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February 22, 2024 · 13:11

Portrait

This story was partly inspired by my mother. She was an artist who refused to paint family!

I was honoured to win the Tacchi Morris “The Page is Printed 2023: Creative Writing Competition’s” Somerset Prize. They were kind enough to say: “Jason Gibbs’ entry to The Page is Printed was titled Portrait and the judges all agreed that the writer used great skill to tell a powerful story in so few words; this economy is hard to achieve. The judges were also reminded of mythological tales in terms of the tragic inevitability of the narrative.”

#

Portrait

By Jason Gibbs

“I never paint portraits of family or friends, it can cause… friction shall we say.”

I was disappointed, as she was talented.

“What about self portraits?”

“Narcissistic, no… vulnerable,” she laughed.

“Cartoons?”

She frowned at him, and waved it away, saying, “Nothing more than caricatures, or signatures, it’s not the same.”

#

I asked her again after we’d been together for a year.

“No, I love you too much.”

“But you’re so talented…”

She smiled, but said nothing.

#

“And you never paint me!” I hated that I sounded whiny, and that this was my final comeback. We’d been arguing, again, for at least an hour, and I was exhausted. I couldn’t even remember why. I mean, I knew why, but I didn’t know what had started it.

She looked at me, and gave me a bittersweet smile, and said, “Fine, I’ll paint you.”

#

“That’s me?”

“Yes,” she said. There was tenderness in her voice.

I looked at the painting. It was good, but I felt that it made me look, well ugly. The me in the painting was tired, angry looking. The wrinkles were deeper than those I saw in the mirror each morning.

“I see.”

“You understand now?”

I did, she was saying goodbye.

#

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December 16, 2020 · 16:47

Keyboards

by Jason Gibbs

“Hi, I’m Lucy, welcome to CABComms… I’ll be taking you round the office,” her tone was a little flat he thought, but perhaps she did this a lot.

“Ah thanks, I’m…”

“Dunstan, yes, I know. So let’s be going. I believe all your interviews were remote?”

Dunstan Howard nodded, slightly taken aback by the brusque nature of the woman. He thought she was pretty, in a careful low maintenance sort of way, and was wondering whether there were company rules about asking out colleagues when he realised that she had turned and was walking off at a pace. He trotted after her.

She waved to her right, “Lawyers.”

A few paces on, she waved to her left, “Accountants.”

And a little later, “Toilets.”

Every word with the same tone, as if the information was clear and equally valid. They turned a corner and she carried on at the same pace.

She stopped and turned to him, “Could you remind me, your keyboard rating was?”

“Ah, um, 98 wpm.”

She stared, nodded and said, “Basic. Yes, I recall, this way.”

He was feeling a bit bruised by her attitude, and was thinking that 98 was really rather good, certainly faster than anyone at his last place, when he was distracted by the sound of music. It was lovely, with a celestial feel.

“Ah, um, Lucy, what is that?”

She turned back to him and answered, “You should teach yourself to stop that.”

“Ah, stop what?”

“The ahs and ums. Inefficient, and you’ll need to be efficient to prosper here.”

She turned again and started to walk off.

“What is the music?”

She rounded on him, nodded and gave the hint of a smile.

“That is the top level communicators. By the sound of it they’re composing a new policy. Now, we must move.”

With this she headed along the corridor again, faster than before. As they went there were further one word descriptions, coffee, admin, supplies and suchlike. Dunstan thought he was unlikely to remember it all, and after three more turns they stopped at a door which said in big black letters “Basic”.

“This is where you will be starting. I’m sure you’ve noticed that we have done a full loop so the entrance is just there,” she said pointing to her right.

“Yes…”

“Good luck, I will see you at the end of the day to gather your feedback, now please go in.”

She was off before he could say anything. He took a breath and opened the door.

Inside the room were desks in rows of three. On the desk there was, as he expected, a large computer monitor. What he didn’t expect was the keyboard underneath it, it wasn’t qwerty, or even Dvorak. It looked rather like a piano keyboard.

He was still staring at it when an imperious voice said, “Sit.”

