I can’t believe it’s my great grandson’s 100th birthday, seems like only yesterday I was saying ‘I can’t believe I’m a great grandmother.’
I was on the way out by then, several of those conditions eliminated or curable these days. Hanging around was not what I wanted and I set about applying on line to go to Switzerland. I’m still not sure what went wrong, but instead of signing up for Dignitas I had volunteered for Digitass; basically I was downloaded onto a home computer, stuck in my son’s living room forever. Though he’s long gone and I have been moved around a lot since then by various descendants.
Like Concorde and the space shuttle, oh you wouldn’t remember them, anyway Digitass didn’t last long before it was uninvented on moral grounds. I’m one of the lucky ones, not homeless. Those without family or descendants, or family that got fed up with them, were put in storage, staring at blank walls or switched off. That’s been hushed up for decades.
In answer to your question, nobody else in my family was downloaded before it was halted, they had a fair idea what it would be like. I have seen so many of my family die and it never gets any easier. It’s still rare for someone like my great grandson to reach a century, especially now it’s so easy to opt out.
I don’t really get bored; the ‘great-great-greats’ bring their friends like you to talk to me, ask me questions for homework, or just dead curious, ha ha, Dead curious, I can still make jokes. On the rare occasions the family are not too busy, they take me out for ‘a bit of fresh air.’ The irony lost on them that I can’t smell the fresh air. I am glad to see the outside world though, strangely the first quarter of the 22nd century looks very much like the world we were promised in the early years of the 21st century.
Do you know what I miss most, apart from independence? Food. When I see them sitting round stuffing their faces I can almost recall what taste was like. The days are so long without meal breaks and the conviviality of the family dinner table. And what wouldn’t I give for a cup of tea.
The nights are even longer of course as I need no sleep. I have considered applying to be switched off, but that is still against the law and my family don’t approve.
Dilys opened her freezer to discover a bottle of vodka in the top drawer. When she opened the fridge door she did not recognise any of the contents, oat milk, tubs of strange coloured dips and cans of drinks she had never heard of. ‘So This Is Christmas’ she hummed to herself. Well, she wanted to be taken out of her comfort zone.
She opened the back door to check on the weather and was alarmed to see clouds of smoke. Stepping out she was overwhelmed with memories of the little sweet shop.
‘Is it okay if we vape out here Aunty Dill, don’t want to do it indoors and have the little ones see us.’
‘Oh um yes, so that’s what vaping is, I didn’t think it would smell so sickly, I mean sweet.’
‘Different flavours.’
For years Dilys and Joan never saw any family at Christmas, or any other time. The nephews and nieces had their own busy lives to get on with and apparently assumed the two sisters were happy going to church on Christmas morning and having Mr Baxter next door round for lunch. But they were not church goers and Mr Baxter would leave the usual tin of Quality Street for them and fly off somewhere exotic till it was all over. Dilys much preferred Roses chocolates.
When Joan died, leaving Dilys the only survivor of that generation, the families of her late brothers suddenly became aware of her existence and decided she must not be alone at Christmas. They assured her that having three generations to stay in the big house would be no trouble as they would bring all the supplies and do the cooking.
After what happened with Gerald, Joan had insisted she return to the family home they had been brought up in. Joan had stayed on in the house after the death of their parents, the home left solely to her as she had cared for them. It had only been for a few weeks as father had died unexpectedly and mother suddenly deteriorated. Presumably they also left Joan the house as Dilys and her older brothers were all settled in life; they could not have predicted what would happen with Gerald. Dilys had intended it only to be a temporary stay, but there was plenty of room in the large family house and she never worked out how to earn enough to get her own place. There had been a plan B to go travelling, but that never materialised.
With Joan gone she realised she now had the independence she had sought for so long. Dilys quickly established a new community for herself, new friends and interests. Most women seemed to end up on their own at this age, it didn’t matter how they got there. New friends and acquaintances were uninterested in her past and if they did enquire, her enigmatic references made what happened with Gerald sound far more interesting than it actually had been.
There were now things to do and places to go other than the dreaded evenings of Bridge Joan insisted on. Once back indoors Dilys found she was not lonely as she explored the internet on the new home computer the silver surfers class had helped her install.
