like her have we seen today?” he asked.
“I make her the ninth,” the man on the left replied. “And if you laugh like that again, my lad, there’ll be trouble.”
This was directed at his apprentice, still in the throes of hilarity.
“You’re enjoying this,” Jon accused. “Both of you.”
Senior Tribal Liaison Officers Cunliff and Machin exchanged grins and nodded.
“It’s your fault,” Jon growled. “If you’d not agreed to take that bloody woman up into the hills, she’d never have written that bloody book.”
Cunliff threw his hands up in defence.
“Orders are orders,” he protested. “And how was I to know what she’d go home and write that.”
Love under the Canopy” had taken Earth by storm. After nearly five hundred years of senseless conflict, The Great War had finally ended little more than fifty years ago and in the time since most authors had written and re-written their war epics and the public were bored with the subject and ripe for something new.
Tatiana LeJuene had gone looking for inspiration and colour among the colonies so long cut off from the influence of civilisation.
None had fired her imagination as much as the forest world of Boskgrun. It had seen barely fifty years of settlement before war had left it to its own devices - forgotten, abandoned and cut off from all technology.
Enchanted by all she had seen, she had returned home to write a towering epic of conflict and love between the tribal culture that had grown during the time of isolation and the new settlers seeking homes away from the shattered inner worlds.
She had peppered her work with eulogies on the scenery she had encountered, hints of mysterious rituals and customs, and she had peopled it with sultry tribal maidens, passionate half-savage warriors and a brave and handsome Tribal Liaison Officer.
It had taken the home worlds by storm, firing the public imagination and generating many, many imitators.
Suddenly, from being nothing more than back-water specialists working to reconcile the descendents of the first colonists with the newly arriving ones, Tribal Liaison Officers had become the romantic heroes and heroines of legend and their profession the dream job of thousands.
July 5, 2014
A Taster
Instead of a new short story, I thought I'd give you an exert from "Jabin". This is towards the middle when Jabin decides the time has come for him to make a stand.
There were about half a dozen of them, the oldest no more than five. Now he was close enough Jabin could smell them, fear had opened their bowels.
He stared in horror at the little faces gaunt with dehydration, terror and bewilderment. As he stepped closer they whimpered small animal sounds and clung to each other.
On the floor was a tiny baby, it seemed to be asleep, but the one little star like hand twitched.
Gently Jabin touched its cheek and the face turned the little mouth open and questing.
He snatched his hand back as if he had been stung and suddenly realised that these were Wittenmier’s “small stock” for “specialist markets”. Anger long suppressed and long beaten down surged through him.
He picked up a couple of the blankets and went back to Hoodle, he needed thinking time.
“No! No! Not those!” he said peevishly, “She needs sustenance. I told you to fetch one of the brats.”
They’re alive!” Jabin said.
“I know, I usually throttle them before I pop them in,” Hoodle replied, “Bring one!”
He pushed Jabin back to the corner.
There was a chance who ever was attacking would win and rescue them, but they might lose, what then?
He studied the little faces before him for another second.
Behind him were the remains of another table. He picked up a leg and weighed it in his hand; then he went back to Hoodle.
"Where’s that…” the man began, but he never finished his question because Jabin hit him over the head as hard as he could. He slumped to the floor, blood running from his ear.
Jabin didn’t know if he’d killed him and at that point he didn’t care.
Very soon the power would start to drop and that would bring guards to investigate. He slammed the door shut and locked it. A rapid search of the surroundings produced a fully loaded laser pistol.
Swiftly he built a barricade of everything he could find around the children; they shrank away from him, huddling against the wall.
“Please don’t cry,” he whispered to them, “We’re going to be all right. I promise.”
They didn’t seem to understand and he thought he couldn’t blame them; he hadn’t been very convincing.
He wasn’t convinced himself, but they were so small and the world was so full of cruelty. Somehow he had to protect them. How he’d do it, he’d no idea, but no one was going to hurt them or him ever again!
There were about half a dozen of them, the oldest no more than five. Now he was close enough Jabin could smell them, fear had opened their bowels.
He stared in horror at the little faces gaunt with dehydration, terror and bewilderment. As he stepped closer they whimpered small animal sounds and clung to each other.
On the floor was a tiny baby, it seemed to be asleep, but the one little star like hand twitched.
Gently Jabin touched its cheek and the face turned the little mouth open and questing.