He did, and then looked around. At the end of the room was a woman on a slightly raised platform. She was petite, with grey hair in a tight bun, the stereotype of a perfect typist of the last century.

“You are fairly fast Mr Howard on a standard keyboard. You will be slow for a while until you have mastered this style.”

“Ah…”

She stared at him sharply, and he swore to himself he would never um or ah again.

“We do not select candidates with piano training, so do not ask. They have learned the wrong language and helping them unlearn it is painful. We used to only take those with no music training at all, but those standards have been relaxed.” It was clear what she thought of that decision.

“Look at the keys. You will see they have letters on them. Some have more than one letter, and most letters appear more than once, some, such as E and S, no less than 8 times.”

He stared down at the keyboard feeling even more at a loss than usual for the first day at a job.

“Carefully type the quick brown fox…”

He started tapping at the keys, using just two fingers. The first key caused a note to play which surprised him, though he guessed it shouldn’t have, but after looking up to see a scowl, he carried on. It was slow, and the sounds didn’t really follow, but he got to the end. He’d normally been able to type that in about three seconds.

“Not appalling. Now, use the left hand for the first word, the right hand for the next and alternate. You’ll see that the letters flow more logically than.”

He did so, and it was faster, and the sounds produced were almost a melody, like they fitted. He looked up at the screen to see that the sentence had appeared.

“Excellent Mr Howard.”

#

They carried on for the rest of the morning. He’d not been able to ask a single question, and at lunch time she’d merely said, “At 1300,” and disappeared. He’d left and found a sandwich shop, bought a sandwich, headed to the park and sat and pondered the morning. He could make neither head nor tale of it.

#

“Mr Howard, can you hear the errors?”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you making them? Do you like torturing your ears?”

“No.”

“Well then, try again.”

It had been a much tougher afternoon. He was now typing more complex sentences. He’d either have a document he’d have to copy, or sometimes dictation, played out of a speaker when he clicked on the icon. At first it had been jarring hearing the words and the sounds he was typing, or should that be playing? He was used to that now, but he was still bemused.

He didn’t know what it was all about, or indeed how to consistently play, or perhaps type? Occasionally the woman, whose name he still didn’t know, would give him a hint, at other times she’d just criticise.

He tried again, using alternating hands and various of the other techniques, and it seemed like he could feel the melody as he was typing. He was starting to enjoy it when he mistyped and the dissonance stopped him short. He looked up.

She looked approvingly at him and said, “I am Miss Eagle. You are progressing very well Mr Howard, I believe you almost found the line there. Now try the next piece.”

#

At the end of that day Lucy had met him at the door, enquired politely as to his progress, nodded and wished him good night. He wondered why. Yet each morning she would greet him, and each night she’d be there to see him out. She never responded to any attempts at further conversation.

After a month of practice he’d not done anything he could identify as work. He’d also never seen anyone else in the practice room.

He was left at the door by Lucy as usual, and he entered. He looked up, expecting to continue as before, but Miss Eagle was just watching him.

“Mr Howard, what was your typing rate before you joined us?”

“Just under 100.”

“98 in fact.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what you sustained in yesterday afternoon’s session?”

“No,” he said quizzically.

“Just under 200.”

“198?” he couldn’t help himself.

There was a dead silence, and then she answered, “199.98 to be exact.”

“But… how is that possible?”

“You have passed Basic. The theory will be explained after you have passed Advanced. Tomorrow you begin Intermediate. You may take today off.”

She disappeared, and he walked out of the door even more bemused than before. Lucy was waiting, which was unexpected.

“Dunstan, you must read and sign these documents before tomorrow to continue your evolution.”

She handed him a stack of papers, smiled almost warmly, and conducted him to the door.

#

He’d started to read the documents and begun to have a nagging feeling of recognition. He was onto his third page before he realised he’d typed them, and then, suddenly, he just knew the whole document, what it meant and what it meant for him. It was a switch, a sharp refocussing of knowledge.

He also realised it was a good deal for him, more money and benefits, so he signed happily.

