The seaside widow

For a while I had a job which involved taking photos of OAP's and I often wondered about the lives they might lead...this is a short story about just that.

 

The toes flop out from beneath the heavy feather duvet, feeling for the floor like a pair of newborn blind things, uncertain and wary of the world. They point down, dipping into the air slowly, as if into the chilly waters of the channel, which rock and heave just a short walk away. Nails flaked and yellowed beneath a clumsily applied layer of frosted pearl nail varnish lead the way to moccasins, the leather shiny with use. A watery light filters through the pattern of the curtains, providing enough illumination to avoid turning on the bedside lamp. Bunions slip out of sight and it is only then that the rest of the body emerges, slowly, with creaks and complaints, dismayed to be doing it all again. Evelyn Wainright and her body have fallen out these last few years; they don’t see eye to eye.

She perches on the edge of the bed, finally upright, pausing at the shock of gravity. This is always the hardest part, the morning. At least she has stopped feeling the empty space next to her, willing the worn, warm body of her Albert to be there. She’s grateful that time has been kind, erasing the memory of his cold lips as she kissed them goodbye, before they sealed the oak casket. It wouldn’t have been decent to bury him in anything cheap, Albert had standards, and even in death she felt obliged to honour them. No, it wasn’t that last kiss that she sighed over. Instead she allowed her mind to drift backwards, to Morecambe Bay; those fledgling days as husband and wife. Such magical words, transforming them from lovesick teenagers to a unit of two. Fingers intertwined they had strolled beside the waves, thrilling in the novelty of each other. And for them the feeling lasted, even when novelty slipped into familiarity. Windswept and sea salty Morecambe Bay was the reason they came here in the end; looking to find that same happiness for their twilight years. Albert had always loved the sea. Janet laughed when she’d told her where they were going at his retirement party, “Mum, Brighton is full of students and crazy hippies, what’s wrong with Devon or Cornwall? There’ll be loads more people your age there.” Evelyn had wanted to slap her daughter then, instead she said, “Your father and I want to stay active.” As if that explained everything. Truth be told she hadn’t fancied Brighton much herself, it had all been Albert’s idea. But now she wouldn’t be anywhere else in the country. Her twice yearly visits up to Bristol were a trial, missing the shush of the waves and the unique buzz of the seaside town. Janet had begged her to move up there after Albert passed away but she’d said no. What she hadn’t told her was that she needed to be in a place that had so many visitors. She needed fresh faces and new smiles. She needed her audience to change daily; because her stories changed with every sunrise and in a place where everyone knew you after a time she would be caught out. Now it had to be Brighton, because her stories were what she looked forward to each day.

“Well, I can’t sit here all morning”, she says to the empty room, half hoping for an answer. Silence snuffles around the slippered feet, gently she kicks it away. With a soft plop she’s standing and the day truly begins. These moments before she leaves the bedroom behind are savoured. This is her dressing room. Brighton is her stage. She is getting ready for her performance, using the solitude to find that space insider her head where confidence lives, confidence to get out there and pretend. For a good five minutes Evelyn stands stretching her arms high into the air. Up and down. Up and down. Because today is special she bends low, aiming fingertips at the feet, getting as far as her knees before the tendons rebel, still she holds the stretch there breathing deeply. With a “humph” she’s back upright and heading to the mirror. For a woman of seventy two she can, and frequently does get away with being ten years younger. The hair dye helps. They say that as you age you should go lighter but that is nonsense, Evelyn knows the auburn shade she favours is the key to her success. It brings out the hazel of her eyes, flecked with tiny spots of amber. Tiger eyes, Albert called them. Playfully she pulls at the skin either side, instant face lift, eyes open wide to catch the light, what there is of it. “I’m a tardy one this morning” she says, pulling the dressing gown off the back of the chair, wrapping it tightly round her body. It wouldn’t be right to open the curtains in her nightdress alone. Even though it is a second floor flat, standards must be maintained. With a flourish she pulls back the patterned fabric, and daylight floods the room. No dust dares settle; instead it floats in motes on the air, dancing away from surfaces cleaned daily. She swishes her hand through a beam of light and watches the motes scatter and weave, admiring their agility and pining for her own. “Still, not bad for my seventh decade, eh Evelyn?” she tells herself before heading to the bathroom for the first of twice daily ablutions. The cleansing ritual has five steps, ending with a generous amount of anti wrinkle cream. Albert had always admired her skin, even now in her dreams he would visit and whisper in her ear, “Evie my love, you’re as soft and scrumptious as ice-cream.” Often she would wake up giggling with a blush creeping over her cheeks. Today had not been one of those mornings, which was a pity. The encouragement would have been nice.