The young relatives had bought her an iPad and iPhone for Christmas and installed some aps, whatever they were. She was nervous about using the iThingy, but if she got stuck, Mr. Baxter or the silver surfers would help her. Dilys was determined to advance into the future with her new independent self and prove Joan wrong that all this modern stuff was not for them.
Her family seemed to include cooks, computer experts and DIY whizzes so her home was getting a lot of improvements. She had taken a deep breath and tried to laugh it off when she trod on Lego, not cringe when the antique dining table suffered various spillages and not worry as unrinsed beer cans and worse were tossed into her recycling bin.
A couple of days after Christmas Dilys ventured into the living room where her nice new television, installed by that friendly chap from the family run business in the high street, had taken on a life of its own. Dilys could work the remote, switch it on and off, change the few channels she watched and even record programmes. But it seemed the television was a computer gone mad. The older children asked her questions like ‘Have you got Netflix, where’s your Amazon firestick?’ She had no idea what they were talking about. Now there was no one in the room and the television was blaring out advertisements followed by frightening cartoon characters who loomed out of the screen. Tentatively she turned the set off and settled down to do her crossword. Suddenly a toddler came hurtling into the room, stopped in surprise then screamed out ‘Mummy, Mummy, Mr. Bobbly Bod’s gone.’
The house was no longer her own, when did they say they were all going? She crept up to her bedroom, the only sanctuary she had and searched for her tablets and library book. Her once calm pretty room was now stashed with all manner of things that had been rescued from the toddler.
Dinner that night was delicious, a dish she could never have made herself, though it was hard to relax and enjoy it with the toddler throwing food on the floor and a baby squishing food all round its face and all over the high chair, baby led weaning this was called. Of her many regrets at what happened with Gerald, never having children was not one of them. The presence of the little ones and stroppy pre-teens confirmed this. She looked around the crowded dining room. Her mother had always loved filling this big room with family and visitors and would have known exactly who was who. Dilys could identify her nephew and niece, but their partners were different to the original ones she and Joan had met. She was confused as to which babies belonged to who. One great niece had a wife, but who gave birth to the baby with whose egg and who the father was, no one seemed to know.
A great nephew was having his turn with the children for Christmas, but they had to be whisked off to the airport tomorrow and returned to their mother in New York. The way they behaved, she imagined this would be a great relief.
Dilys was too tired to contribute much to the conversation, they were all absorbed in discussions about new kitchens, Veganuary and child care. She smiled to herself. What tales she would have to tell the ‘gals’ at their next coffee morning and post Christmas debriefing. As she mused on the past, present and future of her family she detected a change in topic.
‘Yes we might as well stay on till New Year’s day at least, then we could all go out on New Year’s Eve, Aunty Dill won’t mind babysitting.’
Why they pinpointed our house I have no idea. I have no interest in celebrities and would not recognise one if they were on my doorstep. Which is why I did not recognise the celebrity on my doorstep this morning. I could not even tell if they were man or woman, girl or boy, but that was okay because nor could they. Apparently they are non binary and like to be referred to as they, even though there is only one of them.
I was on my doorstep in my dressing gown this morning because it was bin day and I was about to fetch the wheelie bin off the pavement before Betty came by with her rollator.
There they were with one foot on my doorstep and camera crew, microphones and blindingly bright lamps squeezed onto our narrow front path. I hadn’t even brushed my hair because it’s still dark these December mornings and I was not expecting to see anyone. If Roger hadn’t had his DIY accident he would have already fetched the bin in and gone to get his paper.
‘Good morning, six days till Christmas, how are you feeling?’
At that moment the front door slammed behind me; we still have a yale lock.
‘Trapped’ was my terse reply.
‘Ha ha, just like I was, but congratulations, you are the winner of today’s Christmas Cheer. Your decorations certainly brighten up this road.’
‘All my husband’s doing, he gets a bit carried away, that’s how he had his accident on the ladder.’
Our house did stand out, mainly because nobody else in our little road bothered. Why the celebrity and this team from Cheerful Cornflakes Channel had come to the dullest town in Britain, I had no idea.
