Harbour voir
The harbour at La Rochelle, was my favourite spot,
A smarmy waiter did not detract,
A small box, Therese's hiding place.
The harbour stood the force of wind and rain,
A smarmy waiter took our orders, as we huddled,
A small box, upturned in Therese's palm.
The harbour, setting sun on watery diamonds,
A smarmy waiter brought a tray of pernod,
A small box, golden promise nestled inside.
The harbour at twilight, we walked arm in arm.
A smarmy waiter watched, framed by cafe window,
A small box in my pocket.
The harbour, dark on the cob, we held hands,
A smarmy waiter, liquorice stick in quayside lights,
A small box, circular imprint in empty velvet.
The harbour, an upturned boat, you kissed me deeply.
A smarmy waiter, echo voice disdaining,
A small box, crushed in embrace, not needed,
Ring that will never leave my finger.
The harbour now, empty in the grey of missing you.
Copyright 2014 Gabrielle Goldsmith
Wednesday, 17 December 2014
Tuesday, 16 December 2014
Ashputel
Ashputel there is no need to sit among the cinders.
Grey dust comes when magic goes,
stealing joy away from the sacred place of laughter.
Silently it gathers in the extremities,
burrowing in, piling up on forgotten shelves
Beginning early, smouldering your days.
He came to lift you away,
lacing your fingers into his
together for the winding.
You open the door to his words.
Oh beautiful wordsmith!
Was it but the imprint of an illusion
Which breezed through your mind
Scattering the dust, allowing you choices?
The copyright of this post belongs to Moira Cormack
Grey dust comes when magic goes,
stealing joy away from the sacred place of laughter.
Silently it gathers in the extremities,
burrowing in, piling up on forgotten shelves
Beginning early, smouldering your days.
He came to lift you away,
lacing your fingers into his
together for the winding.
You open the door to his words.
Oh beautiful wordsmith!
Was it but the imprint of an illusion
Which breezed through your mind
Scattering the dust, allowing you choices?
The copyright of this post belongs to Moira Cormack
The Priest
The Priest
He had promised himself he would change, that the chasuble would restrain him, but as soon as he saw Miss Wilcox in his congregation, he had serious doubts. He had put so much hope in his new vocation, one he truly believed in, despite his inclinations. He was well aware that for him it had to be all or nothing. He would either need to be celibate or he would try to seduce every woman he met. If he allowed himself even one little bite, he would need to finish all the cake, no matter what. When he was training, he had envisaged himself as a priest as curmudgeonly, too devoted to even notice women as men are expected to. He now realised that this was too idealistic.
Since his move here he had done admirably, he had been here nearly a year and even the glittering Mrs Jenkins with her hand job red nails and probing hands, hadn’t tempted him enough. He hadn’t even allowed himself to fantasise about her, though occasionally the thought of her as a geisha flashed into his mind. Each time he would rush to his desk to write, or re-write his sermon.
He had been lucky that as far as he knew (and he was confident that he would) his reputation from Eggington hadn’t followed him at all. That had been his first job since qualifying and he had started badly. His housekeeper had been disappointingly pert and eager, and he had unintentionally make it his mission to bed her as soon as, and as often as, possible. It had escalated from there. Whenever a parishioner had come to see him on her own, he had made a subtle pass at her to assess her receptiveness, and if he saw potential there, he would proceed to pursue them with gentle, patient determination. Out of respect for his housekeeper, he had made sure none of the encounters were in his house, let along his bed. And out of respect for his vocation, none had been inside the church. Instead, they had been in their homes, their gardens, in the churchyard, anywhere really. One particular grave stone in the churchyard was at the perfect height and was now wobbly from so much use.
He had been surprised that he had managed to get away with it for so long, but finally the husbands became suspicious and he had been called to see the archdeacon. His indiscretions were never referred to directly, instead phrases like “a change will do you good” and “it could change everything if….” were floated around, like tinsel on a Christmas tree. Then the usual comment that priests should be “unexpected, foreign, feared and revered”. He hung his head in genuine shame and vowed to always remember that he was accepted through kindness. In that moment he had really meant it.
But now she was sat in front of him and he felt upside down, inside out, left footed. If he hadn’t known the words so well, he might have faltered. She looked up at him with doeful eyes, filled with admiration for a priest; but he could read the hiding passion in them. Despite her long skirt and buttoned up blouse, he could sense that she could be truly dirty if she wanted to. An image of her on her knees giving him a blow job made him nearly forget the words. It had felt incredibly real; he could almost feel her tongue on him still. And when she had finished he would ask her to “take off those mucky clothes” and do things with her that would definitely get him excommunicated. The change would do him good.
The copyright of this post belongs to Jenni Romero
He had promised himself he would change, that the chasuble would restrain him, but as soon as he saw Miss Wilcox in his congregation, he had serious doubts. He had put so much hope in his new vocation, one he truly believed in, despite his inclinations. He was well aware that for him it had to be all or nothing. He would either need to be celibate or he would try to seduce every woman he met. If he allowed himself even one little bite, he would need to finish all the cake, no matter what. When he was training, he had envisaged himself as a priest as curmudgeonly, too devoted to even notice women as men are expected to. He now realised that this was too idealistic.