The air follows her out of the bathroom, scented, as she is, with vanilla and roses. The smell is old and young all at the same time, like apples on an ancient tree.  Now the hands go to work, the nails painted the same frosted peach, but neater than on the feet. Next the face is hidden behind a mask of gunk and goo as Albert called it. He liked her best without the make-up. “Gunk and goo, where are you?” she sings quietly as she hunts for the essential ingredients to turn her into a Russian matriarch, a Brazilian ex-pat and a Bulgarian lace maker, all of which she will be today. When she goes out on her story telling expeditions she’s always careful about the look. It has to be plausible for each person and the life they’ve lived; there is purpose to the charade and no room for public humiliation.  Especially not today; today is her wedding anniversary and in honour of Albert the Bulgarian lace maker will be crafting a veil for a society wedding; something timeless and classy just like he was.

On the coffee table in the living room sits a pile of travel guides and history books, biographies, anything that will help her get the details right, she doesn’t simply make it all up, that would be foolish. Her wide choice of subject matter confounds the librarians, “Mrs Wainright, you do have broad reading tastes”, they say every visit. Whether it is a compliment or a question she can never tell, but she always gives the same response coupled with a smile, “Thank you, it keeps me occupied since my dear Albert passed away.”

The green, green grass of home

The green, green grass of home is one of my weekly flash fiction stories. This week I'm dedicating it to my friend Mr D in celebration of his 40th.

Smoke fills the air, thick and choking but there isn’t a cough to be heard, only concentrated silence. All eyes focus on the table. Jason thinks it looks like grass, smooth as the lawns back home where he and Tara used to run when running was all that mattered. There is no room to run here; there is just the green of this table and the game. He grips the cards in his hand tighter. Ned eyes up the baize, all natty and picked, it is old this table, the green faded in places and speckled with tiny burns where someone’s cigarette has slipped. How many games, he wonders, have been played out across this table top? Too many; too many lives held in the balance of a deck of cards. A small sigh seeps out, a slow puncture, discreet but ultimately destructive. Henry saw the green and thought of the old pound notes. He misses them, always felt like you had more in your pocket when it was stuffed with notes. These silly coins rattle and jangle around like small change; you could have twenty quid in there and not know it. There is a damn sight more than twenty up for grabs tonight, thank god. The notes sit there in a pile, a mini Everest of riches just waiting for the right person. Henry needs that mountain, or rather Lizzie needs it and he needs Lizzie which really amounts to the same thing. His bum shifts in the chair inching that bit closer to the prize.

            All three men are pitting themselves against fifty two pieces of card with little more than a will to win. To lose means to lose the lot. Not just the cash but hope, a future and in Jason’s case his life. Maybe he was foolish to borrow like that. Everyone knows that Mr Ed is not to be messed with but Jason figured he’ll win big, pay him off and head home before anything else hits the fan. He hadn’t banked on the cards refusing to cooperate. His eyes flick down, just for a second; this wasn’t a tell or anything, just checking the numbers. A small smile edges round his lips which he hopes gives the signal that all is good; in fact all is not good and he might just laugh and never stop if he lets that smile get any bigger. He has nothing in his hand, sweating fingers grip numbers that do not add up. Not even a pair. This is the last game; there is nothing left to put down. Every player has put their entire stake into the pot and it comes down to these three with nothing more to gamble and everything to lose. Jason chews the tip of his tongue, a secret gesture of despair while his eyes soak up the table top and wish for home.  