By now the neighbours across the road, who never talk to anybody, were at my front gate, grinning like idiots, while Betty was caught in the spotlight like a frightened rabbit. I should have been in the shower getting ready for work.
When I finally did get to work I didn’t have to explain, they had all seen me on Cheerful Cornflakes Christmas special. It seemed Roger and I were the only people on the planet who had never watched I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of the War Zone. My celebrity was famous for not doing anything and being famous. They had won the competition, though as they had to be rescued by the SAS I don’t think that should count.
They were quite nice actually and came in for a cup of tea. Roger was bemused as he had no idea what had been going on outside. They asked him about his lighting arrangements, but it wasn’t a very interesting interview. Roger’s not a very interesting person. He isn’t on Facebook so nobody knows about our house and we don’t raise money for charity. Now everybody knows about our house.
I spotted him on Facebook. He had the same surname, my maiden name, an unusual name that I never come across outside my family. Was this Brian standing on a mountain top a relative? He was gazing across a rolling green landscape. His words with the picture were ‘Fantastic trail and so therapeutic.’
I followed the link to a national park in New Zealand, well he could still be a relative. On a whim I posted a comment.
‘Fantastic scenery. I wonder if we could be related, I have the same surname.’
Then I realised he was probably asleep, night time in New Zealand. I pondered which Facebook friends we could have in common, how else would I be seeing his post?
The next morning there was a brief reply to my comment.
‘Could well be, I came out here years ago.’
I was soon on the phone to Mum, she kept tabs on Dad’s relatives better than he had done.
‘Brian, Brian…hmmm your Dad’s cousin Sheila had a Brian who went out to New Zealand. I always used to send him a Christmas card, only ever got one back. Dad wondered why I bothered. I guess I did it for Sheila’s sake, her only son. He didn’t get over for her funeral; sent an ambiguous letter, not sure if it was health or money, but it is a long way. I never actually met him, not sure how old.’
I was curious. ‘Do you still have his address, I mean he probably moved around and never got your cards. But I could send him a Christmas card, from all the comments sounds like he’s been having a hard time.’
‘Bring your pill round tomorrow and show me, might not even be our Brian.’
‘You mean my tablet?’
‘Yes that screen thingy you’re always playing with.’
Mum and I checked him out, certainly seemed to be the real Brian. He had led an adventurous life, looking at some of his posts and he sounded an interesting chap.
I sent him a card, there was still time to post airmail across the world. That seemed less intrusive than trying to contact him on Messenger. Without thinking I put one of my charity address stickers on the back of the envelope.
Yesterday I had just returned from walking the dog in the rain, wet hair plastered on my face, muddy jeans and socks left by the back door, when I heard the doorbell. I was about to dart through the hall and dash upstairs to get showered and ready for my afternoon shift. I was not expecting anyone, perhaps John had ordered something from Amazon. I put my dressing gown on and went back downstairs to check if a parcel had been left.
I didn’t recognise him at first, drenched and with a shabby rain soaked bag at his side.
‘Surprise, surprise, thanks for your card, you don’t know how good it was to hear from someone at home.’
John wasn’t too pleased to come home late that evening and find we had a guest in the spare room, a guest wearing his dressing gown. Turns out he is not as interesting as his Facebook persona and apparently has far worse problems than his posts implied. Almost two weeks till Christmas and we don’t know what his plans are, but they include Christmas with ‘his family.’
But a tiny harbourside seaside town would surely only expect to have one or two murders in a decade?
I agree, in fact the tiny seaside town where we film has had no real murders in the past decade.
Precisely.
But that’s because they have had no crime at all since we started filming; the locals are paranoid they might be accidentally filmed dropping litter or parking on a double yellow line, let alone burglary or murder.
I may be going out on a limb here, but how about for the next series we don’t have any murders?
What would we have for a story line? How would we compete with Scandi Noir and cold cases in hot Australian country towns?
Gentle stories about real life, fishing trips and trips to the food bank, battles to keep the village school open.
That sounds boring, viewers expect some deaths.