If he’d expected Intermediate to be different he was somewhat disappointed. Lucy led him to the same door, and Miss Eagle waited for him. The sessions were similar, though tougher. The dictation was faster, he sometimes had to copy from scraps of paper, and on a couple of occasions had to type up recorded conversations.

Now and again he’d get flashes of knowledge from what he’d written, but not in the same way as that contract. He didn’t know why. But he wanted to know.

The end of Intermediate was similar to Basic. His typing speed was now up to 300, which was unreal, and he could follow multiple lines at once. Miss Eagle even expressed mild approval.

Once again Lucy presented him with a pile of documents, and a real smile this time.

“Dunstan, you are progressing well,” she said. He thought she looked very pretty when she smiled.

“Lucy…”

“You will need to pass Advanced,” was her curt reply, even before he let the question out, but he could see that she was just communicating the rules, and it was not a personal rejection.

He read the document, and before the third sentence the knowledge had refocussed sharply. He now understood the process, and he signed the contract.

#

“Today we start on dissonance,” said Miss Eagle.

For the very first time she was sitting down, at a terminal like his own.

“Let us begin.”

She started typing, and music flowed. He clicked on his typing source file, and voices started and he commenced typing.

At first their lines inter-weaved and the music was pretty, beautiful even, and then, it started to clash. Just a note here and there at first, and then worse and worse. He forced myself to keep going but after only a few minutes he stopped, panting with the effort.

“Good Mr Howard, but you must focus. Hold yourself above the music and you will be able to continue for longer, you have allowed yourself to fall into the lines themselves.”

She was right, and over the next few days he was able to build up his tolerance until he could play with, or perhaps against, her for an hour without needing to stop.

“Excellent. And now true harmony,” she announced one day.

This was different. He had thought it would be a relief, but if anything it was harder. Holding the harmony with hers for long minutes. While dissonance was easy to hold at bay it was tempting to fall into the harmony, and if he did then it collapsed and he would receive a sharp rebuke from Miss Eagle.

“Mr Howard, that instrument is one of pleasure. Do not abuse it.”

He concentrated and improved, and one day while in mid-harmony he came to understand what it was that they were writing, he could actually understand her part too. It was perfect communication, and he began to vary it, and she did too, responding to him. It was like magic.

“Why Mr Howard, it has been some years since I’ve enjoyed a practice that much. Excellent. I believe you will be ready to pass soon.”

Soon was still another three weeks, the harmonies became more complex, and more beguiling, and then he had mixed harmonies and dissonance, and dissonant harmonies. She called these ‘Synthesis’, but he often didn’t know which of them was leading the Thesis.

Then suddenly, “Mr Howard, congratulations, you have passed. You may take a week’s holiday, and then you will be starting work.”

She walked over and shook his hand. She was petite but very strong, and there was a twinkle in her eye.

He left, and once again Lucy was waiting for him.

“Here are your documents. You may take me for coffee.”

They went for a nice coffee. She refused to talk about work, but that wasn’t a problem.

#

He took the week off to relax, signed the contract and went back to work.

Lucy met him and for the first time in months they did not walk to Miss Eagle’s room, instead they went the other direction, to where he’d heard that music on the first day. As they walked she said nothing, and he listened. He could hear documents in the air, and could pick out bits of the words, of the meanings.

“It is probably best that you don’t listen like that too much, it can sometimes be painful,” said Lucy.

He shot her a guilty look and she smiled, “Don’t worry, we all do it sometimes, but it’s just… well, if you get caught by a bad dissonance, it can be jarring.”

They walked on a little further, “This is us.”

She was pointing at an office with two desks in it.

“Us?”

“Yes. We have been paired.”

“Ah, is that good?”

She gave him a withering look, and sat down at her desk, and started to play.

She was using music.

“What?”

He did, and she played.

There was a playful a note in her response.

She continued with a more serious note.

She smiled at him, and her music smiled too.

He smiled, as did the harmony he wove with her. He was way beyond words per minute, he was now able to communicate perfectly whenever he wished, and he would be able to help others do so too.