Since his move here he had done admirably, he had been here nearly a year and even the glittering Mrs Jenkins with her hand job red nails and probing hands, hadn’t tempted him enough. He hadn’t even allowed himself to fantasise about her, though occasionally the thought of her as a geisha flashed into his mind. Each time he would rush to his desk to write, or re-write his sermon.
He had been lucky that as far as he knew (and he was confident that he would) his reputation from Eggington hadn’t followed him at all. That had been his first job since qualifying and he had started badly. His housekeeper had been disappointingly pert and eager, and he had unintentionally make it his mission to bed her as soon as, and as often as, possible. It had escalated from there. Whenever a parishioner had come to see him on her own, he had made a subtle pass at her to assess her receptiveness, and if he saw potential there, he would proceed to pursue them with gentle, patient determination. Out of respect for his housekeeper, he had made sure none of the encounters were in his house, let along his bed. And out of respect for his vocation, none had been inside the church. Instead, they had been in their homes, their gardens, in the churchyard, anywhere really. One particular grave stone in the churchyard was at the perfect height and was now wobbly from so much use.
He had been surprised that he had managed to get away with it for so long, but finally the husbands became suspicious and he had been called to see the archdeacon. His indiscretions were never referred to directly, instead phrases like “a change will do you good” and “it could change everything if….” were floated around, like tinsel on a Christmas tree. Then the usual comment that priests should be “unexpected, foreign, feared and revered”. He hung his head in genuine shame and vowed to always remember that he was accepted through kindness. In that moment he had really meant it.
But now she was sat in front of him and he felt upside down, inside out, left footed. If he hadn’t known the words so well, he might have faltered. She looked up at him with doeful eyes, filled with admiration for a priest; but he could read the hiding passion in them. Despite her long skirt and buttoned up blouse, he could sense that she could be truly dirty if she wanted to. An image of her on her knees giving him a blow job made him nearly forget the words. It had felt incredibly real; he could almost feel her tongue on him still. And when she had finished he would ask her to “take off those mucky clothes” and do things with her that would definitely get him excommunicated. The change would do him good.
The copyright of this post belongs to Jenni Romero
Friday, 5 December 2014
Ranunculus for Holly
Ranunculus, glorious colourful flowers, blooming in the cottage garden of my soul. Shimmering and lustrous in the gentle heat of late Spring sunshine. Filling the air with reminiscent scents and lungfuls of happiness.
Dancing children, chanting in rings of joy, waving daisies, delphiniums and tulips in time to the sweetest breeze. Little Aunties dancing with golden ranunculus. Maypoles replete with beribboned satin streamers, Morris men jingling their bells on a soft Sunday morning.
Cottages thatched with straw haircuts, warm stones on churchyard walls. Honest rain pittering off warm orange pantiles, lush grassy meadows exuberant with woolly sheep. Gently rippling brooks arguing with mossy stones on their way downstream.
England, my England, at your very best, you can compete with the hot and exotic on your own terms.
The copyright of this post belongs to CH
Wednesday, 26 November 2014
Dear Gloria
Dear Gloria,
I was lost until I found out for sure who you really are. I know you don’t want it all to come out -
what Dad did all those years ago - especially since we have both changed our names. I see that
you are now Gloria Badger (where did you get that name from?) and have somehow risen to the
illustrious heights of Detective Inspector. Well done, you.
I have thought about you often since the day they took you away from me - my beautiful little
sister - and I honestly believed I’d never see you again. But when we bumped into each other
that day when you came to my office, I knew I had to tell you who I was. I remember you looked
at me strangely, almost as if you already knew. Your blue eyes gazed into mine, perhaps not
quite as innocent as before.
I promise I won’t tell anyone. It will be our secret, my darling sister. It’s not the only secret we
share. I know about you and Ferdy. It was the last thing he told me before he died. He was an
old romantic, wasn’t he, writing all those love letters. I’ve spent most of the evening reading
them and they’re really very touching. I expect you’d like them back.
Well, my dear, come to see me - perhaps one evening this week - and we’ll read them together.
We shall both keep our secrets.
With love forever, Michael. xxx
Dear Michael,
I say ‘dear’, but you’re not really, are you? You’re just a stranger I bumped into while I was on
a case and you’ve got it into your strange, sick head that I’m your long lost sister. My name
is Gloria Badger - unfortunate but true - and always has been. We are not related. We are
strangers.
You weren’t a stranger to Ferdy though, were you? What was that twist of ribbon you sent
me? Was it the murder weapon, or merely a lost decoration from your porcelain doll collection,
you twisted freak? And what was the envelope of poppy seeds all about? If they were meant
to scare me, you should have tried arsenic-laced chocolates, like every other self-respecting
psychopath.
And you’re quite wrong about Ferdy and me. There was never anything between us. He is the
murder victim and I am the police officer investigating that murder. It must be a different ‘Gloria’
in the love letters, which I will not be coming to your lock-up to read. I’m sure you must have a
lock-up.