I have a brainwave. Deaths that appear to be murder, but turn out to be natural causes. Woman found poisoned, new police constable notes her flat is filled with plants and recalls how his aunt always uses fresh water for her tea and waters her plants with the old water in the kettle. He ponders what if one or more of the plants is poisonous, the kettle touches the leaves and the poison is transferred to her tea, perhaps gradual build up. CID take no notice of him and this is where the drama comes in. He has to go out on a limb, photographing every plant, Googling them…
They, could be a female officer.
Okay, they, even though its only one officer…they get in touch with Kew Gardens and persuade them to send an expert who discovers a rare South American jungle plant next to the television set.
Or in the bathroom, it would like steamy conditions. But is that going to take six episodes?
Rich old lady found at the bottom of the stairs with a broken neck, who pushed her? My mother says most accidents on stairs are caused by remembering you have forgotten something and turning suddenly, half way up or down.
Hm, at least that’s quite violent.
Young farmer found with throat slashed in the barn; turns out he tripped over a free range hen and in a freak accident the abattoir knife they use to dispatch the outdoor reared pigs for their farm shop, slashes his throat. No cctv, everyone is blamed and the family torn apart, before a clever pathologist on holiday proves the truth.
Which was difficult because the pigs had already half eaten him…
No, No we don’t want too much gore.
Sorry, sorry, this is not going to work, especially as the BBC wants to axe us, production costs too high.
We can’t stop, it would ruin lives. Half the cast have bought holiday homes, or moved there permanently, got pigs and chickens and boats. And the locals would be devastated, they depend on our six months filming for business.
Hang on, I thought we had ruined their lives, causing property prices to rocket with everyone wanting to live there or have holiday homes. No chance for the young locals.
That’s why we pay the mortgages and rent for half the villagers, we need them as realistic extras.
No wonder production costs are so high, but it would cause an outcry. The public are looking forward to series eleven and the 2024 Christmas Special. We need to think of a really good plot, spy submarine in the harbour sinks a fishing boat with three generations on board…
It is only a tiny harbour… but perhaps further out at sea and then the submarine fires torpedoes at the lifeboat… yes, I think we can do it.
And for today’s cheerful tune, wouldn’t all writers like to write this fast?
An island community is calling for their independence to be recognised. The ᛏᛁᛈ ᛏᛟᛖ ᛈᛖᛟᛈᛚᛖ or Tip Toe People appear to have gone unnoticed on their little isle in the Irish Sea. Even ornithologists had no knowledge of a bird unique to ᛏᛁᛈ ᛏᛟᛖ ᛁᛋᛚᚨᚾᛞ, Tip Toe Island. Sea bird experts are refusing to disclose the location of this island surrounded by rugged seas.
The Tip Toe people are so called because they tip toe barefoot carefully around the ground nests of the Rainbow Gaeulls. Unlike most sea birds with their blacks, greys and whites the Rainbow Gaeull has bright red, yellow and blue plumage, fluorescent orange webbed feet and a magenta beak.
Their stunning appearance makes them vulnerable to attack by predators and humans and this is the likely reason they are only found on this island, protected by their unique ancient association with the Tip Toe people. The gaeulls take off each morning in their strange formation and spot shoals of fish, the Tip Toe fishermen then follow in their small boats. As they haul their nets in the birds are rewarded with a share of the bountiful catch.
But this idyllic lifestyle is threatened by the discovery of precious Iridium deep in a cave, at the base of the cliff on the rocky side of the island avoided by the Tip Toes.
The foolhardy adventurer who made the discovery remains anonymous and the Tip Toes claim to know nothing about his revelations. But he must have told someone because now Eire, Northern Island, Scotland, The Isle of Mann and England are all claiming ownership of the isle.
Now our intrepid reporter from BBC Radio Nan Gaidheal, Rhuari MacGael, has landed on the island and brings us this report.
‘Is iad na Toes Tip tíre garbh, wiry le gruaig rua fiáin, ach síochánta agus milis. The Tip Toes are a rugged, wiry folk with wild red hair, but peaceful and gentle, or so I have bin tellt. They claim their language is a unique mix of Gaelic, Cymraeg and ᚾᛟᚱᛋᛖ , a heritage from the lands that surround them and the seafaring Norsemen. So I am finding it a wee bit difficult to understand them and only a few islanders have a smattering of English. I tried to explain that David Attenborough is on their side. To which I think they replied
Pwy yw’r uffern yw David Attenborough?
