Bev Allen's Blog, page 2
August 29, 2013
Sorry
A quick "sorry" to all of you lovely people who read my short stories. I am feeling very guilty because I haven't given you a new one for months and months.
The truth is I'm a bit bogged down in writing a new (3rd) book. I am hoping the second one "Lucien and the Tattooed Tribes" is going to see the light of day in the not too distant future, but that is in the hands of my publisher.
Hey! If you liked "Jabin" maybe you could tell them and suggest you are in desperate need of a new work by yours truly?
No? Oh well, it was worth a try:-)
In the meantime, I am working on another "Grandmother" story and I will post it as soon as I can.
Bev
The truth is I'm a bit bogged down in writing a new (3rd) book. I am hoping the second one "Lucien and the Tattooed Tribes" is going to see the light of day in the not too distant future, but that is in the hands of my publisher.
Hey! If you liked "Jabin" maybe you could tell them and suggest you are in desperate need of a new work by yours truly?
No? Oh well, it was worth a try:-)
In the meantime, I am working on another "Grandmother" story and I will post it as soon as I can.
Bev
May 23, 2013
Going Home
I've been a bit busy, so just a very short story this time.
Going Home
The wind ripped the handkerchief she had been waving from her fingers and carried off high above the liner’s bows.
Despite the cold she could not bring herself to go below, she stood by the rail and watched the shore slipped further and further away as the evening tide carrying them out. She knew when she came on deck tomorrow green waters would have turned to blue and the land would be a memory.
She had always promised herself she would go home, go back to her mother and all her brothers and sisters. Every part of her had ached for the familiar faces and familiar places of home.
Eventually she could bear the aching need no longer and she had packed her case and fled back to the land of her birth.
Once there, softly and quietly the familiar had wrapped itself about her. Remembered sights and smells and sounds had woven in and out of her senses, drawing her back to the places she had left when she had begun her great adventure.
She had come home and home had welcomed her with open arms, but now she was leaving them again, crossing back over the great ocean.
As the light finally faded and she could no longer see the dark shadow of the land, her thoughts turned to the wooden cabin by the lake.
The fruit harvest would over and soon the trees would blaze with the colours of autumn, heralding the promise of the long white winter to come.
He would be there, waiting.
When she left, she believed she was going back to where she belonged, but now the ship was carrying her back to him and to the land she knew she would forever more call home.
(My Aunt Jean went to Canada in the 1920s. She always said you have to go back before you really know where you belong).
© Bev Allen
Going Home
The wind ripped the handkerchief she had been waving from her fingers and carried off high above the liner’s bows.
Despite the cold she could not bring herself to go below, she stood by the rail and watched the shore slipped further and further away as the evening tide carrying them out. She knew when she came on deck tomorrow green waters would have turned to blue and the land would be a memory.
She had always promised herself she would go home, go back to her mother and all her brothers and sisters. Every part of her had ached for the familiar faces and familiar places of home.
Eventually she could bear the aching need no longer and she had packed her case and fled back to the land of her birth.
Once there, softly and quietly the familiar had wrapped itself about her. Remembered sights and smells and sounds had woven in and out of her senses, drawing her back to the places she had left when she had begun her great adventure.
She had come home and home had welcomed her with open arms, but now she was leaving them again, crossing back over the great ocean.
As the light finally faded and she could no longer see the dark shadow of the land, her thoughts turned to the wooden cabin by the lake.
The fruit harvest would over and soon the trees would blaze with the colours of autumn, heralding the promise of the long white winter to come.
He would be there, waiting.
When she left, she believed she was going back to where she belonged, but now the ship was carrying her back to him and to the land she knew she would forever more call home.
(My Aunt Jean went to Canada in the 1920s. She always said you have to go back before you really know where you belong).
© Bev Allen
April 21, 2013
Words
The clean air of spring drifted through the kitchen door to evict winter from the corners where it still lingered. From the windows, opened wide to the pale sunshine, she could hear the distant voices of her children at play.
Here she was surrounded by the familiar, the boundaries of her daily life and routine - the deal table, the sink and the draining board and the words that shaped her daily life. Shaped it in ephemeral ways; the way of bright packets and recipes snipped from magazines and the little notes she wrote to herself on small pieces of scrap paper.
“Remember flowers for church.”
“Eggs, flour, shoe polish, starch.”
“Collect Millie’s shoes from cobblers.”
“Don’t forget to pay the milkman.”
These were the words of her daily life.
This was her world, this small place of little notes and kitchens, but there were other, bigger worlds and they had their own words.
She stood watching the dust particles suspended in a shaft of pale light and some rose into her mind only to fall and be replaced by others.
“In the beginning....”
“On the Origin of Species....”
“We hold these truths to be self evident...”
Words could shape an entire way of thinking.
And there was,
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today...”
She looked at the late April daffodils nodding in the jam jar on the window sill and back to the piece of paper whose words had just changed her world forever,
“From Admiralty: Regret to inform you...”
© Bev Allen 2013
Here she was surrounded by the familiar, the boundaries of her daily life and routine - the deal table, the sink and the draining board and the words that shaped her daily life. Shaped it in ephemeral ways; the way of bright packets and recipes snipped from magazines and the little notes she wrote to herself on small pieces of scrap paper.
“Remember flowers for church.”
“Eggs, flour, shoe polish, starch.”
“Collect Millie’s shoes from cobblers.”
“Don’t forget to pay the milkman.”
These were the words of her daily life.
This was her world, this small place of little notes and kitchens, but there were other, bigger worlds and they had their own words.
She stood watching the dust particles suspended in a shaft of pale light and some rose into her mind only to fall and be replaced by others.
“In the beginning....”
“On the Origin of Species....”
“We hold these truths to be self evident...”
Words could shape an entire way of thinking.
And there was,
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today...”
She looked at the late April daffodils nodding in the jam jar on the window sill and back to the piece of paper whose words had just changed her world forever,
“From Admiralty: Regret to inform you...”