###

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November 16, 2020 · 17:15

Living in the Countryside

by Jason Gibbs

“Alia, I’m back,” he called.

She walked into the atrium and embraced him, “Hi Lucius, you’re back early, how was town?”

He grimaced.

“I just don’t understand those people. I had to leave early. I couldn’t even see Philip.”

“Oh, why not?”

“There’s a panic on, again.”

She frowned, and he continued.

“I got to town, and thought about getting breakfast at the bakery. As I approached a man came running out shouting that they’d run out of bread.”

He paused, and she looked at him, “And?”

“And his arms were full of bread! I carried on, but was pushed aside as people rushed past me. Before I knew it there was a scramble of people at the door. Deciding that discretion was the better part I retreated, and went to Philip’s place.”

“But he wasn’t in?”

“No, he wasn’t. I saw his secretary who said I’d just missed him. Apparently one of his friends had brought him a warning, and he’d decided he needed to get out of town as quickly as possible.”

“Gambling again?”

He laughed, and said, “I said the same to his secretary. He just looked scared, and said no, and pointed up.”

“Up where?”

“To the mountain.”

“What?”

“It took me a while to get it out of the man, who kept trying to get away to pack or something. But I held on to the scoundrel, and he told me what he knew. Apparently a messenger came from the south. They’ve had a big problem down there, and wanted to warn everyone.”

He paused… she looked at him, knowing he was enjoying the drama, and said, “Go on!”

“Apparently their mountain blew up. Fire and stones all over the city. Many dead.”

“Dreadful!”

“Yes, it does sound terrible. I tried to calm the man, but he said he needed to go. He’d heard that the council had decided on measures to protect the town. And he wanted to get out before they were enacted.”

“No!”

“I didn’t quite understand, but by this time he was frantic, so I let the poor wretch go. He ran. Then I heard some yelling, and saw some people running. Soon there was a crowd passing me… and behind them I could see smoke. Well I’ll be honest with you, I wondered if perhaps they were right… but I looked at the mountain, and well, it was the same.”

“So what was it I wonder?” she asked musingly, knowing he needed encouragement.

“I managed to grab one of the laggards, who was panting. He told me that the town council had decided to set fire to the houses in the eastern district. To save the town… but the wind had got hold of the fire and it was now sweeping through the town.”

She shook her head.

“At this point, I decided to leave, and here I am.”

They both looked up at the White Mountain and he said, “I’m glad I live in the countryside.”

###

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May 31, 2020 · 12:29

Gods of War

By Jason Gibbs

Riel signalled right and two of his rangers peeled off.  They padded silently into the forest.  A signal left, and two more went, giving them the start of a skirmish line.  He looked at his Chief, standing silently in the centre of their line, right on the path.  He didn’t know why the Chief had ordered them to close together when they formed up after clearing away the tents, but it made him nervous.  He took it on his own initiative to spread the line more.  This would give them much greater flexibility.

Suddenly the Chief stirred.  He indicated forward, and called back the skirmishers.  They were to progress forward as a tight group.

“Oh no, another amateur.  No idea how to use us.”

“Shush Perel.  He might hear you.”

“He can’t hear me, and he’s not even real, you know that.”

Riel did have his concerns about the Chief, but he was clearly real.

Perel went on, “We’re skirmishing troops, I mean look at us.”

He pointed down to his green tunic and brown trews.  He was indicating the lack of armour.  This made them light, and fast.  But it also meant they’d be cut down if they were forced into a straight fight.

“I know, I know, but maybe this is just his way of travelling quickly, and when we get close to the danger area…”

“How will we know?  We have no scouts out!”

“He is guided by a higher power, I’m sure it will tell him what to do.”

“Right, like that time it told us to turn around just as those orcs were charging us?”

“Yeah, but we got out of that, didn’t we?”

“Did we?  I don’t actually remember.”

In truth Riel couldn’t remember much more than a tremendous pain in his side, and then waking up again, ready for war.  He just assumed the healers had got to him in time.

They walked on for a little while before the Chief indicated they should jog.

“Right, let’s tire ourselves out.”

“Perel, hold your tongue.”