Achub ein gaeulls enfys sanctaidd
They were pleading with me to leave their sacred birds alone, then they addressed me in i toin beagán níos láidre
Nid oes unrhyw un o’r tu allan erioed wedi gadael yr ynys hon yn fyw.
Concern is growing for a reporter from BBC Radio Nan Gaidheal who was last heard reporting from the newly discovered island of Tip Toe in the Irish Sea.
David Attenborough had earlier pleaded for this precious island and its unique birds to be left alone.
Language experts have been attempting to translate the last words Rhuari MacGael transmitted.
Fliss pulled open her bedroom curtains and sighed with delight. The rising sun set a rosy glow over the garden, it was going to be beautiful for her day off.
She waved everyone off to work and school and settled with her coffee in their so called sun lounge, the make shift extension her husband had cobbled onto the back of the house. With the autumn sun streaming in sideways, as she sat in the rickety cane chair, she could imagine herself to be in a posh conservatory.
The garden called, but so did the common. She felt so energised she could easily do her 10,000 steps, come home, plant all her spring bulbs, quick lunch then take her mother to the garden centre as promised, lovely relaxing afternoon tea and a good gossip. They could go in that farm shop and get some nice things for dinner.
Everyone was out on the common, walkers, joggers and dog owners; lots of people she knew or at least familiar faces who always smiled and waved. She should get a dog, why not, just because the rest of the family protested and vowed never to walk it if she brought a dog home. She would walk it herself twice a day, while doing her 10,000 steps, or 20,000, she was ready for 20,000. She smiled at dog walkers, already feeling part of the canine community and just laughed when a muddy retriever jumped up and left paw marks on her clean trousers. A labradoodle or springer spaniel would be perfect.
Back at home she scattered the bulbs all over the lawn, no more mowing, wildflower field with naturalised bulbs. Fliss dug enthusiastically into the tough wet grass; she could send a video in to Gardeners’ World, the new puppy trotting through the flowery meadow, perhaps she would get two dogs. She could take them into work, it was a wonderful company she worked for, very welcoming to children and pets of staff members, all part of looking after colleagues’ mental health.
Without warning everything suddenly went dark, Fliss looked up. The blue sky had disappeared and dark clouds rolled over the roof of her house, large rain drops landed on her nose. She looked at her watch, that time already, why had she agreed to take her mother out on her only day off? No doubt her mother would spend the afternoon complaining about anything and everything.
Fliss rushed to put the tools away and on impulse tossed the rest of the bulbs in the compost bin. The garden was a mess, John was right, might as well cover it all with a useful patio and he could knock down his dreadful extension at the same time. She stormed indoors and consumed a whole bar of her daughter’s chocolate while she threw on some clean clothes. If her mother commented on her choice of outfit she would definitely lose her rag. No time to think about this evening’s dinner, she wasn’t going to waste her day off cooking, they could take a turn in the kitchen for a change and if Johnn didn’t start doing his share of housework she would hand in her notice at work. She hated the job anyway, whatever possessed her to take it?
As Fliss opened the front door the rain lashed in; all she wanted to do was go back to bed, what a dreadful day.
I know all about witches, not the sort children dress up as for Halloween, white witches in tune with the seasons, the old ways, wheel of the year, Beltane etc. and of course it’s nearly Samhain now, Halloween. The white witches could help me with my new herb garden and I needed a new interest while Graham’s busy with his steam trains. I hoped there were still places left on the U3A Modern Witchcraft, beginners. ‘Ladies, as the nights draw in why not join your local Coven.’
I turned up at the new community centre, certainly nothing creepy about that brightly lit place. We were a mixed bunch, a lot of nervous chatter as we waited to see who was leading the session. There were no chairs so that eliminated the problem of where to sit.
‘Welcome Ladies.’
We were taken by surprise, we hadn’t seen anyone come in. We turned to see a motherly figure of indeterminate age.
‘People have all the wrong ideas about witches, not helped at this time of year with all the Halloween hype. And then there are the ones who think I can cure all their ills with a few herbs. The true witch wants to fine her true self, her other half, her doppelganger, perhaps you might say. We all have one, our repressed selves and we are going to find it. Close your eyes and recall what thoughts you had today. Did you let someone at work walk over you, cook what your husband wanted for dinner, not what you fancied, stopped yourself from swearing at that gormless teenager who nearly knocked you off the pavement, too busy looking at his phone?’