© Bev Allen 2013
March 19, 2013
The Golden Fishes
I knew this web site thing was going far, far to well. The bloody thing won't let me post anything new on the blog.
So, my darlings, you get the new story first and anyone who looks there will have to wait until I work out the mechanics.
This is a story of a time long ago. The past, as they say, is a different country.
The Golden Fish
They were going to fetch the golden fish. Three golden fishes that would live in the rain butt until the old pond could be cleaned out ready for them.
The rain butt was by the back door in the shadow of the house; a cool damp place full of mystery and delight. If she stood on tip toe she could gaze down into its green depths and wonder what was at the bottom. Sometimes she would reach in and trail her fingers in the water, feeling the cool softness of rainwater, so different from the harsh, lime ridden liquid that gushed from the taps and turned the inside of the kettle white.
Green feathers grew from the sides of the butt, trailing like wisps of emerald cloud. If she tried to lift them out they just became soft green slime on her fingers, only deep in the water did they hold their magical beauty.
There were other wonders in the moss underneath, a toad lived there, as brown and wet as the wood. She had only seen it a couple of times, but today she bent down to whisper the news of fish as gold as his eyes.
The fish had been living in the pond of a big house that was being knocked down and they had been left to die She could not understand how anyone could allow something so wondrous and precious to die.
But they were now going to be saved.
She could hardly breathe with excitement and there was a wriggling feeling in her tummy, because there was more; He was going to collect them today and He said she could go with Him to help.
The joy and the excitement meant she forgot to be wary, forgot to look for the signs, instead she had waited eagerly while He found car keys and retrieve lighter and cigarettes from the table by His chair.
The car smelt as it always did of Him, a mix of after shave and cigarettes and the added smell of old leather baking in the morning sun. The heat burnt her bare legs as she climbed in beside Him.
It was only a short drive to the place, but for her it seemed to go on and on. She bounced up and down in her seat, looking for landmarks and chattering about all she saw and asking how much longer.
He answered her without impatience and she slipped further into the caress of unpreparedness.
She watched in an agony of anxiety as the golden fishes were netted out of their rumble polluted pond, huge and lustrous, nearly as big as her little fat arms.
Back in the car they swam round and round in the huge bucket she gripped tightly between her feet, the light through the windscreen glinted on their scales and the clear cold water flashed shades of deep orange and golden glowing yellow.
Her eyes feasted on them and she chatted on and on about how pretty they were and she missed the fingers beginning to drum on the wheel and the cigarette smoked in quick, snatched bursts.
She asked how long it would be to get home and He replied soon because He wanted to watch the rugger.
Words delighted her, and would for the rest of her life, and here was a new one. She asked what it meant and He explained in a few, brief words.
Watching the fish swim around and around she began to experiment, the smooth elegant dance of the fish filling the place caution lived.
“Lugger?” she offered Him on a tentative note.
“It’s a sort of boat”.
“Tugger?”
“There’s no such word.”
She should have caught the tone, should have known to keep watch, but her senses were bemused by the beauty before her and, because she was only five and because her name began with B, she said.
“Bugger.”
His left hand came down on her bare thighs leaving a mark the colour of poppies. It came down again and again and again. And all the time He never once took His eyes from the road ahead and He never looked at her sobbing salt tears onto the golden fishes.
She wept with the pain and she wept because she had once again spoilt everything. She was always spoiling everything and making Him annoyed so He had to slap her. She tried so hard, but again and again she made a mistake.
She wept again because she was as stupid as Daddy said her she was.
Mummy looked a question at Him as they came through the door and He snapped,
“Now she’s swearing for Christ’s sake! How much longer are we going to have to put up with her behaviour?”
He slammed the living room door behind Him and soon there was the sound of the television.
In the days to follow, the golden fishes swim their circuits in the rain butt and she watched them down in the green depths. Sometimes they seemed to disappear and she wondered what it would be like to be invisible. Perhaps you were safe where no-one could see or hear you.
She watched them again when they went to live in the pond and would came to the surface from their weed forest hideaways in search of food, but they never again had the power to fill her with delight.
They died one winter when ice cracked the bottom of the pond and all the water drained away before anyone noticed.
© Bev Allen 2013
So, my darlings, you get the new story first and anyone who looks there will have to wait until I work out the mechanics.
This is a story of a time long ago. The past, as they say, is a different country.
The Golden Fish
They were going to fetch the golden fish. Three golden fishes that would live in the rain butt until the old pond could be cleaned out ready for them.
The rain butt was by the back door in the shadow of the house; a cool damp place full of mystery and delight. If she stood on tip toe she could gaze down into its green depths and wonder what was at the bottom. Sometimes she would reach in and trail her fingers in the water, feeling the cool softness of rainwater, so different from the harsh, lime ridden liquid that gushed from the taps and turned the inside of the kettle white.
Green feathers grew from the sides of the butt, trailing like wisps of emerald cloud. If she tried to lift them out they just became soft green slime on her fingers, only deep in the water did they hold their magical beauty.
There were other wonders in the moss underneath, a toad lived there, as brown and wet as the wood. She had only seen it a couple of times, but today she bent down to whisper the news of fish as gold as his eyes.
The fish had been living in the pond of a big house that was being knocked down and they had been left to die She could not understand how anyone could allow something so wondrous and precious to die.
But they were now going to be saved.
She could hardly breathe with excitement and there was a wriggling feeling in her tummy, because there was more; He was going to collect them today and He said she could go with Him to help.
The joy and the excitement meant she forgot to be wary, forgot to look for the signs, instead she had waited eagerly while He found car keys and retrieve lighter and cigarettes from the table by His chair.
The car smelt as it always did of Him, a mix of after shave and cigarettes and the added smell of old leather baking in the morning sun. The heat burnt her bare legs as she climbed in beside Him.
It was only a short drive to the place, but for her it seemed to go on and on. She bounced up and down in her seat, looking for landmarks and chattering about all she saw and asking how much longer.