I expect you’d like to know that your letter gave me a bad feeling. Well, it didn’t. It made me
sublimely happy to know that I could never be related to such a sad, lost individual.
With no regards, Gloria.
P.S: I will prove that you killed Ferdy.
Dear Diary,
I’m scared. Yes, Gloria Badger, D.I. Cool, Calm and Collected doesn’t admit this to anyone but
you, Diary. And you’d better keep your mouth shut.
I keep dreaming about Ferdy. I dream of his touch, his warm breath against my neck. His dark
eyes pulling me into the gravity of his love, the maelstrom of the his darkest, sweetest thoughts.
Then I open my eyes and see blood, brain matter like glue and wake with the sticky, cloying
stench of guilt in my nostrils. I knew I should have got rid of his love letters - no sloppy texts or
emails from him - but I just couldn’t stand to, even though they turned out to be lies, of course -
all that ‘you’re the only one I’ll ever love’ garbage. So I secreted them in odd places, filed behind
radiators, hidden away in the pasta jar, one in the toolbox in the garage. But, of course, they
could all be found. And were.
Those love letters... silent witnesses to his death, joining the dots, screaming out my name.
Most of all I regret that I didn’t have Ferdy’s baby. But I was too much of a coward to face the
morning sickness, the exhaustion, the mother-toddler groups. The loss of my all-important
career. This is what I can’t forgive myself for, even as I cold-bloodedly frame my brother for
Ferdy’s murder.
But his blood still soaks my dreams. I wake up drenched in it every morning; trail it around
behind me all day. Some time, sooner or later, that trail will lead back to me. Then the punisher
of crime will become the punished.
Good night, Diary.
The copyright of this post belongs to Alisha Bailie.
I was lost until I found out for sure who you really are. I know you don’t want it all to come out -
what Dad did all those years ago - especially since we have both changed our names. I see that
you are now Gloria Badger (where did you get that name from?) and have somehow risen to the
illustrious heights of Detective Inspector. Well done, you.
I have thought about you often since the day they took you away from me - my beautiful little
sister - and I honestly believed I’d never see you again. But when we bumped into each other
that day when you came to my office, I knew I had to tell you who I was. I remember you looked
at me strangely, almost as if you already knew. Your blue eyes gazed into mine, perhaps not
quite as innocent as before.
I promise I won’t tell anyone. It will be our secret, my darling sister. It’s not the only secret we
share. I know about you and Ferdy. It was the last thing he told me before he died. He was an
old romantic, wasn’t he, writing all those love letters. I’ve spent most of the evening reading
them and they’re really very touching. I expect you’d like them back.
Well, my dear, come to see me - perhaps one evening this week - and we’ll read them together.
We shall both keep our secrets.
With love forever, Michael. xxx
Dear Michael,
I say ‘dear’, but you’re not really, are you? You’re just a stranger I bumped into while I was on
a case and you’ve got it into your strange, sick head that I’m your long lost sister. My name
is Gloria Badger - unfortunate but true - and always has been. We are not related. We are
strangers.
You weren’t a stranger to Ferdy though, were you? What was that twist of ribbon you sent
me? Was it the murder weapon, or merely a lost decoration from your porcelain doll collection,
you twisted freak? And what was the envelope of poppy seeds all about? If they were meant
to scare me, you should have tried arsenic-laced chocolates, like every other self-respecting
psychopath.
And you’re quite wrong about Ferdy and me. There was never anything between us. He is the
murder victim and I am the police officer investigating that murder. It must be a different ‘Gloria’
in the love letters, which I will not be coming to your lock-up to read. I’m sure you must have a
lock-up.
I expect you’d like to know that your letter gave me a bad feeling. Well, it didn’t. It made me
sublimely happy to know that I could never be related to such a sad, lost individual.
With no regards, Gloria.
P.S: I will prove that you killed Ferdy.
Dear Diary,
I’m scared. Yes, Gloria Badger, D.I. Cool, Calm and Collected doesn’t admit this to anyone but
you, Diary. And you’d better keep your mouth shut.
I keep dreaming about Ferdy. I dream of his touch, his warm breath against my neck. His dark
eyes pulling me into the gravity of his love, the maelstrom of the his darkest, sweetest thoughts.
Then I open my eyes and see blood, brain matter like glue and wake with the sticky, cloying
stench of guilt in my nostrils. I knew I should have got rid of his love letters - no sloppy texts or
emails from him - but I just couldn’t stand to, even though they turned out to be lies, of course -
all that ‘you’re the only one I’ll ever love’ garbage. So I secreted them in odd places, filed behind
radiators, hidden away in the pasta jar, one in the toolbox in the garage. But, of course, they
could all be found. And were.
Those love letters... silent witnesses to his death, joining the dots, screaming out my name.
Most of all I regret that I didn’t have Ferdy’s baby. But I was too much of a coward to face the
morning sickness, the exhaustion, the mother-toddler groups. The loss of my all-important
career. This is what I can’t forgive myself for, even as I cold-bloodedly frame my brother for
Ferdy’s murder.
But his blood still soaks my dreams. I wake up drenched in it every morning; trail it around
behind me all day. Some time, sooner or later, that trail will lead back to me. Then the punisher
of crime will become the punished.