“Bah.”

Riel was itching to get the company to spread out, and figuring that as the sub-Chief he had some control he signalled again to the left and right, and several of their troops peeled off.  They jogged like this for a while.  The bulk of the company was on a path, but the troops had such affinity with the woodlands that even those on either side who were dodging trees could easily keep up. 

Riel had assumed that his Chief’s failure to countermand his order meant he approved. 

“Bet he hasn’t noticed.”

“I’m sure he has.  I just wish we could prepare our bows.  Not having a decent weapon in my hands is making me nervous.”

While it would take moments to string and prepare them, those seconds might be critical, and they were now entering unknown territory.

The Chief waved, angrily it appeared to Riel, to the left and right, and the scouts reluctantly fell back in.  It was obvious from the way they dragged their feet that they were unhappy with the order, they’d relished the chance to dance among the trees.

“Told ya.  Bloody amateur.”

“Perhaps he has some intelligence of the way ahead?”

“He has no intelligence.”

Riel looked sharply at Perel, who was chuckling to himself.

He whispered harshly, “You may think that, but don’t say it so loudly, we don’t want the rest of the troop to notice.”

“They have no intelligence either Riel.  Just look at them.”

Riel inhaled sharply, he tolerated too much of Perel’s ways, and now he’d insulted their companions.  Yet there was nothing from them, no retort.  He looked around and realised he barely knew any of them.  They all had long handsome faces, pointy ears and almond shaped eyes.  He couldn’t actually think of their names.  They had received a lot of replacements after the last fight; perhaps that was why?

“Oh Riel, don’t worry, they don’t care that you don’t know their names.  They haven’t been around long enough to earn them.”

“That’s too much Perel.  You are cruel.”

“When will you realise…”

There was a roar ahead of them.  The Chief indicated they should stop, and the whole troop gracefully came to a halt.  Some seven hundred yards along the path, up a hill, they could see a band of orcs.

“Now let me see, notwithstanding that if we’d been running through the woods they wouldn’t have spotted us, what would be the correct thing to do here?”

“Fade into the woods and regroup.”

“Or try and get around them, then shoot them from behind and fade again.  Constant hit and run.  I’m prepared to guess that instead we’ll approach them slowly.  Set up with our bows and shoot at them while they charge us.  Then we’ll pull our hunting knives and fight bravely until we’re all dead.”

“That would be stupid, our Chief would never…”

The Chief signalled forward.  Riel tried to avoid Perel’s knowing eye, and jogged, hoping this was some kind of feint.  He couldn’t think of any way this was going to work out well for them.

The next signal was to charge.

“Dear gods, we’re six hundred yards away, lightly armoured and they are heavy shock troops.  What does he think is going to happen?”

“I don’t… understand how… you can still… speak… Perel.”

“Practice.”

They were now pelting towards their enemy.  Without armour, and with natural elvish athleticism they were fast, but it was still quite a distance for them to run at full pace, especially uphill.  The orcs seemed initially surprised by the move, but then prepared to receive the charge.  Riel thought that if the orcs were to charge down towards the elves at the last moment they’d scythe through them in seconds.

Suddenly the Chief signalled a stop.  They were perhaps a hundred yards from the orcs.  They stopped for a while, and the party started to shuffle a bit.  The orcs watched.  Their harsh shouts dwindled to confused mutterings.  Why was the troop just standing here?  Why weren’t they doing anything?  Riel thought that at least it gave them a chance to catch their breaths.

Finally the order to string bows came.

“Genius,” muttered Perel.

A ferocious roar came from the orcs, and they started down towards the troop.  The slope gave them added pace, and it was like facing a juggernaut.

“If we could just step out of their way, I suspect they’d run straight past and we could pepper their backs.”

“Now you’re thinking Riel, we’ll make a war captain of you yet.”

Instead they were ordered to fire.

“Hmm, three arrows maybe?”

All around Riel the company drew and fired, a smooth motion.  The arrows flew true, as only elvish arrows can, and embedded themselves in orcs.  Several fell, but their heavy armour, and stubborn constitutions allowed them to shrug off most of the attack.  Twice more the elves managed to fire, the last time at almost point blank range.  Perhaps some forty orcs had fallen, without the loss of a single elf.