He snatched his hand back as if he had been stung and suddenly realised that these were Wittenmier’s “small stock” for “specialist markets”. Anger long suppressed and long beaten down surged through him.
He picked up a couple of the blankets and went back to Hoodle, he needed thinking time.
“No! No! Not those!” he said peevishly, “She needs sustenance. I told you to fetch one of the brats.”
They’re alive!” Jabin said.
“I know, I usually throttle them before I pop them in,” Hoodle replied, “Bring one!”
He pushed Jabin back to the corner.
There was a chance who ever was attacking would win and rescue them, but they might lose, what then?
He studied the little faces before him for another second.
Behind him were the remains of another table. He picked up a leg and weighed it in his hand; then he went back to Hoodle.
"Where’s that…” the man began, but he never finished his question because Jabin hit him over the head as hard as he could. He slumped to the floor, blood running from his ear.
Jabin didn’t know if he’d killed him and at that point he didn’t care.
Very soon the power would start to drop and that would bring guards to investigate. He slammed the door shut and locked it. A rapid search of the surroundings produced a fully loaded laser pistol.
Swiftly he built a barricade of everything he could find around the children; they shrank away from him, huddling against the wall.
“Please don’t cry,” he whispered to them, “We’re going to be all right. I promise.”
They didn’t seem to understand and he thought he couldn’t blame them; he hadn’t been very convincing.
He wasn’t convinced himself, but they were so small and the world was so full of cruelty. Somehow he had to protect them. How he’d do it, he’d no idea, but no one was going to hurt them or him ever again!
December 15, 2013
Curls
A tale of childhood. And my gran.
Curls
I was nearly seven when my brother was born. Everyone was apparently enchanted by this event, but I reserved judgement.
I am probably still doing so.
For reasons which escaped me at the time, it was felt necessary to commemorate his first birthday with a joint portrait of the two of us. As far as I could see this would involve me in holding the little horror so he did not get near enough to the photographer to destroy his camera or any other expensive kit within range.
Having my photograph taken was one of my least favourite things; it still is. Some fool waving a lens and urging me to “smile” always makes me freeze. I have no idea how to smile on demand and I end up either simpering, smirking or looking as if I have lost my grip on sanity. However, my mother in pursuit of immortality her children, was unstoppable and she was enthusiastically supported by both my grandmothers.
My small round gran was a needlewoman of consummate skill and she made me a dress of white fabric with lemon polka dots all over it. It was pretty and it fitted perfectly and I hated it, T-shirt and shorts being my idea of haute couture.
She also made the horror a matching outfit in white and lemon. That was also very pretty and he looked nice in it, until he got down on the floor and turned it two shades of grey, but that was later.
My other large and lean gran was not going to be left out of this. She bought new shoes for both of us, but this was not enough; these would not be seen in the picture, so her mind turned to a subject very dear to her heart - my hair.
(By the way, the horror was nearly bald at the time and, ironically, time and age have returned him to this state, but I digress…)
Nature had endowed me with thick shiny brown hair so straight Romans could have used it to plan a road. No ribbon stayed in it for more than five minutes; nor did any slide, gripe or other embellishment and this was a source of much frustration to Gran.
She had left school to work in the Nottingham lace mills when she was only twelve. It took her two years to save enough money for her train fare to London where she found work as a nursery maid in a very smart house, the sort of house where a Victorian Nanny still ruled and little girls had ringlets. For my gran ringlets remained her ideal juene fille coiffure.
My hair was too short for them, but not for curls and she was determined I would have curls for the portrait.
I might have been safe if my Mother had not also yearned for curls. She had spent a lot of time and money on trying to get my hair to obey, but without any success. Now here was gran with the light of battle in her eyes and the promise of curls which would last. Mother was inclined to be cynical, but was unable to resist the allure of a daughter with a head full of fat rolls of shining hair.
Gran saw the cynicism and was challenged. Armed with all Nanny had taught her, I was going to be photographed with stunning hair and she was the one who was going to make it happen.
Had I been older, wiser or swifter on my feet, I would have found an escape route and possibly passage on a boat to somewhere safer, like a war zone, but I was trapped by two experienced women with a mission.
The day before the photo session Gran descended on us after dinner. It was not her usual time for visiting and I suddenly had the same feeling I am sure a trapped rabbit has just before the fox opens it’s jaws. My pudding spoon had only just made its last happy journey from the bowl to my face when she hauled me out of my chair and off to the bathroom.