Good night, Diary.
The copyright of this post belongs to Alisha Bailie.
Alicia
Alicia put her head down, keeping to her course, fighting the impulse to sink to the ground. She
felt weak. Heavy but depleted.
Covent Garden was insanely busy, the crowds seemingly aiming for her, exocet missiles
keeping her from her destination. The bizarrely warm weather had brought everyone out into the
early evening darkness, clad in next to nothing, though it was late October. It heightened her
sense of walking through a dream, trapped in a waking hallucination. Her mind was dazed by
the motion of the crowds, her body crammed with the secret, pulsing life inside her.
Focus, she told herself sternly. You’ve got a job to do.
Ben had booked them a table at the Raymond Blanc restaurant overlooking the main square,
where various mad buskers vied for money and attention. A string quartet were playing a lively
Vivaldi piece, dancing as they played. A slinky girl sang in French under a waving Tricolor,
drawing a (largely male) crowd.
It was the auspicious occasion of their first anniversary and his wife had let him out to play. Ben
and Jessica had ‘an understanding’; what used to be called ‘an open marriage’. Alicia didn’t
quite know what to call it. She just took what she could get and tried not to ask for more.
But now, she would be asking for more. She wished she didn’t have to spoil their meal with the
news she was carrying. Literally.
He was waiting for her at the dimly lit table - so much the better for hiding the dark circles under
her eyes, the result of a series of sleepless nights as her hormones rioted around her exhausted
body. Her heart bungee-jumped at the sight of him, part fear, part pleasure. She felt the move of
baby joy within her.
He grinned at her. “You’re late. I was about to order coffee.”
She sat down carefully, smoothing her dress. “You got through the other three courses without
me, then?”
“I was hungry.”
“Charming.” She smiled back, her insides melting as she looked into those deep, dark, lightfilled
eyes, big and round as a child’s.
Seeing how happy and relaxed he looked tonight, she was tempted not to tell him at all. Or, at
least, to wait until desert. Or coffee. Or just after he’d paid the bill.
She was still looking into his dark, gypsy eyes, drawn in by their changing light, the secret, busy
life pulsing in that extraordinary brain of his. What thoughts were pinballing around as he looked
back at her? She reached out her hand across the table, wanting to touch his mystery, find
the combination, break the code that was Ben. Then perhaps she could prepare herself for his
reaction.
He took her hand in his warm, firm grasp, lifting it to his lips. Their soft, moist pressure against
her skin sent mad flutters all through her, delicious shivers coursing through her blood. The new
life inside her stirred again.
“You’re looking especially radiant this evening, Sweetheart.” Said Ben, lacing his fingers into
hers.
That’s being pregnant for you, she thought. She’d noticed this morning, brushing her hair,
how strong and shiny it was, the pale gold falling in soft waves. Her lips were fuller, her eyes
brighter, her skin flushed. She looked... fruitful.
“Not bad for thirty-nine.” She replied. “You won’t have to trade me in for a younger model, yet.”
Or perhaps you will, she thought grimly. Her heart gave another dangerous leap.
Menus were handed to them by a heavily accented tired-looking woman with a warm, motherly
smile. She probably knows I’m pregnant. She’ll advise me against the caramelised brie and
onion tart and the moules marinieres…
While Ben studied his menu and she pretended to, she realized afresh that she had literally no
idea how he would react. He might be delighted - a genetic joy at the growing life he had helped
create. After all, he and Jessica didn’t have any kids. But perhaps this news would break the
spell of their impossible fantasy world, ushering in the ultimatum Ben had so far been spared,
his wife at last drawing the line, making him choose. Alicia thought she knew what his choice
would be.
He had told her from the first how much he loved Jessica, how he would never leave her. That
was his non-negotiable bottom-line. He seemed genuinely oblivious to how shabbily she often
seemed to treat him, invariably choosing her various boyfriends’ company over his, coming
home when she felt like it. Not that Alicia was complaining, exactly - except on principal, on
Ben’s behalf. The more his wife neglected him, the more he came running to her. Considering
the amount of sex he got from her, it was hardly surprising. Oh, boy, the sex… An electric shock
of desire passed through her ripened body.
There was one last possibility, though. A small miracle glimpsed, glowing on the far horizon,
somewhere in the land of happily-ever-after. That he would leave Jessica, come to her. Then
they could all be a family.
This was all very well, but she doubted this land existed. And if it did, it wasn’t a place she could
ever reach. Single mums and mistresses don’t have enough air miles.
Ben interrupted her far-flung thoughts by announcing that he would start with the Lobster
Bisque.
“Did you know that lobsters scream when you put them in the water?” She teased him.
“Actually, they don’t. That’s their shells cracking.”
She flicked his fingers in mild rebuke. “I bet they still feel pain, though. Even if they can’t yell
about it.”
“I doubt it.” He said, screwing up his face in concentration, as he considered this philosophical
question. He was fond of considering such things. “Not in the sense that you mean pain. They’re
barely even sentient.”
”I know the feeling.” She said.