He answered her without impatience and she slipped further into the caress of unpreparedness.
She watched in an agony of anxiety as the golden fishes were netted out of their rumble polluted pond, huge and lustrous, nearly as big as her little fat arms.
Back in the car they swam round and round in the huge bucket she gripped tightly between her feet, the light through the windscreen glinted on their scales and the clear cold water flashed shades of deep orange and golden glowing yellow.
Her eyes feasted on them and she chatted on and on about how pretty they were and she missed the fingers beginning to drum on the wheel and the cigarette smoked in quick, snatched bursts.
She asked how long it would be to get home and He replied soon because He wanted to watch the rugger.
Words delighted her, and would for the rest of her life, and here was a new one. She asked what it meant and He explained in a few, brief words.
Watching the fish swim around and around she began to experiment, the smooth elegant dance of the fish filling the place caution lived.
“Lugger?” she offered Him on a tentative note.
“It’s a sort of boat”.
“Tugger?”
“There’s no such word.”
She should have caught the tone, should have known to keep watch, but her senses were bemused by the beauty before her and, because she was only five and because her name began with B, she said.
“Bugger.”
His left hand came down on her bare thighs leaving a mark the colour of poppies. It came down again and again and again. And all the time He never once took His eyes from the road ahead and He never looked at her sobbing salt tears onto the golden fishes.
She wept with the pain and she wept because she had once again spoilt everything. She was always spoiling everything and making Him annoyed so He had to slap her. She tried so hard, but again and again she made a mistake.
She wept again because she was as stupid as Daddy said her she was.
Mummy looked a question at Him as they came through the door and He snapped,
“Now she’s swearing for Christ’s sake! How much longer are we going to have to put up with her behaviour?”
He slammed the living room door behind Him and soon there was the sound of the television.
In the days to follow, the golden fishes swim their circuits in the rain butt and she watched them down in the green depths. Sometimes they seemed to disappear and she wondered what it would be like to be invisible. Perhaps you were safe where no-one could see or hear you.
She watched them again when they went to live in the pond and would came to the surface from their weed forest hideaways in search of food, but they never again had the power to fill her with delight.
They died one winter when ice cracked the bottom of the pond and all the water drained away before anyone noticed.
© Bev Allen 2013
March 17, 2013
Web Site
Hi Everyone
Just to let you all know I have set up a web site
www.bevallenauthor.com
I will be posting my short fiction there as well as here. Sometimes it will be different stuff on each, so I hope you will have the time to check out both.
If my publisher says its okay, I will put a sample of my next book up in due course.
It is with the editors now (I think/hope) and unless there is a change of plan, it will be called "Lucien and the Tattooed Tribes".
I'd like to thank all of you who take the time to read me, I hope you enjoy it.
Love
Bev xx
Just to let you all know I have set up a web site
www.bevallenauthor.com
I will be posting my short fiction there as well as here. Sometimes it will be different stuff on each, so I hope you will have the time to check out both.
If my publisher says its okay, I will put a sample of my next book up in due course.
It is with the editors now (I think/hope) and unless there is a change of plan, it will be called "Lucien and the Tattooed Tribes".
I'd like to thank all of you who take the time to read me, I hope you enjoy it.
Love
Bev xx
March 7, 2013
The Last One Left
My grandfather was one of 11 children. Two didn't survive childhood and one lost his life at Arras in 1917.
Of those left, not one was ordinary, to know them was to never forget them. I may tell you more about them in the future.
In the mean time.
The Last One Left
They were playing “do you remember” and I listened, rapt, as they recalled lives and names that were little more than twigs on the family tree of my knowledge.
Even the passing of many years could not keep the whisper of South London from Jean’s Canadian accent, an echo from their childhood which still rang clear and true in May’s voice.
Here at the end of the twentieth century I sat in the airport and listened to stories from its beginning; and to others from the nineteenth century told to them and now told to me, while overhead the great jets that had not even been thought of when they were born, thundered the news of their arrivals and departures.
They sat side by side, one arm around the other’s waist as they had in those sepia pictures I had of them as children. They were the last two of my great grandmother’s long brood to arrive and now they were the last remaining. As I watched them it seemed as if years fell away and for a moment in time two very old ladies faded away and were replaced by two little girls in identical white dresses.
The demands of the announcer brought the stories too an end and I helped Jean to the wheel chair.
“Damn thing,” she snarled.
“You’ll drop your scotch if you try and walk,” I warned.
Her eyes sparkled as she cuddled the bottle.
The moment had come at last and they took each other’s hands. Cheeks with skin transparent with age touched. They whispered something to each other; then kissed. The tears were mine.
May and I watched until the plane was no more than a point in the sky.
“We’ve made a promise to each other,” she said.
“Next time in Canada?” I suggested.
“No” she replied calmly. “To never see or speak or have news of each other ever again”
“Why!” I demanded, appalled.
A tear rolled down her wrinkled cheek.
“Because that way neither of us will ever know we were the last one left.”
© Bev Allen 2013
Of those left, not one was ordinary, to know them was to never forget them. I may tell you more about them in the future.
In the mean time.
The Last One Left
They were playing “do you remember” and I listened, rapt, as they recalled lives and names that were little more than twigs on the family tree of my knowledge.
Even the passing of many years could not keep the whisper of South London from Jean’s Canadian accent, an echo from their childhood which still rang clear and true in May’s voice.
Here at the end of the twentieth century I sat in the airport and listened to stories from its beginning; and to others from the nineteenth century told to them and now told to me, while overhead the great jets that had not even been thought of when they were born, thundered the news of their arrivals and departures.
They sat side by side, one arm around the other’s waist as they had in those sepia pictures I had of them as children. They were the last two of my great grandmother’s long brood to arrive and now they were the last remaining. As I watched them it seemed as if years fell away and for a moment in time two very old ladies faded away and were replaced by two little girls in identical white dresses.