“Your hair needs to be wet,” she told me.
She did not actually drown me, she had after all been an experienced nursery maid, but she made lavish use of a very large jug, copious amounts of the sort of shampoo which leaves you with eyes redder than a London bus and she was not one to molly coddle with warm water when cold worked just as well.
I protested, wailed and did a fair bit of crying and pleading, but she was deaf to it all. When I finally emerged, dripping, from the bathroom I found my mother hovering outside; I gave her a look I hoped would have her wracked with guilt for the rest of her life.
What followed was worse. Gran produced a bag full to the brim with long strips of fabric torn from an old sheet.
“Curling rags,” she told my mother in triumph. “Nothing works better, not even the hot tongs.”
My eyes met Mother’s at the words “hot tongs” and she mouthed “no tongs” at me. I was not sure if this meant Gran was tongless or that Mother was anti-tong, but either would do.
Now, for those of you without a grandmother like mine, here is how you rag hair. I have to say, I used the technique myself during my Pre-Raphaelite phase ( do not ask) , but for the happily ignorant… you take two strips of fabric and one section of wet hair and you plait ( Americans say “braid” ) them together, making sure you firmly knot the fabric at both ends so they do not come undone. Once your whole head is a delicious mass of fabric/hair ropes, you leave the whole to dry naturally, preferably overnight.
By the time Gran had finished, my head was covered in a mass of short stubby lumps and a very large number of knots.
“She will have to sleep in the rags,” Gran said. “And don’t take them out until just before you leave.”
The next morning, after a sleepless night spent trying to find a place on my pillow where a knot was not digging into me, I was in a very militant mood and determined to make sure every picture was ruined by frowning and, hopefully, dropping the horror on his head!
My brother was bedecked in his new outfit and then caged in the pushchair in the hope he would stay clean for a while and I was threatened, bribed and blackmailed into my dress.
Then came THE MOMENT.
As I sat, scuffing my new shoes against the chair leg, Mother began to unfetter my hair. As the rags fell to the ground her smile grew wider and the light of love shorn in her eyes. She did a tiny bit of titivating with a brush and then presented me with a mirror.
“There!” she said, in triumph. “Gran will be so pleased.”
I saw something I had never seen before ( or since), myself with a head full of shining, curling ringlets. They were not very long, but they clustered charmingly around my head and for once I looked exactly like the sort of little girl who loves her baby brother and plays with dollies and whose white ankle socks as still white at the end of the day.
A total and complete fake of course, but it was not completely revolting and I thought I could bear it for a short while.
As I gazed at this fiction I noticed something. It was very slight at first, but it was there and I could not keep the smirk from my face and I grinned up at my mother.
She looked, looked again and then said.
“Run!”
And we ran all the way to the studio.
I’ve still got the pictures. Me smiling at the camera, holding the horror and pointing to something which is making him laugh with delight. Our clothes look beautiful, even in old black and white photos and…if you look very closely, you can just about make out a slight wave in my smooth, shining hair.
(c)Bev Allen 2013
Curls
I was nearly seven when my brother was born. Everyone was apparently enchanted by this event, but I reserved judgement.
I am probably still doing so.
For reasons which escaped me at the time, it was felt necessary to commemorate his first birthday with a joint portrait of the two of us. As far as I could see this would involve me in holding the little horror so he did not get near enough to the photographer to destroy his camera or any other expensive kit within range.
Having my photograph taken was one of my least favourite things; it still is. Some fool waving a lens and urging me to “smile” always makes me freeze. I have no idea how to smile on demand and I end up either simpering, smirking or looking as if I have lost my grip on sanity. However, my mother in pursuit of immortality her children, was unstoppable and she was enthusiastically supported by both my grandmothers.
My small round gran was a needlewoman of consummate skill and she made me a dress of white fabric with lemon polka dots all over it. It was pretty and it fitted perfectly and I hated it, T-shirt and shorts being my idea of haute couture.
She also made the horror a matching outfit in white and lemon. That was also very pretty and he looked nice in it, until he got down on the floor and turned it two shades of grey, but that was later.
My other large and lean gran was not going to be left out of this. She bought new shoes for both of us, but this was not enough; these would not be seen in the picture, so her mind turned to a subject very dear to her heart - my hair.
(By the way, the horror was nearly bald at the time and, ironically, time and age have returned him to this state, but I digress…)
Nature had endowed me with thick shiny brown hair so straight Romans could have used it to plan a road. No ribbon stayed in it for more than five minutes; nor did any slide, gripe or other embellishment and this was a source of much frustration to Gran.