He laughed, a delicious sound. She felt the undulating rapture of her baby dancing to her
daddy’s melody.
Alicia thought she must be only a month gone, her baby little more than a collection of cells;
but somehow she knew that it was a girl. A sister for her two boys - a dark-eyed, sweet-smiled,
strong-willed Emily with her father’s intelligence, her creativity and a temperament all of her
own. Her miracle baby. She herself had never had a sister. But Emily would be the gift of
femininity to her two very male, boisterous boys, a new tenderness in their lives.
She thought about the photograph on her mantelpiece, a triptych of Adam and Alex, three
consecutive years of sports days, big grins on their handsome, open faces as they crossed the
tape. And now there would be a third sports day photo, her pale-haired, determined daughter,
her face screwed up with the intent concentration so reminiscent of Ben, reaching for the
finishing tape.
Adam, Alex and Emily, a trilogy of stories beginning with her love, thrust out into the world.
Alicia’s mother had always wanted a granddaughter. It looked as if she’d get her wish. Not that
it wouldn’t also be a huge shock, of course; hopefully not one big enough to put her in her coffin.
Her mum thought Alicia had gone back to being a virgin since her husband had walked out on
her and the boys, nun-like in her state of untouched single-motherhood. She would probably
say: “But how did it happen?” Sarcastic responses would be hard to resist: “There was a special
offer on babies at Tesco, Mum. Lots of extra points on my Clubcard.”
Ben had been talking, but she hadn’t heard a word.
“What are you thinking about, love?” He said. “You were far away.”
“I was just considering your erudite thoughts on the nature of sentience.” She said, teasing him,
back on safe ground. “Or lack thereof, in my case.”
He stroked her hand, gently. “Stop putting yourself down. You are a beautiful, intelligent, rare
woman. I love having you in my life.”
Tears filled her eyes. She forced a laugh and blinked them away. She didn’t know how to say
the words that could put an end forever to such tenderness, the look of focused love in his eyes,
the gentle pressure of his hand as he stroked along her arm, his fingertips pulsing against the
soft flesh. To never feel that again. But, to protect her baby, she had to be prepared for that.
“I love you, Alicia.”
“I love you, too.” She said, sadly.
“Are you pregnant?”
She looked up, sharply. “How did you -?”
“I don’t know. I just did.” He closed his eyes. “Oh, sweetheart.”
They hadn’t even made it to the starters.
She whispered: “If you’re going to say it’s over, just say it now. Please.”
For the longest time, he said nothing. The hand that rested on her arm was trembling.
“Please.” She repeated.
The universe seemed to shudder to a halt, time frozen in a galactic crisis. Covent Garden was
silenced, waiting for his answer.
“Alicia.” He sighed, shaking his head. “ I just told you. I love you.”
She stared at him, not understanding.
“I’m not going anywhere, my darling.” He smiled, a slow-spreading wonder. “You’re going to
have our baby.”
“But - what about Jessica?”
“I doubt she’ll be at the birth.” He gave a shaky laugh. “I know it’s a dumb question, but are you
sure?”
She smiled into his big, round worried child’s eyes. “Six positive pregnancy tests can’t all be
wrong.”
He nodded. “How long have you known?”
“Three weeks, give or take.”
A shadow of hurt passed across his light, open face. “Why didn’t you tell me straight away?”
She shrugged. “I was scared.”
“So, you haven’t had a scan, yet? I haven’t missed anything?”
“You and I will be the first to see our daughter. And the scan lady, of course. Ultrasound
technician, whatever.”
“Daughter -?”
She stroked her stomach tenderly. “I know it’s a girl. This is Emily.”
He resumed his familiar, sensible scientist expression. “You do know you can’t possibly tell,
don’t you? ‘If your wee smells like kippers it’s a girl, if you pass wind seven times before
breakfast, it’s a boy.’ All that stuff has precisely zero basis in scientific fact.”
She gave a loud laugh, making the couple on the next table turn and stare. “If my wee smells
like kippers, then I’ve got a urine infection.”
“You know what I mean.” He looked worried, again. “What if it’s a boy? What if Emily turns out
to be George?”
“Then I will be equally delighted. But she isn’t. She’s Emily.” And as she said it, she felt Emily
move, smiling in recognition of her name.
He laughed at her determination. “As long as it doesn’t turn out to be Emily and George.”
“Oh, dear. There are twins in my family.”
He lifted her hand to his lips. “Then we’ll get to name a baby each.”
He held her gaze for a long, long time. In the end, she had to lower her eyes, with a shy smile.
When she glanced back up, she found him looking worried, again.
“Alicia.”
When he said her name like that, she knew it was serious. In fact, he hardly ever used her
name. She sometimes teased him that it was because he couldn’t remember it. “I expect you
get mixed up, with all your other girlfriends.” He didn’t deny this nearly often enough.
She swallowed. “Say it.”
He said quietly: “You know this doesn’t mean I’m going to leave Jessica, don’t you.”
So, there it was. She had guessed, of course, but hearing it in simple words was rather
different. ‘Never’ sounded once again in her brain, that most terrible word, the one she was fond
of using, but didn’t fully believe.