The demands of the announcer brought the stories too an end and I helped Jean to the wheel chair.
“Damn thing,” she snarled.
“You’ll drop your scotch if you try and walk,” I warned.
Her eyes sparkled as she cuddled the bottle.
The moment had come at last and they took each other’s hands. Cheeks with skin transparent with age touched. They whispered something to each other; then kissed. The tears were mine.
May and I watched until the plane was no more than a point in the sky.
“We’ve made a promise to each other,” she said.
“Next time in Canada?” I suggested.
“No” she replied calmly. “To never see or speak or have news of each other ever again”
“Why!” I demanded, appalled.
A tear rolled down her wrinkled cheek.
“Because that way neither of us will ever know we were the last one left.”
© Bev Allen 2013
February 16, 2013
Growing Things
This is my first, and possibly last, attempt at romance.
Growing Things
They were watching her from inside the villa.
They always watched her, right from the start, but there was no need, not any more.
It was better not to remember the start; it was best to tuck it away in the back of her mind and not to think of it.
He had, after all, been kinder than she had expected, perhaps kinder than either of them had expected.
The garden began to calm her as it always did. Her hands moved among the blossoms, choosing and rejecting.
At first she had come here to escape the long silences; the sound of his glass tapping on the table and the impatient drumming of his fingers.
This garden had been very different from the one at home, but it had been a refuge.
Somewhere away from him.
There had always been beauty here, but at first it had been strange. The plants and the herbs had been unfamiliar, and the scent filling the courtyard had been softer and subtler than the richly laden fragrances of home. This northern land of pale light did not encourage the vibrant blooms she was used too.
Was that why he had wanted her, to have some part of the warmth and the colour of the south?
Once believed she would wither and die here, but he had had no patience with this, refusing to allow her the solitude she craved, forcing her to leave the house and visit other people.
At first she had dreaded those visits, knowing there were questions her hostesses longed to ask and remarks they hoped would fall unconsidered from her lips. Unconsidered comments to be treasured and embellished; comments that would find their twisting, turning way back to him.
It was the gardens that provided her with conversation and evasion, the pregnant pauses could be filled with questions about what grew beyond the salon windows.
Sometimes she returned with a treasure, some admired plant dug from its home to be replanted in what she now had to call her home.
She wondered how the gardeners had felt about her offerings. They never said anything, it was not their place to say anything, but she often found her new arrivals did not survive their exile, so she took their care into her own hands.
At least she had, until he saw her carrying the heavy water jug. She had recoiled at his rage and fled from him, but the gardeners cared for everything afterwards.
Some of her plants were in flower now, things she had planted with her own hands. A small part of herself given to this land so far from all she had known.
She turned her back on the watching maid, there were tears on her cheeks and if they were seen he would know within the hour and he would be angry. She did not blame him for being angry; tears were not part of his bargain.
Her fingers closed around soft petals and crushed them.
It had been her father’s proud boast he was so rich and so powerful his daughters could choose their own husbands. With smug satisfaction he had seen the eldest three married where they wished and their spouses grateful for the privilege.
When it was to be her turn she had confidently taken her place in Society and looked about her for one special man. She believed she would know him the minute she saw him, after all, he walked through her day dreams and her sleeping dreams.
Theirs would be a marriage without barriers, because their understanding of each other would be so complete there would be no misunderstandings, no wounded feelings or jealousies. Their devotion would be total and no corner of their minds would be closed to the other, a marriage of souls as well as bodies and minds.
She smiled to herself, what had she known of love? Her father had rarely allowed a day to pass without telling her and her sisters how lucky they were to be so loved; even his most carping political opponents agreed he was a devoted father.
If he had warned her, given her the smallest clue, things might have been so much better.
Mother had sent her to the garden with wine, father was entertaining a very important guest; she was to serve them and make herself agreeable.
He had been standing like a weathered out crop of rock in a lush jungle; around him a trailing vine had dropped huge purple and crimson streaked flowers to stain the ground.
Their eyes had met and she had felt uncomfortable, but unafraid, there was after all, nothing to fear.
Father had introduced them and she had tried to engage him in conversation while she poured the wine, but he had responded with only, terse one word replies.
He might have been silent, but he never took his eyes from her, they watched her every movement and every gesture until she felt trapped and glad when Father had sent her away.
An hour later Mother had come and told her. There was no longer any money and although it wounded him, her father was forced to give her in marriage to restore his fortune. He was giving her to the man in the garden.
Looking back she wondered why she had not cried or screamed or pleaded, but she realised she had been in a state of shock.
It was full day before she was able to go to her father and ask him not to do this to her.
He had wept and pleaded for her forgiveness, but when she told him she was sorry to disappoint him, but she could not and would not marry this stranger, he had changed.
The weeping stopped and in the storm of rage that followed she learnt of the sacrifices he had made for his children, the suffering he had endured and how hurt he was to find it had been for nothing, his favourite daughter did not love him enough to do this small thing in return for all she had received
She protested at the injustice of this and then he hit her, single back hand blow to her face.
Dry eyed and silent she had gone to her room.
Dry eyed and silent she had gone to her wedding.
Father had wept again through the ceremony, bewailing the necessity, torturing himself with recriminations and drowning his grief in wine, but he recovered swiftly enough when the settlement was discussed.
What followed had been far worse; once they were alone together she had not been able to hide her distress or her repugnance. His anger had been shattering and although he had not taken it out on her, the silence of his rage, the suppressed fury of his shame and disappointment struck her far harder and scared her far more than any physical violence.
He had taken her north as soon as possible, wrenching her away from everything she had known. It had been a terrible journey full of uncomfortable silences and her uncontrollable tears.
Their first months together had been no better and she had sunk into melancholy, it was all so far away from the marriage of two kindred spirits she had always thought would be hers.
She tried to remember when it began to change, but there was no single moment. Slowly, as a garden grows, so the understanding between them had grown. Behind her, deep in the house, she heard the sound of his voice; he was home earlier than expected.