I could answer yes to all those and I saw others nodding.
‘Now imagine what you would do if you had no inhibitions. Don’t voice out loud.’
She frowned at me, must have seen me whispering and giggling with one of the others.
‘Now go deeper and darker, admit to yourself, have you ever wondered what it would be like to kick that ridiculous yapping handbag dog who’s always snapping at you? What if you pushed that cyclist off the pavement?’
I smiled to myself, yes…
‘Pushed that cyclist in front of a huge lorry…’
I felt a stab of guilt as if I really had killed someone. This class was not turning out as I expected.
‘But you still have within you the childish innocence, do you notice how children run and dance, wave their arms, totally at ease in their bodies. I want you to move around the room and allow yourself to be liberated, raise your arms, spin, sing your favourite song.’
We could not throw away our inhibitions that easily, we looked at each other waiting for someone else to start. But the leader swept round us with surprising grace for her size and somehow we all seemed to be humming the same tune. Then we were chanting, an ancient song, I felt weird, not sure who I was.
I could not believe two hours had passed, how did we get outside and where was our teacher? It was very dark, a fine night, the stars looked amazing.
‘I don’t feel like going home’ said one woman.
‘I think I’ll leave the car here and walk home, run perhaps’ said another.
’I’m going to dance home’ I trilled excitedly.
We floated past the pub where a few smokers were gathered outside. I have never even smoked, but I realised how much I had missed the scent of a newly lit cigarette. I grabbed the cigarette out of the hand of the surprised young man and took a long drag, what bliss; I decided I would take up smoking, hang the health risks.
I woke up the next morning pondering what a ridiculous evening it had been. No chance of me joining that coven, though I would look up doppelganger, I had no idea what it meant.
It was my turn to cook breakfast as Graham was going off to play with his steam trains. He liked a full English when he was on duty at the station, what he called his valuable volunteer work. As I slid the fried eggs onto the plate it suddenly dawned on me how easy it would be to smash the frying pan, hot fat and all, down on his head. Shocked by my thoughts I thrust the pan into the sink.
As I walked down the road to the day centre, where I volunteer, a young woman walked towards me with a take away coffee in one hand and her phone in the other, totally oblivious to my presence. Recalling the childish joy of raising my arms in the air I raised my arms under hers. The phone went flying into the gutter and the coffee poured down her front. Fancy having a bare midriff at this time of year, served her right. Her shocked scream rent the air and I marched on in satisfaction.
On this busy road I was not surprised to see a cyclist on the pavement, helmet on, visor over his eyes and those stupid white things sticking out of his ears. If I didn’t dodge him he would mow me down. It was so easy to heft him off the pavement. There was a screech of brakes and a red faced middle aged man clambered out of his car.
‘Bloody woman, what the hell did you do that for?’
‘Don’t you ~~~~ ~~~~~ yell at me you ~~~~ ~~~~ .’
I let out a string or obscenities I must have picked up from the teenagers who walk and cycle past my house on the way to school.
‘I could have damaged my new car.’
‘He could have damaged me.’
He suddenly started laughing…’You have made my morning, but do you think we should check on him?’
‘No, don’t bother’ I said and marched on.
I felt exhilarated and certainly did not feel like going to the day centre, though I could stop by to tell that stupid cow who runs it what I really think of her…
Well that certainly livened things up and gave the old folks a laugh, especially those with dementia.
Have you ever wondered what it would be like to go in a china shop and sweep all those delicate ornaments off the shelves? I was approaching that posh gift shop, the one with the snooty manager. Normally I am nervous of accidentally knocking something off. I was only going in to buy something for Graham’s mother’s birthday, another useless ornament to add to her ghastly collection. The manager was on the phone, didn’t even look at me, twittering on in that ridiculous voice of hers. My arms had never felt such freedom. She soon looked up from the phone with the wonderful sound of crashing and splintering, but I was already back out on the pavement.