“I know.”
“It’s just that… this is going to come as a shock to her. She never wanted kids herself, but still…
I can’t leave her, now. You do understand?”
“Yes.”
“She needs me.”
“I know.”
There was a silence, almost as pregnant as she was.
“How do you feel about that?” He said carefully.
How did she feel? Under the disappointment, the familiar stab of resentment the she couldn’t be
his first - his only concern - somewhere under that lot was something else. A settled resignation,
a strange peace at his decision. If he left Jessica, he would be miserable with guilt, utterly
conflicted. It would be pitiful, like caging some wild, bright thing.
“It’s O.K, Sweetie.” She said, looking back up at him. “We’ll manage. The important thing is that
you want to be in our lives.”
He smiled with relief. “If you’ll have me.”
A thought occurred to her: “You know, Jessica doesn’t have to know. You don’t have to tell her.”
Ben frowned at her. “Of course I do. Lying - even by omission - I can’t do it. It doesn’t come
naturally to me. I couldn’t keep something like this from my wife.”
She jolted at the physical pain those two words delivered: my wife and the rebuke contained
within them. Shutting her out. Lying did come naturally to Alicia, a long-learnt defence against
relentlessly critical parents. And here she was again, trying to get herself - and him - out of
trouble.
“Sorry, darling.” He said. “I didn’t put that very well.”
“We’ll manage.” She repeated, knowing as she said it that it was true. This child would be loved
by both her parents, welcomed into her new, chaotic, unconventional family. She reached out
once again for Ben’s hand, leaned across the table and kissed him, her lips tasting his. “We’ll
make this work.”
“I guess Jessica’s got about eight months to get used to the idea.”
“Till about late June, next year, if my calculations are correct.”
She watched the light dancing in his eyes, a slow smile melting across his face. He got up from
his chair, came to join her on her bench seat. He reached out his hand to her stomach.
“May I?”
“Say hello to your daughter.”
Leaning down - drawing further stares - he brushed his lips against the velvet of her skirt,
whispering: “Hello, baby.”
He stroked his soft, dark hair, just beginning to grey at the temples. She heard him sigh.
“Well, baby and I are both starving.” She said. “How about ordering those starters?”
The copyright of this post belongs to Alisha Bailey
felt weak. Heavy but depleted.
Covent Garden was insanely busy, the crowds seemingly aiming for her, exocet missiles
keeping her from her destination. The bizarrely warm weather had brought everyone out into the
early evening darkness, clad in next to nothing, though it was late October. It heightened her
sense of walking through a dream, trapped in a waking hallucination. Her mind was dazed by
the motion of the crowds, her body crammed with the secret, pulsing life inside her.
Focus, she told herself sternly. You’ve got a job to do.
Ben had booked them a table at the Raymond Blanc restaurant overlooking the main square,
where various mad buskers vied for money and attention. A string quartet were playing a lively
Vivaldi piece, dancing as they played. A slinky girl sang in French under a waving Tricolor,
drawing a (largely male) crowd.
It was the auspicious occasion of their first anniversary and his wife had let him out to play. Ben
and Jessica had ‘an understanding’; what used to be called ‘an open marriage’. Alicia didn’t
quite know what to call it. She just took what she could get and tried not to ask for more.
But now, she would be asking for more. She wished she didn’t have to spoil their meal with the
news she was carrying. Literally.
He was waiting for her at the dimly lit table - so much the better for hiding the dark circles under
her eyes, the result of a series of sleepless nights as her hormones rioted around her exhausted
body. Her heart bungee-jumped at the sight of him, part fear, part pleasure. She felt the move of
baby joy within her.
He grinned at her. “You’re late. I was about to order coffee.”
She sat down carefully, smoothing her dress. “You got through the other three courses without
me, then?”
“I was hungry.”
“Charming.” She smiled back, her insides melting as she looked into those deep, dark, lightfilled
eyes, big and round as a child’s.
Seeing how happy and relaxed he looked tonight, she was tempted not to tell him at all. Or, at
least, to wait until desert. Or coffee. Or just after he’d paid the bill.
She was still looking into his dark, gypsy eyes, drawn in by their changing light, the secret, busy
life pulsing in that extraordinary brain of his. What thoughts were pinballing around as he looked
back at her? She reached out her hand across the table, wanting to touch his mystery, find
the combination, break the code that was Ben. Then perhaps she could prepare herself for his
reaction.
He took her hand in his warm, firm grasp, lifting it to his lips. Their soft, moist pressure against
her skin sent mad flutters all through her, delicious shivers coursing through her blood. The new
life inside her stirred again.
“You’re looking especially radiant this evening, Sweetheart.” Said Ben, lacing his fingers into
hers.
That’s being pregnant for you, she thought. She’d noticed this morning, brushing her hair,
how strong and shiny it was, the pale gold falling in soft waves. Her lips were fuller, her eyes
brighter, her skin flushed. She looked... fruitful.
“Not bad for thirty-nine.” She replied. “You won’t have to trade me in for a younger model, yet.”
Or perhaps you will, she thought grimly. Her heart gave another dangerous leap.