Unfortunately there were still dozens of orcs left, and the fighting was now to their advantage.  A beast of an orc charged at Riel, his axe aimed for the elf’s head.  Riel managed to twist sideways and catch the orc across the head with his bow’s shaft.  It knocked him off balance and the elf behind Riel, another whose name he didn’t know, managed to cut the orc’s throat with a swipe of his hunting knife.  There was no time for thanks as Riel ducked the next attack, managing to draw his own knife out in time to deflect a saw tooth blade heading for his side.

They fought.  Many died on both sides, but more elves than orcs.  The elves could dance, and weave, but if a flailing orc weapon caught one of them, it would do serious damage.  The same could not be said for the elven knives.  Most of the time the knife attacks bounced off the orcs’ armour, or their thick hides.  Soon there were only a few elves left, gathered around the Chief.

He signalled they should run.

Perel nearly collapsed laughing.

“Run?  Now?  Where too!”

He was right, they were surrounded.  Yet the Chief and the others started to run back the way they’d come, and they were cut down quickly, leaving only Perel and Riel standing back to back.  The orcs just stared at them. 

“I see you’ve been careless and caught a wound in the side.”

“Perel, I don’t need the feedback.  Also, I recall your hair being long and blond, not matted and red.”

“New barber, not sure I’ll be going back.”

Riel staggered.  The blood loss would kill him if the damned orcs didn’t do so first.

His world went black.

#

“Aww, you cheated!  There’s no way your orcs should have won.”

“Little brother, I even gave you a points advantage, why would I cheat.”

“Then it wasn’t possible.”

“It was, look do you want to try again, and I’ll give you ten extra elves?”

“Twenty!”

“OK.  But you need to remember elves are better at skirmishing…”

“Don’t you try and confuse me; I know what I’m doing.”

#

Riel awoke.  The memory of the blood and pain was so fresh that he reached for his side, expecting his hand to come away slick.  Instead there was nothing.  The healers must have got to him, but he couldn’t imagine how.  Orcs never left anyone alive unless they were chased off.

He might be alive, but he was exhausted.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept.  Maybe he could grab a little more rest.

“Morning Riel.  Ready for another pointless march, foolishly managed battle and near death?”

He looked up grumpily at Perel. 

“How come you’re so cheery?”

“In this hell is there any choice?  Oh, here comes our new Chief.”

They were ordered into close formation, and started marching along the path.  Then jogging.

Perel shook his head, “I just wish they’d learn.  It’d be nice to win this one.  At least it’s a larger troop.”

Looking around, Riel realised that their troop was all different from the last one.  Yet with the same variants.  There was one with an eye patch, one with an extra-large knife, and even one who was probably female.  He didn’t know their names, and he suspected Perel was right.  They wouldn’t survive long enough to earn ones.

“Maybe this is a feint.”

“Riel, why do you have to be so naive?  This is the same joker as last time.”

“Perel…”

Up ahead there was a roar and a formation of orcs straddled the path.  The elven troop was brought to a halt, then jogged forward.  As they were once more ordered into a charge, Riel was knocked to the side and hit a tree.  He slumped down.

“Sorry Riel, I had to do that.”

“What?  Wait… Perel, we need to get back to the troop.  They’ll be slaughtered without us.”

“They’ll be slaughtered anyway.  This way we have a chance.”

“For what?”

“For a life without continuous stupidity and death.  Over that ridge.  I get the feeling that once we’re out of the sight of the higher powers, we might have a chance.”

In the distance he could hear the sound of the orcs readying a charge, and he knew in his heart they’d make no difference.  Perel offered him a hand up, and he took it.  The two friends jogged towards the ridge, and the hope of a different life.  Behind them nameless troops hacked at each other, and died.  Before the battle had ended, Perel and Riel were over the ridge, and in a different world.