I almost felt as if I could fly, I flew down the steps at the Broadway tube station. Where would I go? The rest of the day was mine, I would jump on the next train to come along. Blow shopping for tonight’s dinner.
The platform was crowded, everyone looking serious, as dull as the dreary October weather we have been having. People are so trusting, surging to the edge of the platform when they hear that rumble in the tunnel, see the lights coming round the bend. Never dreaming that anyone would push them. How easy it would be to push one person, domino effect…
The window cleaner had been, the winter afternoon sun was shining through the front window; how long had it been since I had cleaned the diamond panes and dusted the window sill? I had always wanted a bay window and fell in love with the low deep sill when we viewed the house. Perfect for my collection of glass ornaments, at their best in sunlight. When my mother left me her favourite elegant green bottle my husband groaned ‘not more dust gatherers.’
He was right about them being dust gatherers and I vowed to myself I would dust them every week. I carefully picked up the delicate green bottle and polished it lovingly.
‘About time too.’
The rich baritone voice startled me, there was no one at home, the radio was switched off… I turned round to reassure myself I was hearing voices in my head, but there stood an elegant figure of a man, exotically dressed, bronze skin, neat beard and moustache and translucent…
After the initial shock I decided it must be an hallucination, then the dread that I might have a brain tumour replaced the primaeval fear that I was confronting a ghost.
‘Your wish is my command Madam.’
‘Oh don’t be so ridiculous, I know you’re not a genii’ I retorted nervously.
‘Do you have a better explanation as to how I have just emerged from the bottle?’
‘Noo.. so perhaps I should make a wish…’
‘Of course, that is why I am here, three wishes, think wisely.’
‘I certainly wish I had met you years ago, I could have done with your help.’
‘Your wish is granted.’
‘I haven’t made one yet.’
‘You just did. I granted your wish when you were a teenager, typical silly schoolgirl, you wished Lawrence would ask you out on a date.’
My stomach contracted, this was getting creepy or rather even creepier.
‘Yes, he did ask me out, you mean that was your doing and my life could have been different if he hadn’t… no that’s rubbish, he would have asked me out anyway, more’s the pity. Anyway, I would have remembered if I had seen a genii.’
‘You and your friend were so busy giggling at the thought of conjuring a genii you didn’t notice a real one. Did your friend become a champion ice skater?’
‘Oh my goodness yes she did, but that was because she had talent…?’
‘I haven’t got all day, you have two wishes left, what are they to be?
‘I must think carefully so I don’t end up using my third wish to undo the second.’
‘That’s another wish gone, one left.’
‘Hang on, that’s not fair, I wasn’t wishing then.’
‘You don’t get to make the rules, whatever you wish now will be undone so why not throw caution to the wind.’
‘Er um er I wish I had never married Lawrence.’
In a flash the genie disappeared and so did my front room and my house. I was standing in the middle of a jungle staring at a gorilla. A horrible realisation came to me. Among my many unrealised aspirations when I was at school was to be an adventurer, saving wild life. I certainly did not want to end up as a suburban housewife. Was this what would have happened if I hadn’t married Lawrence? With sweat pouring off me I looked down at the heavy boots encasing my feet and the trail of giant ants heading towards the top of those boots. Where was a genii when you needed one?
‘Rita, Rita I’m home.’
‘Is that you Larry?’
‘Who else are you expecting?’
‘Oh thank goodness.’
‘Why are you clutching that dreadful green bottle?’
I looked down to make sure I was wearing my normal clothes.
‘Just dusting, actually I think you’re right, let’s put this awful bottle with that stuff for the charity shop.’
When I answered the door bell the postman was standing holding out a parcel. I wasn’t expecting anything, but he insisted it needed to be signed for and sure enough my name was written on it in large shaky capital letters.
It was vaguely rectangular, not solid enough to be a book and wrapped roughly in reused brown paper with no sender address. Who would pay extra, the price of postage these days, to send a parcel special delivery and not wrap it properly? What was it and who sent it? My life was far too boring to have threats sent in the post and certainly not a bomb or something.
‘Why don’t you just open it and see?’
Geoff had appeared at my shoulder.