Menus were handed to them by a heavily accented tired-looking woman with a warm, motherly
smile. She probably knows I’m pregnant. She’ll advise me against the caramelised brie and
onion tart and the moules marinieres…
While Ben studied his menu and she pretended to, she realized afresh that she had literally no
idea how he would react. He might be delighted - a genetic joy at the growing life he had helped
create. After all, he and Jessica didn’t have any kids. But perhaps this news would break the
spell of their impossible fantasy world, ushering in the ultimatum Ben had so far been spared,
his wife at last drawing the line, making him choose. Alicia thought she knew what his choice
would be.
He had told her from the first how much he loved Jessica, how he would never leave her. That
was his non-negotiable bottom-line. He seemed genuinely oblivious to how shabbily she often
seemed to treat him, invariably choosing her various boyfriends’ company over his, coming
home when she felt like it. Not that Alicia was complaining, exactly - except on principal, on
Ben’s behalf. The more his wife neglected him, the more he came running to her. Considering
the amount of sex he got from her, it was hardly surprising. Oh, boy, the sex… An electric shock
of desire passed through her ripened body.
There was one last possibility, though. A small miracle glimpsed, glowing on the far horizon,
somewhere in the land of happily-ever-after. That he would leave Jessica, come to her. Then
they could all be a family.
This was all very well, but she doubted this land existed. And if it did, it wasn’t a place she could
ever reach. Single mums and mistresses don’t have enough air miles.
Ben interrupted her far-flung thoughts by announcing that he would start with the Lobster
Bisque.
“Did you know that lobsters scream when you put them in the water?” She teased him.
“Actually, they don’t. That’s their shells cracking.”
She flicked his fingers in mild rebuke. “I bet they still feel pain, though. Even if they can’t yell
about it.”
“I doubt it.” He said, screwing up his face in concentration, as he considered this philosophical
question. He was fond of considering such things. “Not in the sense that you mean pain. They’re
barely even sentient.”
”I know the feeling.” She said.
He laughed, a delicious sound. She felt the undulating rapture of her baby dancing to her
daddy’s melody.
Alicia thought she must be only a month gone, her baby little more than a collection of cells;
but somehow she knew that it was a girl. A sister for her two boys - a dark-eyed, sweet-smiled,
strong-willed Emily with her father’s intelligence, her creativity and a temperament all of her
own. Her miracle baby. She herself had never had a sister. But Emily would be the gift of
femininity to her two very male, boisterous boys, a new tenderness in their lives.
She thought about the photograph on her mantelpiece, a triptych of Adam and Alex, three
consecutive years of sports days, big grins on their handsome, open faces as they crossed the
tape. And now there would be a third sports day photo, her pale-haired, determined daughter,
her face screwed up with the intent concentration so reminiscent of Ben, reaching for the
finishing tape.
Adam, Alex and Emily, a trilogy of stories beginning with her love, thrust out into the world.
Alicia’s mother had always wanted a granddaughter. It looked as if she’d get her wish. Not that
it wouldn’t also be a huge shock, of course; hopefully not one big enough to put her in her coffin.
Her mum thought Alicia had gone back to being a virgin since her husband had walked out on
her and the boys, nun-like in her state of untouched single-motherhood. She would probably
say: “But how did it happen?” Sarcastic responses would be hard to resist: “There was a special
offer on babies at Tesco, Mum. Lots of extra points on my Clubcard.”
Ben had been talking, but she hadn’t heard a word.
“What are you thinking about, love?” He said. “You were far away.”
“I was just considering your erudite thoughts on the nature of sentience.” She said, teasing him,
back on safe ground. “Or lack thereof, in my case.”
He stroked her hand, gently. “Stop putting yourself down. You are a beautiful, intelligent, rare
woman. I love having you in my life.”
Tears filled her eyes. She forced a laugh and blinked them away. She didn’t know how to say
the words that could put an end forever to such tenderness, the look of focused love in his eyes,
the gentle pressure of his hand as he stroked along her arm, his fingertips pulsing against the
soft flesh. To never feel that again. But, to protect her baby, she had to be prepared for that.
“I love you, Alicia.”
“I love you, too.” She said, sadly.
“Are you pregnant?”
She looked up, sharply. “How did you -?”
“I don’t know. I just did.” He closed his eyes. “Oh, sweetheart.”
They hadn’t even made it to the starters.
She whispered: “If you’re going to say it’s over, just say it now. Please.”
For the longest time, he said nothing. The hand that rested on her arm was trembling.
“Please.” She repeated.
The universe seemed to shudder to a halt, time frozen in a galactic crisis. Covent Garden was
silenced, waiting for his answer.
“Alicia.” He sighed, shaking his head. “ I just told you. I love you.”
She stared at him, not understanding.
“I’m not going anywhere, my darling.” He smiled, a slow-spreading wonder. “You’re going to
have our baby.”
“But - what about Jessica?”
“I doubt she’ll be at the birth.” He gave a shaky laugh. “I know it’s a dumb question, but are you
sure?”
She smiled into his big, round worried child’s eyes. “Six positive pregnancy tests can’t all be
wrong.”
He nodded. “How long have you known?”