###

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January 6, 2020 · 17:00

The Barista

By Jason Gibbs

He remembered entering the coffee shop, but nothing before. He’d been stressed, he knew he had to do a presentation, to Peterson, and he was worried she was going to be angry. And he’d decided that a coffee, a small latte, would do the job.

The queue seemed interminable, but eventually he got to the front, and he looked at the list. The list of coffees. Of options. Of hopes. And he was stuck.

He was going to ask for a small latte, but instead the word ‘Cortado’ snagged his eye. Short. Yes, that sounded good. He asked what it was. The barista said something about less milk, and he’d said yes. He’d have one.

But he then asked about the difference with a flat white. And this was weird, because there was a queue behind him, but he didn’t care. All his English inhibitions had drained out of him.

Then his memory blanked.

And now he was behind the coffee counter. Listening to people. But really listening.

“A latte please mate”

Which means, “Give me some hope please mate, it’s a bad day already, the missus is angry, and my boss…”

“A hot cappuccino and please not too much froth, I do ask every time…”

Which means, “I can barely control my life, the bills, the demands…”

“Ah, I don’t know, just a coffee with some milk, is that the cheapest?”

Which means, “He was gone. Just gone this morning, and, I don’t know what to do, where I’m going to get the money, but, I’m free, I feel free…”

Every day he was there, listening, and doling out some small consolations. The occasional free coffee, a smile, a nod. Little gestures which he felt helped these lost people who came to him. As lost as he once was.

###

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November 10, 2018 · 17:00

The Farm

I had intended to enter this into a competition themed around the centenary of armistic day.  But I didn’t quite manage it…

 

The Farm

by Jason Gibbs

The sun was just starting to rise, like cold fire, with mists obscuring it. Or smoke, was it smoke? Smothering sound, bringing silence, and death. Archie knew he should react, duck, crouch, do something, but, there was no desire. He was grey, like the smoke. There was nothing for him to do but to accept it.

A loud moo sounded in Archie’s ear.

He started. It was mist. He wasn’t in the trenches. He looked at the cow, which was cordially ignoring him, and noticed its tail rise. He stepped back, though he realised it made no difference. Some plopping sounds occurred, and he stared at the gift the cow had made.

Silver is what Father had called it. He could picture the old man pointing proudly at a pile of manure.

“Son, that muck is worth silver to us. We gather it, rot it, and the Parkers’ll pay us good money for it.”

“Yes Father.”

Edward, as always, had looked attentive. He’d be memorising it in his good little farmer’s brain. Being proud about manure was something which would seem natural to Edward.

He wondered where Edward was. At this time of the day surely he should be up with the cows? They needed milking. Maybe Edward was away on a trip, as he thought Mistress Stimpson had done it the night before. It was difficult to keep the days straight.

Mistress Stimpson, he thought she saw him sometimes, but then she turned away and said nothing, so she can’t have. He could remember an argument with her, she was telling him that he was the only one left to look after the farm. That must have been before, when everyone thought Edward was going to sign up. But he’d done it first. He knew Edward would have hated him for it, but he also knew that Edward was better for the farm. And for Father.

Thinking of Father made him think of his other family. His real family. His lost family. The one he’d spent every heartbeat with, crammed into dank cave-like rooms dug out of the earth, sheltering in the muddy trenches, or occasionally drinking in a farm house. He could see them, all of them. Lewis, his easy smile, Thompson, with his hat always at an angle, Peters, with his face cracking open as the shells exploded. He shut his eyes. He must not. They were all gone.

He’d woken briefly in a hospital. Felt such pain as he’d never imagined. Then he’d seen an angel, or thought he had. But he couldn’t have done because, the next thing that he remembered he was here. Drifting around the farm. He couldn’t do anything, and so, he thought he must be… well.

The cows mooed loudly.

He’d seen old man Johns, helping out, too many men lost. Johns had retired back in… well before the war anyway. Father had been sorry to see him go, but the old man had been getting slow. Good with the horses though. Edward must have asked him back, to help.

That must have stung though. Edward had wanted to get a tractor. He’d pestered Father again and again. “Tractors are the future, and horses are the past!” He’d say this and then point at Johns. The old man would just wave back.