It was wondrous how things grew, the flowers in her garden, the child in her belly and her love for this stranger.
Turning she held out her arms to greet him.
© Bev Allen 2013
Growing Things
They were watching her from inside the villa.
They always watched her, right from the start, but there was no need, not any more.
It was better not to remember the start; it was best to tuck it away in the back of her mind and not to think of it.
He had, after all, been kinder than she had expected, perhaps kinder than either of them had expected.
The garden began to calm her as it always did. Her hands moved among the blossoms, choosing and rejecting.
At first she had come here to escape the long silences; the sound of his glass tapping on the table and the impatient drumming of his fingers.
This garden had been very different from the one at home, but it had been a refuge.
Somewhere away from him.
There had always been beauty here, but at first it had been strange. The plants and the herbs had been unfamiliar, and the scent filling the courtyard had been softer and subtler than the richly laden fragrances of home. This northern land of pale light did not encourage the vibrant blooms she was used too.
Was that why he had wanted her, to have some part of the warmth and the colour of the south?
Once believed she would wither and die here, but he had had no patience with this, refusing to allow her the solitude she craved, forcing her to leave the house and visit other people.
At first she had dreaded those visits, knowing there were questions her hostesses longed to ask and remarks they hoped would fall unconsidered from her lips. Unconsidered comments to be treasured and embellished; comments that would find their twisting, turning way back to him.
It was the gardens that provided her with conversation and evasion, the pregnant pauses could be filled with questions about what grew beyond the salon windows.
Sometimes she returned with a treasure, some admired plant dug from its home to be replanted in what she now had to call her home.
She wondered how the gardeners had felt about her offerings. They never said anything, it was not their place to say anything, but she often found her new arrivals did not survive their exile, so she took their care into her own hands.
At least she had, until he saw her carrying the heavy water jug. She had recoiled at his rage and fled from him, but the gardeners cared for everything afterwards.
Some of her plants were in flower now, things she had planted with her own hands. A small part of herself given to this land so far from all she had known.
She turned her back on the watching maid, there were tears on her cheeks and if they were seen he would know within the hour and he would be angry. She did not blame him for being angry; tears were not part of his bargain.
Her fingers closed around soft petals and crushed them.
It had been her father’s proud boast he was so rich and so powerful his daughters could choose their own husbands. With smug satisfaction he had seen the eldest three married where they wished and their spouses grateful for the privilege.
When it was to be her turn she had confidently taken her place in Society and looked about her for one special man. She believed she would know him the minute she saw him, after all, he walked through her day dreams and her sleeping dreams.
Theirs would be a marriage without barriers, because their understanding of each other would be so complete there would be no misunderstandings, no wounded feelings or jealousies. Their devotion would be total and no corner of their minds would be closed to the other, a marriage of souls as well as bodies and minds.
She smiled to herself, what had she known of love? Her father had rarely allowed a day to pass without telling her and her sisters how lucky they were to be so loved; even his most carping political opponents agreed he was a devoted father.
If he had warned her, given her the smallest clue, things might have been so much better.
Mother had sent her to the garden with wine, father was entertaining a very important guest; she was to serve them and make herself agreeable.
He had been standing like a weathered out crop of rock in a lush jungle; around him a trailing vine had dropped huge purple and crimson streaked flowers to stain the ground.
Their eyes had met and she had felt uncomfortable, but unafraid, there was after all, nothing to fear.
Father had introduced them and she had tried to engage him in conversation while she poured the wine, but he had responded with only, terse one word replies.
He might have been silent, but he never took his eyes from her, they watched her every movement and every gesture until she felt trapped and glad when Father had sent her away.
An hour later Mother had come and told her. There was no longer any money and although it wounded him, her father was forced to give her in marriage to restore his fortune. He was giving her to the man in the garden.
Looking back she wondered why she had not cried or screamed or pleaded, but she realised she had been in a state of shock.
It was full day before she was able to go to her father and ask him not to do this to her.
He had wept and pleaded for her forgiveness, but when she told him she was sorry to disappoint him, but she could not and would not marry this stranger, he had changed.
The weeping stopped and in the storm of rage that followed she learnt of the sacrifices he had made for his children, the suffering he had endured and how hurt he was to find it had been for nothing, his favourite daughter did not love him enough to do this small thing in return for all she had received
She protested at the injustice of this and then he hit her, single back hand blow to her face.
Dry eyed and silent she had gone to her room.
Dry eyed and silent she had gone to her wedding.
Father had wept again through the ceremony, bewailing the necessity, torturing himself with recriminations and drowning his grief in wine, but he recovered swiftly enough when the settlement was discussed.
What followed had been far worse; once they were alone together she had not been able to hide her distress or her repugnance. His anger had been shattering and although he had not taken it out on her, the silence of his rage, the suppressed fury of his shame and disappointment struck her far harder and scared her far more than any physical violence.
He had taken her north as soon as possible, wrenching her away from everything she had known. It had been a terrible journey full of uncomfortable silences and her uncontrollable tears.
Their first months together had been no better and she had sunk into melancholy, it was all so far away from the marriage of two kindred spirits she had always thought would be hers.
She tried to remember when it began to change, but there was no single moment. Slowly, as a garden grows, so the understanding between them had grown. Behind her, deep in the house, she heard the sound of his voice; he was home earlier than expected.
It was wondrous how things grew, the flowers in her garden, the child in her belly and her love for this stranger.
Turning she held out her arms to greet him.
© Bev Allen 2013
February 5, 2013
Sam
Again, I have mixed fact and fiction.
Sam
KIA Burma 20th Jan 1945
“Do you want to take my arm?”
“No, I do not want to take your arm” she replied crisply. “I’m quite capable of walking.”
She planted her stick more firmly in the turf and moved ahead of me, her face rigid with determination.
I followed; concerned the long hours in the plane and the now crushing humidity had taken more out of her than she was prepared to admit.