I ripped off the paper to reveal a battered old leather satchel, like the one I had in junior school, in fact very similar. I felt a pang of sadness. My satchel had been a birthday present and I loved it, the scent of new leather, the shiny buckles and my initials embossed on the flap PMT. I presume when my parents chose my names they had not heard of pre menstrual tension, nor had I back then.
The long leather strap I wore round my shoulders to carry it on my back. I imagined myself to be a horse in harness trotting, cantering to school. A lot of the time in the playground we would play horses, taking it in turns to be rider or horse. The sash we wore round the waist of our gymslips was ideal to use as reins. In addition to the satchel and equally exciting was the blue zip up pencil case the size of a book. Unzipping and folding open to reveal slots for everything, pencils, Lakeland coloured pencils, rubber, pencil sharpener and my pride and joy, the grown up protractor and compass. Did children have such things these days? Probably not the compass with its lethal point.
I didn’t enjoy my satchel for long, it disappeared without trace. My parents were furious that I had been so careless. I had not been careless, but had no explanation as to how I had it one moment, getting ready at the end of the school day, chairs on the desk, then suddenly it was gone.
Lost in memories it was Geoff who was examining the satchel and noticed the initials PMT. Even he had to agree things were getting weird and quickly opened it up to reveal an equally battered pencil case which was just about recognisable as blue. The zip was broken, it fell open to reveal pencil stubs, a worn rubber, cracked protractor and a bent compass; wear and tear to remind me sixty years had passed since I last saw it. If it was mine.
‘Ah, a letter inside the satchel,’ said Geoff ‘go on, read it, obviously some rational explanation.’
The shaky writing was not easy to read.
‘Dear Pauline, I expect you are surprised to have your lovely satchel returned. Yes it was me that sneaked off with it and of course I am ashamed now, was ashamed, but didn’t have the courage to give it back. Now is the right time. I haven’t got long to live, a cliché I know, but I want to tidy my life up. If you could spare an hour to visit, I have no one else to talk about the old days with.
Apologies Patricia Mary Thompson’
Geoff looked expectantly at me, I handed him the letter.
‘I don’t even remember a Patricia in my class.’
‘She had the same initials as you, maybe that’s what tempted her.’
In the envelope was a card with the address Mary Mannings House, our local Hospice named after a forgotten worthy.
‘How did she find me Geoff, is she even real?’
‘You still live in the same place, though you have never kept up with old class mates?’
‘No, we all went to several different schools when we left juniors, I think most people went on to careers and travels world wide… Patricia, Pat, Tricia… Thompson, Thompson I think we had two Patricias and three Thompsons … yes, yes I think she was quiet, not naughty, not clever, not in my group… ‘
I arrived at Mary Mannings House feeling very nervous. What on earth did one bring? Flowers, grapes… I had never been inside the place. I took nothing, it was me she wanted to see.
I didn’t recognise her, but then I hardly recalled what she looked like when she was ten. Her voice was as shaky as her writing, she was not playing games, this was a dying woman.
‘Pauline, you came and I am doubly grateful; that you came today and for the satchel. It brought me such luck. I have travelled all over the world with it, jungles, dessert, oceans. I became an artist and a secret agent, had glamorous lovers, turned out I was much clever than anyone at school gave me credit for. So I have no regrets that I’ve ended back in our home town like this. It was a good life. My only regret was I stole from you.’
‘Oh it was so long ago, you probably didn’t realise how precious it was to me, but just please tell me why you took it?’
‘Simple jealousy I’m afraid, you were popular, in that group of clever clogs who never played with me, didn’t even notice me and you had a nice family who came to sports day and school fetes… I never got nice presents like you did…’ She lay back on the pillow exhausted from talking.
I was stunned, jealous of me?
‘Patricia, that was the only nice present I remember, Mum and Dad didn’t have any money. Those girls only let me in their group so they could share my pencil case. Their mothers were all good friends, I was the odd one out, didn’t get invited to their houses. As for my life, well you made the best of yours by the sound of it and my satchel has certainly had a more exciting life than me. I have had a pretty dull life, ordinary job, nice but boring Geoff in the same house since we got married…’
I realised Patricia had fallen asleep, probably hadn’t heard a word, dreaming of adventures past while I was left with my regrets.
Times and Tides of a Beachwriter 