            Henry lights another cigarette off the butt of the last. His cards lay before him, coy faces hidden like expert strippers just waiting for the moment of the big reveal. A fug of smoke bellows out from his soggy lips, joining the cloud above, a ghostly spectator with no interest in the game. He blows out another long plume, enjoying its dance and whirl into space, Henry remembers when he could move like that, lighter than air and twice as shifty. His old bones are not what they used to be but he still has a few moves left.

            “Beer?” Ned asks only because he has drained his and another is essential. Like Henry his cards are face down. Ned is afraid to look at them; his eyes bounce around the table and refuse to settle on the red and white backs of the five playing cards. Weren’t little Ned’s socks red and white stripes today? Ned blinks away the thought of little Ned’s face if he tells him they have to move house again. He waves to the hostess who ambles over and plonks three beers down by the men’s elbows, a little amber liquid slopping onto the baize turning the green moist and dark. Apart from the dealer there are no other people in the room; this isn’t the sort of place you linger once luck has deserted you.

Condensation gathers on the sides of the glasses, slipping and sliding down in trickles; sweat does the same on Ned’s forehead. Slowly, as if the speed with which he moves will determine the outcome he turns the cards over one by one. Thumb and forefinger grasp the bottom right corner each time, lifting it gingerly as if the card is harbouring a deadly spider. And flip, the card is turned. There is no need to mask his reaction; this is for all to see. Henry almost drools as each card shows its face, two down and three to go. Ned pauses, guzzles down the beer fast and deep. It cools the back of his tight throat and without asking the hostess comes over with three more. Jason downs his in a fat greedy gulp making his throat husky with the sheer volume tumbling down into his blood stream.

“Whisky please or bourbon if you have it.” It doesn’t matter anymore, he kicks back in his chair, limbs loose in defeat. Those two cards are a pair there in front of Ned. The ratty green table will be the last green he sees; Mr Ed owns this place he won’t be getting out the door, never mind back home. He sets free a careering wild horse of a laugh, loud and careless, liberated by the total lack of options available.

“Turn them.” Henry urges. He glances at Jason and offers a short nod, condolence condensed into a gesture; any one of them could be in his shoes. Ned leans back for a second, balancing the chair on two wobbly legs, weighing up the situation. Then he turns the third card. Three of a kind. An inexperienced player might get excited but Ned knows fortune does not smile until she’s damn ready and only when every card is face up from every player will the game be over. Quickly, he flips the remaining cards. Nothing. Three of a kind is as good as it gets. His gaze swivels in Henry’s direction but Henry is already on his feet and heading out the door, his cards upturned and discarded.

           

           

Sleepless Nights

It was a velvet sky, smooth-black and sexy. No clouds spoilt the effect yet no stars peeked through; she tilted her head way back but not one winked out. She was alone which is exactly what she wanted. The old swing seat rusty at the hinges creaked and squeaked companionably as it rocked back and forth, back and forth. The tired fabric of gaudy flowers smelt of mildew and stale rain. Nadia inhaled and wished for rain; such a comforting smell, took her back to summers at nana’s house when the sun shone bright on long summer days and rain was just another plaything. The surrounding fields were so fresh after a shower like god had washed his creation. She laughed at this notion; as if there was such a thing as god.