Her slow, but steady progress forward defied both me and the heat.
When I caught up she was looking around with her assessing eye, the one I recognised from childhood, the one that was so often the precursor of some ego shattering comment.
“They keep the place nice,” she said, approvingly.
I sighed with relief.
“For natives,” she added, with a disdainful sniff.
“Gran you can’t say things like that,” I protested furiously.
“Why not?” she demanded and moved on again between the rows of headstones.
I didn’t argue. More than years separated us; the world she had been born into was very different from the one I had entered. A difference perhaps greater than the one between the country we were visiting and the one we’d left to come here.
Two great wars stood between her birth and mine.
Ahead of me she made an incongruous picture against the back drop of vivid jungle green. I wore the lightest summer dress I owned, but she was all in determined black. Certain clothes went with certain events as far she was concerned and neither heat nor location would alter her view.
Even more incongruous was the small wreath of scarlet poppies in her hand, aliens bravely holding their own in the face of tropical magnificence. As alien as the old lady who had brought them half way around the world to this land of steaming heat and palm trees.
She moved ahead of me between the rows of headstones and I realised tears had dimmed her eyes and she had walked passed him.
“Gran,” I said, gently. “He’s here.”
Turning she came back to Plot 18, row D, grave no. 10.
Silently her hand went out and touched the badge cut into the stone; then she traced the letters of his name with fingers twisted by arthritis.
“I thought you were out in the jungle somewhere,” she whispered. “All alone.”
I took her hand and we stood silently while the long ranks of his brothers in arms stretched away from us row upon row.
“He was our Mam’s last baby. God knows enough of us had come and gone before, but there was something about him. We all loved him.”
She made a small derisive sound,
“Even our Da.”
She bent her old bones down to place her small wreath and was finally able to say goodbye to the little brother she had loved so much.
(c)Bev Allen 2012
Sam
KIA Burma 20th Jan 1945
“Do you want to take my arm?”
“No, I do not want to take your arm” she replied crisply. “I’m quite capable of walking.”
She planted her stick more firmly in the turf and moved ahead of me, her face rigid with determination.
I followed; concerned the long hours in the plane and the now crushing humidity had taken more out of her than she was prepared to admit.
Her slow, but steady progress forward defied both me and the heat.
When I caught up she was looking around with her assessing eye, the one I recognised from childhood, the one that was so often the precursor of some ego shattering comment.
“They keep the place nice,” she said, approvingly.
I sighed with relief.
“For natives,” she added, with a disdainful sniff.
“Gran you can’t say things like that,” I protested furiously.
“Why not?” she demanded and moved on again between the rows of headstones.
I didn’t argue. More than years separated us; the world she had been born into was very different from the one I had entered. A difference perhaps greater than the one between the country we were visiting and the one we’d left to come here.
Two great wars stood between her birth and mine.
Ahead of me she made an incongruous picture against the back drop of vivid jungle green. I wore the lightest summer dress I owned, but she was all in determined black. Certain clothes went with certain events as far she was concerned and neither heat nor location would alter her view.
Even more incongruous was the small wreath of scarlet poppies in her hand, aliens bravely holding their own in the face of tropical magnificence. As alien as the old lady who had brought them half way around the world to this land of steaming heat and palm trees.
She moved ahead of me between the rows of headstones and I realised tears had dimmed her eyes and she had walked passed him.
“Gran,” I said, gently. “He’s here.”
Turning she came back to Plot 18, row D, grave no. 10.
Silently her hand went out and touched the badge cut into the stone; then she traced the letters of his name with fingers twisted by arthritis.
“I thought you were out in the jungle somewhere,” she whispered. “All alone.”
I took her hand and we stood silently while the long ranks of his brothers in arms stretched away from us row upon row.
“He was our Mam’s last baby. God knows enough of us had come and gone before, but there was something about him. We all loved him.”
She made a small derisive sound,
“Even our Da.”
She bent her old bones down to place her small wreath and was finally able to say goodbye to the little brother she had loved so much.
(c)Bev Allen 2012
January 25, 2013
Margaret
Another story inspired by my family. This time a far more serious theme. Like a lot of families we have had to deal with our share of dementia, the horror and distress of seeing someone we love retreating into a shadow world and changing.
This offering is fiction, but it is based in hard learned experience.
Margaret
Margaret looked down at her bed.
It stood a neat testament to her early rising. Beds should be exited by six and made by seven thirty, except on Sunday when an extra half an hour was acceptable.
“Early to bed, early to rise” was one of her mother’s maxims.
One of many.
And Margaret agreed with her, provided the time between the two events was spent in uninterrupted sleep.
She wondered what her mother would say if she found her lying down on her bed in the middle of the afternoon, a week day afternoon. A single, silent tear rolled down her cheek, she was so tired she felt sick, the nausea coming over her in waves.
More than anything she wanted to lie upon the bed and sink down into the depths of oblivion. Sink down into sleep and stay that way until some internal clock announced she was no longer tired.
She allowed temptation to seduce her and sat down on the edge, one tiny excuse would see her head on the pillow and her eyes crashing shut. And she would have found that excuse but for the knowledge her mother would awake from her afternoon doze in the next half an hour and demand her attendance.
The room had been hers long ago, she’d left it behind for a world full of possibilities, but her mother had kept it almost unchanged, forever Margaret’s room.
A sheet anchor in the storms of life or a cable to drag her back?
On the table in front of the window was an unfinished jigsaw. She marked the days by how much or how little she was able to do. Once she had sewn intricate pictures in cross stitch, setting each little cross like a jewel in a frame work, building a beautiful creation out of colour and time and patient skill.
Now she was too tired to concentrate, to count the stitches and to match the threads. She satisfied her need for creative order by jigsaws in those few precious moments when she had any leisure.
“Margaret! Margaret!”
The querulous voice sounded from below. She shut her ears and tried to ignore it just for a few last precious seconds.
“Margaret!”