“Three weeks, give or take.”
A shadow of hurt passed across his light, open face. “Why didn’t you tell me straight away?”
She shrugged. “I was scared.”
“So, you haven’t had a scan, yet? I haven’t missed anything?”
“You and I will be the first to see our daughter. And the scan lady, of course. Ultrasound
technician, whatever.”
“Daughter -?”
She stroked her stomach tenderly. “I know it’s a girl. This is Emily.”
He resumed his familiar, sensible scientist expression. “You do know you can’t possibly tell,
don’t you? ‘If your wee smells like kippers it’s a girl, if you pass wind seven times before
breakfast, it’s a boy.’ All that stuff has precisely zero basis in scientific fact.”
She gave a loud laugh, making the couple on the next table turn and stare. “If my wee smells
like kippers, then I’ve got a urine infection.”
“You know what I mean.” He looked worried, again. “What if it’s a boy? What if Emily turns out
to be George?”
“Then I will be equally delighted. But she isn’t. She’s Emily.” And as she said it, she felt Emily
move, smiling in recognition of her name.
He laughed at her determination. “As long as it doesn’t turn out to be Emily and George.”
“Oh, dear. There are twins in my family.”
He lifted her hand to his lips. “Then we’ll get to name a baby each.”
He held her gaze for a long, long time. In the end, she had to lower her eyes, with a shy smile.
When she glanced back up, she found him looking worried, again.
“Alicia.”
When he said her name like that, she knew it was serious. In fact, he hardly ever used her
name. She sometimes teased him that it was because he couldn’t remember it. “I expect you
get mixed up, with all your other girlfriends.” He didn’t deny this nearly often enough.
She swallowed. “Say it.”
He said quietly: “You know this doesn’t mean I’m going to leave Jessica, don’t you.”
So, there it was. She had guessed, of course, but hearing it in simple words was rather
different. ‘Never’ sounded once again in her brain, that most terrible word, the one she was fond
of using, but didn’t fully believe.
“I know.”
“It’s just that… this is going to come as a shock to her. She never wanted kids herself, but still…
I can’t leave her, now. You do understand?”
“Yes.”
“She needs me.”
“I know.”
There was a silence, almost as pregnant as she was.
“How do you feel about that?” He said carefully.
How did she feel? Under the disappointment, the familiar stab of resentment the she couldn’t be
his first - his only concern - somewhere under that lot was something else. A settled resignation,
a strange peace at his decision. If he left Jessica, he would be miserable with guilt, utterly
conflicted. It would be pitiful, like caging some wild, bright thing.
“It’s O.K, Sweetie.” She said, looking back up at him. “We’ll manage. The important thing is that
you want to be in our lives.”
He smiled with relief. “If you’ll have me.”
A thought occurred to her: “You know, Jessica doesn’t have to know. You don’t have to tell her.”
Ben frowned at her. “Of course I do. Lying - even by omission - I can’t do it. It doesn’t come
naturally to me. I couldn’t keep something like this from my wife.”
She jolted at the physical pain those two words delivered: my wife and the rebuke contained
within them. Shutting her out. Lying did come naturally to Alicia, a long-learnt defence against
relentlessly critical parents. And here she was again, trying to get herself - and him - out of
trouble.
“Sorry, darling.” He said. “I didn’t put that very well.”
“We’ll manage.” She repeated, knowing as she said it that it was true. This child would be loved
by both her parents, welcomed into her new, chaotic, unconventional family. She reached out
once again for Ben’s hand, leaned across the table and kissed him, her lips tasting his. “We’ll
make this work.”
“I guess Jessica’s got about eight months to get used to the idea.”
“Till about late June, next year, if my calculations are correct.”
She watched the light dancing in his eyes, a slow smile melting across his face. He got up from
his chair, came to join her on her bench seat. He reached out his hand to her stomach.
“May I?”
“Say hello to your daughter.”
Leaning down - drawing further stares - he brushed his lips against the velvet of her skirt,
whispering: “Hello, baby.”
He stroked his soft, dark hair, just beginning to grey at the temples. She heard him sigh.
“Well, baby and I are both starving.” She said. “How about ordering those starters?”
The copyright of this post belongs to Alisha Bailey
Insomnia
Have I not made myself clear? Travel dreams race through my repeated hours if insomnia...train, airplane, bus, van. I am exhausted with queues, galloping for entrances, never reaching the appointed seat. A maelstrom of frustration that shatters any chance if deep sleep. Head chatter with galloping whispers. Reminders of the coming holiday bad the lists of Christmas cards to send. Instead I toss and turn around in a spinning spirograph of anxious dreams, sending postcards from the edge. Written snapshots of places I have never seen. Eagles sitar through the sheets. I hear their wings accompany my spurious cries. I watch the badger want for fish...do they eat fish? Would they love river trout or anglers bait? I feel insane. My night gown sticks to my skin, and I aware in the dawn darkness crying out as though I have already disappeared in a luddite's nightmare. Royal mail in news again. Letters. Post office lucky if you can. Who writes anymore? She made herself get up.
The copyright of this post belongs to Claudia Anne
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