Only the light from inside illuminated the garden. They were inside and she did not want to be there with them. Her eyes scanned the shadowy darkness with no fear. There was nothing to be afraid of out here; she owned every inch of it. Nadia let her mind stretch out to the darkest corners where her eyes could not reach, parading the borders of her territory. She sniffed the night air, lavender and something else; something fleshier hit her flared nostrils, gently like a nose bump from a puppy. A deep breath in sucked up the scent, savoured it at the back of her throat, she rolled it there like cigar smoke before exhaling long and luxurious. Ah, tonight she might indulge a little, let loose her inner demon; it was her birthday after all. That is why they were all here, to celebrate. Celebrate what precisely? That they believed they were edging closer to their inheritance. Another year to the tally was nothing more than a hindrance; no cause for a party in their eyes. Such a long tally it was too. A smile, small and twisted crawled across her face as she thought of them in there, mingling, chatting, and faking it all to remain in with a chance. They made her flesh creep these bloodsucking relatives of hers.

“How long, how long can this go on”, she whispered into the silence, enjoying the sound of her voice in the night air. It was a soft voice, not gentle but subtle with power. It was a power of sorts she possessed; wealth certainly but there was something more to Nadia than a bank balance, it was the part of herself she both loved and despised.

A small rustle caught her ear, Nadia turned sharply towards the sound. He emerged from the side of the veranda, brushing against the bushes that softened the shift from house to garden. His jacket was shabby but serviceable, his face bright in the darkness, the song whiter shade of pale skimmed across her mind as she took him in, all six foot four of him. Tim wore his limbs loosely; they flowed like ribbons from the solid core of his chest. This combination of lax movement and firmness presented an oddly reassuring figure. He made no effort to speak; just smiled a slow rolled out smile, sat down beside her and rocked them both gently in the tarnished old swing. Nadia loved Tim. He was the one. Of all her relatives he understood. Perhaps it was because he never asked her for anything; oh it wasn’t pride. Nadia was not a fool. He asked for nothing because he wanted nothing; needed nothing. He was as free from desire as she was saturated with it; not for him, no. She wasn’t perverse. Nadia craved life, blood pumping, sweat soaked, and imperfect life. No matter the years that ached out behind her; what counted was the swell and heave of the years ahead. She wanted more than she could have. Tim knew it; he understood that the night was not always for watching but sometimes hung heavy with longing and regret.

With no real movement involved his hand found hers and softly squeezed. “Happy Birthday Nadia.” Nothing else was said, she simply squeezed back and they both sat immersed in the night. Laughter from inside trailed out, high pitched, grating on the ear like a fork scratching over a plate. Crickets hummed in the grass trying their best to erase the intrusion from those inside.

“They’re waiting for you”, he said. The words seemed to float from him easily, moths on the night air. His wide smile did not hide judgement but rather invited it of the crowd inside. Tim had no time for his family, its mean streak and greed. To live was enough for him; and what a life this family had been granted; at a price admittedly but still, what a life.

“I don’t want to go in yet. I want to give you something first.” Nadia’s eyes were bright in the dark, sparkling with decision and delight. A playful smile skipped over her lips as they parted, she leant forward and went straight for the jugular. When Tim was almost drained and she knew his innermost secrets; she could be sure her decision was correct. He was the one. All the while Tim accepted his fate with no fight, his head tilted a little to ease her passage to his neck. He had done this to others so many times before; it was intriguing to be on the receiving end again, eyes closed to enjoy the pure sensation. This was first part, for some it meant the end but Tim knew that tonight would bring the second part; the change. Only when there was barely a flicker left in him did she tear at her own wrist and pour her gift down his throat.

            He gulped, slurped and gripped with iron jaws despite himself; this was Nadia he reprimanded, be tender. When she eventually pulled away, eyes still bright in a pale face, he felt a loss, sudden and severe. As her blood mingled with what was left of his Tim understood Nadia from all angles, her power became his power. This was the true inheritance; what they all wanted inside. The rest was trinkets and junk in comparison. Now the family could stop jockeying for position; the successor was crowned.

“Come”, she said, “Let's go make a toast. Shall we share our news with them? For the first time in three hundred years I will see sunrise.” The night sighed its satisfaction; a soft warm wind behind them as they entered the patio door arm in arm.