Once she had sat in this same bed and cried out for comfort. And a woman she loved had come and given it, soothed her fears, eased her pains, wiped away all tears.
“Margaret! Margaret!”
“I’m coming,” she replied and went to answer the demands of an old lady who now only remembered a name.
(c) Bev Allen 2011
This offering is fiction, but it is based in hard learned experience.
Margaret
Margaret looked down at her bed.
It stood a neat testament to her early rising. Beds should be exited by six and made by seven thirty, except on Sunday when an extra half an hour was acceptable.
“Early to bed, early to rise” was one of her mother’s maxims.
One of many.
And Margaret agreed with her, provided the time between the two events was spent in uninterrupted sleep.
She wondered what her mother would say if she found her lying down on her bed in the middle of the afternoon, a week day afternoon. A single, silent tear rolled down her cheek, she was so tired she felt sick, the nausea coming over her in waves.
More than anything she wanted to lie upon the bed and sink down into the depths of oblivion. Sink down into sleep and stay that way until some internal clock announced she was no longer tired.
She allowed temptation to seduce her and sat down on the edge, one tiny excuse would see her head on the pillow and her eyes crashing shut. And she would have found that excuse but for the knowledge her mother would awake from her afternoon doze in the next half an hour and demand her attendance.
The room had been hers long ago, she’d left it behind for a world full of possibilities, but her mother had kept it almost unchanged, forever Margaret’s room.
A sheet anchor in the storms of life or a cable to drag her back?
On the table in front of the window was an unfinished jigsaw. She marked the days by how much or how little she was able to do. Once she had sewn intricate pictures in cross stitch, setting each little cross like a jewel in a frame work, building a beautiful creation out of colour and time and patient skill.
Now she was too tired to concentrate, to count the stitches and to match the threads. She satisfied her need for creative order by jigsaws in those few precious moments when she had any leisure.
“Margaret! Margaret!”
The querulous voice sounded from below. She shut her ears and tried to ignore it just for a few last precious seconds.
“Margaret!”
Once she had sat in this same bed and cried out for comfort. And a woman she loved had come and given it, soothed her fears, eased her pains, wiped away all tears.
“Margaret! Margaret!”
“I’m coming,” she replied and went to answer the demands of an old lady who now only remembered a name.
(c) Bev Allen 2011
January 18, 2013
Obscene
That got your attention didn't it:-). There's nothing like a hint of the sordid to get everyone in a tiny flurry of speculation.
Its snowing here and the world looks like a Christmas card and that always brings one destination to my mind. Here is a story related to that destination.
The second of the stories about my grandmothers.
Obscenity
To Mother it was an idea of genius, but my ten year old self was filled with consternation. And, glancing up at my father and seeing the expression of horror on his face and the droop of the cigarette permanently glued to his lip, I guessed I was not alone.
“She’ll enjoy it,” Mother stated firmly, “And yes, you do both have to come! It’s to be our birthday present.”
Gifts for my grandmother were a source of anxiety for my mother. The wish to delight a mother in law who although difficult, tactless, obstinate and opinionated, was also generous and loving, taxed her imagination and worried her.
I had already worked out Gran’s needs were few and her tastes ran towards the sentimental and the tacky, but to my mother, convent educated with exquisite taste and beautiful manners, Gran was a mystery.
I watched her try and balance her own need for refinement against Gran’s delight in china poodles, crocheted toilet roll covers and pictures of children with huge sad eyes accompanied by a dog of equally melancholic attitude.
This year Mother was triumphant, she had come up with the perfect solution; we would take Gran to see a film. Not just any old film, but an all singing, all dancing block buster of sugary sentiment and sweet mawkishness that must appeal to the owner of all those doggy ornaments.
Father protested and I sulked, but Mother was not listening, the night was going to be the perfect treat for one unpredictable old lady and like it or not, we were going to be there to see her enjoyment and Mother’s victory.
Young as I was, I could smell the whiff of danger even as we left the house.
My worst fears were confirmed when we got to Gran’s house and she was sitting primly in her chair wearing her duty outfit, the one reserved for attending such functions as funerals and visits to her solicitor. Her best black coat was buttoned to the neck, her hands were gloved and she was wearing her “going out” lipstick, a shade of red just past pillar box.
Seated beside me in the back of Father’s car, her “good” hand bag firmly clamped to her knees she fixed the back of Mother’s head with a basilisk stare.
“I have not been to a picture house since 1939,” she announced in arctic tones.
“Good God,” Mother ejaculated, startled into giving Gran an opening, “Why not?”
“I had no desire to see war news,” she replied, “Nor the sort of silly film they thought proper for us ignorant people.”
I watched mother stiffen. Gran was uneducated, forced to leave school at the age eleven to work in the Nottingham lace mills, but she was not ignorant, far from it, but claiming to be so was one of her greatest weapons in the game of being difficult.
“That was a long time ago,” Mother said, brightly, “You’ll find it’s all very different now and I’m sure you’ll like this film. It’s in colour you know.”
All this revelation got was a sniff.
“You must have heard of it,” Mother continued, by now assailed with doubts.
“I have,” Gran admitted, “Lilly was speaking about it. She’s seen it five times.”
I chanced a sideways look at her face and caught a hint of anticipation. She was intrigued; her best friend and closest rival Mrs Rhodes had seen the film and while I would have bet my sixpence pocket money Gran hadn’t allowed her to gossip about it as much as she would have liked, sufficient information had been imparted to convince Gran she might be missing something.
Perhaps this hadn’t been such a very bad idea after all.
I knew I was going to hate the film when the opening shot ranged over some field and a lady began to sing. There were a load of nuns as well and I found myself feeling very sorry for Mother if she’d had to listen to singing like that all day in the convent.
By the time a lot of very silly children began to add to the noise I had finished my chocolates and was aware of just how uncomfortable my seat was. I did a great deal of wriggling and sighing and kicking the back of the seat in front to see how long it would be before its owner turned around.