She had left school to work in the Nottingham lace mills when she was only twelve. It took her two years to save enough money for her train fare to London where she found work as a nursery maid in a very smart house, the sort of house where a Victorian Nanny still ruled and little girls had ringlets. For my gran ringlets remained her ideal juene fille coiffure.
My hair was too short for them, but not for curls and she was determined I would have curls for the portrait.
I might have been safe if my Mother had not also yearned for curls. She had spent a lot of time and money on trying to get my hair to obey, but without any success. Now here was gran with the light of battle in her eyes and the promise of curls which would last. Mother was inclined to be cynical, but was unable to resist the allure of a daughter with a head full of fat rolls of shining hair.
Gran saw the cynicism and was challenged. Armed with all Nanny had taught her, I was going to be photographed with stunning hair and she was the one who was going to make it happen.
Had I been older, wiser or swifter on my feet, I would have found an escape route and possibly passage on a boat to somewhere safer, like a war zone, but I was trapped by two experienced women with a mission.
The day before the photo session Gran descended on us after dinner. It was not her usual time for visiting and I suddenly had the same feeling I am sure a trapped rabbit has just before the fox opens it’s jaws. My pudding spoon had only just made its last happy journey from the bowl to my face when she hauled me out of my chair and off to the bathroom.
“Your hair needs to be wet,” she told me.
She did not actually drown me, she had after all been an experienced nursery maid, but she made lavish use of a very large jug, copious amounts of the sort of shampoo which leaves you with eyes redder than a London bus and she was not one to molly coddle with warm water when cold worked just as well.
I protested, wailed and did a fair bit of crying and pleading, but she was deaf to it all. When I finally emerged, dripping, from the bathroom I found my mother hovering outside; I gave her a look I hoped would have her wracked with guilt for the rest of her life.
What followed was worse. Gran produced a bag full to the brim with long strips of fabric torn from an old sheet.
“Curling rags,” she told my mother in triumph. “Nothing works better, not even the hot tongs.”
My eyes met Mother’s at the words “hot tongs” and she mouthed “no tongs” at me. I was not sure if this meant Gran was tongless or that Mother was anti-tong, but either would do.
Now, for those of you without a grandmother like mine, here is how you rag hair. I have to say, I used the technique myself during my Pre-Raphaelite phase ( do not ask) , but for the happily ignorant… you take two strips of fabric and one section of wet hair and you plait ( Americans say “braid” ) them together, making sure you firmly knot the fabric at both ends so they do not come undone. Once your whole head is a delicious mass of fabric/hair ropes, you leave the whole to dry naturally, preferably overnight.
By the time Gran had finished, my head was covered in a mass of short stubby lumps and a very large number of knots.
“She will have to sleep in the rags,” Gran said. “And don’t take them out until just before you leave.”
The next morning, after a sleepless night spent trying to find a place on my pillow where a knot was not digging into me, I was in a very militant mood and determined to make sure every picture was ruined by frowning and, hopefully, dropping the horror on his head!
My brother was bedecked in his new outfit and then caged in the pushchair in the hope he would stay clean for a while and I was threatened, bribed and blackmailed into my dress.
Then came THE MOMENT.
As I sat, scuffing my new shoes against the chair leg, Mother began to unfetter my hair. As the rags fell to the ground her smile grew wider and the light of love shorn in her eyes. She did a tiny bit of titivating with a brush and then presented me with a mirror.
“There!” she said, in triumph. “Gran will be so pleased.”
I saw something I had never seen before ( or since), myself with a head full of shining, curling ringlets. They were not very long, but they clustered charmingly around my head and for once I looked exactly like the sort of little girl who loves her baby brother and plays with dollies and whose white ankle socks as still white at the end of the day.
A total and complete fake of course, but it was not completely revolting and I thought I could bear it for a short while.
As I gazed at this fiction I noticed something. It was very slight at first, but it was there and I could not keep the smirk from my face and I grinned up at my mother.
She looked, looked again and then said.
“Run!”
And we ran all the way to the studio.
I’ve still got the pictures. Me smiling at the camera, holding the horror and pointing to something which is making him laugh with delight. Our clothes look beautiful, even in old black and white photos and…if you look very closely, you can just about make out a slight wave in my smooth, shining hair.
(c)Bev Allen 2013