Gran was between me and Mother, so I got away with all this. Finally the boredom and the darkness made my eyes grow heavy and I slipped into sleep.
I woke up when Gran shook me.
“Stand up,” she snapped.
I stumbled to my feet and realised the national anthem was playing and everyone was beginning to leave the cinema. The cool night air woke me and I began to take notice of the adults.
“What did you think?” Mother asked father with a bright smile.
He just looked at her like a man who had been in pain for the last hour or so.
“Well I thought it was good,” she said with false gaiety, “The scenery was lovely. Did you enjoy it, Millie?”
“I did not,” Gran replied firmly, “It was the most disgusting exhibition I ever saw.”
Even Father seemed stunned by this pronouncement and I bitterly regretted going to sleep. What had I missed?
“Allowing a young girl like that to marry a man old enough to be her father,” Gran continued, “Disgraceful behaviour. Utter filth! I’m surprised they were allowed to make a film about it.”
Mother’s jaw dropped.
“And I’m ashamed of you, Alice, allowing your child to see it! It was obscene. I am only glad the lamb slept through the worst of it.”
With this she swept me passed the posters of Julie Andrews and Christopher Plummer, covering my eyes to protect my innocence.
(c) Bev Allen 2011
Its snowing here and the world looks like a Christmas card and that always brings one destination to my mind. Here is a story related to that destination.
The second of the stories about my grandmothers.
Obscenity
To Mother it was an idea of genius, but my ten year old self was filled with consternation. And, glancing up at my father and seeing the expression of horror on his face and the droop of the cigarette permanently glued to his lip, I guessed I was not alone.
“She’ll enjoy it,” Mother stated firmly, “And yes, you do both have to come! It’s to be our birthday present.”
Gifts for my grandmother were a source of anxiety for my mother. The wish to delight a mother in law who although difficult, tactless, obstinate and opinionated, was also generous and loving, taxed her imagination and worried her.
I had already worked out Gran’s needs were few and her tastes ran towards the sentimental and the tacky, but to my mother, convent educated with exquisite taste and beautiful manners, Gran was a mystery.
I watched her try and balance her own need for refinement against Gran’s delight in china poodles, crocheted toilet roll covers and pictures of children with huge sad eyes accompanied by a dog of equally melancholic attitude.
This year Mother was triumphant, she had come up with the perfect solution; we would take Gran to see a film. Not just any old film, but an all singing, all dancing block buster of sugary sentiment and sweet mawkishness that must appeal to the owner of all those doggy ornaments.
Father protested and I sulked, but Mother was not listening, the night was going to be the perfect treat for one unpredictable old lady and like it or not, we were going to be there to see her enjoyment and Mother’s victory.
Young as I was, I could smell the whiff of danger even as we left the house.
My worst fears were confirmed when we got to Gran’s house and she was sitting primly in her chair wearing her duty outfit, the one reserved for attending such functions as funerals and visits to her solicitor. Her best black coat was buttoned to the neck, her hands were gloved and she was wearing her “going out” lipstick, a shade of red just past pillar box.
Seated beside me in the back of Father’s car, her “good” hand bag firmly clamped to her knees she fixed the back of Mother’s head with a basilisk stare.
“I have not been to a picture house since 1939,” she announced in arctic tones.
“Good God,” Mother ejaculated, startled into giving Gran an opening, “Why not?”
“I had no desire to see war news,” she replied, “Nor the sort of silly film they thought proper for us ignorant people.”
I watched mother stiffen. Gran was uneducated, forced to leave school at the age eleven to work in the Nottingham lace mills, but she was not ignorant, far from it, but claiming to be so was one of her greatest weapons in the game of being difficult.
“That was a long time ago,” Mother said, brightly, “You’ll find it’s all very different now and I’m sure you’ll like this film. It’s in colour you know.”
All this revelation got was a sniff.
“You must have heard of it,” Mother continued, by now assailed with doubts.
“I have,” Gran admitted, “Lilly was speaking about it. She’s seen it five times.”
I chanced a sideways look at her face and caught a hint of anticipation. She was intrigued; her best friend and closest rival Mrs Rhodes had seen the film and while I would have bet my sixpence pocket money Gran hadn’t allowed her to gossip about it as much as she would have liked, sufficient information had been imparted to convince Gran she might be missing something.
Perhaps this hadn’t been such a very bad idea after all.
I knew I was going to hate the film when the opening shot ranged over some field and a lady began to sing. There were a load of nuns as well and I found myself feeling very sorry for Mother if she’d had to listen to singing like that all day in the convent.
By the time a lot of very silly children began to add to the noise I had finished my chocolates and was aware of just how uncomfortable my seat was. I did a great deal of wriggling and sighing and kicking the back of the seat in front to see how long it would be before its owner turned around.
Gran was between me and Mother, so I got away with all this. Finally the boredom and the darkness made my eyes grow heavy and I slipped into sleep.
I woke up when Gran shook me.
“Stand up,” she snapped.
I stumbled to my feet and realised the national anthem was playing and everyone was beginning to leave the cinema. The cool night air woke me and I began to take notice of the adults.
“What did you think?” Mother asked father with a bright smile.
He just looked at her like a man who had been in pain for the last hour or so.
“Well I thought it was good,” she said with false gaiety, “The scenery was lovely. Did you enjoy it, Millie?”
“I did not,” Gran replied firmly, “It was the most disgusting exhibition I ever saw.”
Even Father seemed stunned by this pronouncement and I bitterly regretted going to sleep. What had I missed?
“Allowing a young girl like that to marry a man old enough to be her father,” Gran continued, “Disgraceful behaviour. Utter filth! I’m surprised they were allowed to make a film about it.”
Mother’s jaw dropped.
“And I’m ashamed of you, Alice, allowing your child to see it! It was obscene. I am only glad the lamb slept through the worst of it.”
With this she swept me passed the posters of Julie Andrews and Christopher Plummer, covering my eyes to protect my innocence.
(c) Bev Allen 2011