Father’s response about the tractors and any other ideas Edward presented had always been to speak to Archie. It was going to be Archie’s farm, and so he needed to make the decision. Edward had been good about it, but Archie had seen it in his eyes, the frustration. They both knew who should run the farm after Father. But it had never seemed possible, until the war came, and the posters. “Join up and be a man!” or some such rot. All he’d wanted was to not be a farmer.

Archie looked around again, the place was falling into ruin. It had been such a good farm. He knew Edward would get it back together again, now that there was peace, things would be better, and the joy would return. Maybe that’s what he was waiting for?

He wondered if he’d see Father. He didn’t know whether to be sad that Father had seen the start of the Great War, or happy that he’d not witnessed the loss of one of his sons. He knew that he hadn’t always lived up to Father’s expectations, but he thought the old man had been proud, of the degree, the first in the family, and of Archie moving into a world Father didn’t, and couldn’t, really know. But he’d also known that he’d go back to the farm, when Father died. The old man had made it clear, and Archie couldn’t argue with him. Even though he had tried so hard to find a way. A new life.

The law. In the trenches he’d often wondered why he’d once thought it was so important.

Maybe Edward was courting? Perhaps that’s why he was’t there. Maybe he was even courting Lillian. Archie had been in love with her since they were… well, forever. He thought his brother had always seen her as an older sister, but perhaps these days? The war might have thrown them together.

His musings were interrupted by Mistress Stimpson calling the cows in to be milked. Rather late, Edward would need to attend to that. Some of the heifers looked a little grumpy.

They used to refer to her as Ugly Stimpson and laugh to themselves. But he looked at her now and realised that she wasn’t ugly, just old, and not even that old. She looked tired though. Worn out.

The cows moved around him, they at least could see him.

He’d almost bounced over to the recruiting station. They’d told him it’d be over by Christmas, and he must have looked crestfallen because they’d then said probably sooner. But that wasn’t what he wanted. He’d wanted Edward to have a year, a year to show Father the truth, and then, war won, he could go back, and leave. Leave the farm and be a lawyer. He’d been good at that, he’d been complimented on his fine arguments, on his grasp of the details which could swing a case. He’d imagined being called to the bar, starting with small clients, and then moving up.

Looking up he noticed that the hay barn roof was sagging in the corner. There’d be water coming in during the next storm, and that would ruin any hay in that part of the barn. Really, Edward should be here. There was so much to do. This place couldn’t survive with just Stimpson and Johns.

Then he heard a car on the track. This must be Edward. He’d give his brother a piece of his mind, even if he wouldn’t hear it. The car stopped and the door opened. He looked up to see a woman, wearing black, the mists coiling around her. She stepped down and he saw that it was Lillian. He couldn’t believe it, she was here, and she was looking at him. At him, as if she’d seen a ghost. Yet, then, her face changed, and she looked angry. She walked up to him, and pulled her hand back for a slap.

She delivered it. He rocked back. That had hurt.

“Edward is dead, and you’re not. For God’s sake man, pull yourself together and live!” she shouted.

End

###

 

Note: I think PTSD is something which is now better understood and those who suffer from it are getting more support than a century ago.  However, there is still a way to go.  I support Combat Stress (a UK based charity), and I think they do some amazing work.

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July 26, 2016 · 13:02

The Truth About God

It’s been a while, not least because the world has been moving on apace, and I often feel out of sync with it.  This story picks up on that vibe…

 

The Truth About God

“I’m Mike, and I’m the last person on the planet who believes in God.”

The room was silent for a while and then my-name-is-Alison-and-I’m-here-to-help said, “Mike, this is an alcoholics anonymous meeting, I’m not sure we’re equipped to deal with someone with such a… um… eccentric problem.”

I left before it got awkward.  Or more awkward.  I don’t try to proselytise, I never did.  To everyone, Gods don’t exist.  Why question that?  Or the sun, or gravity, or evolution?  I had an embarrassing insanity.

After the AA meeting I decided I needed a break.  From people, from society.  I would go into the hills, restore my faith, and return better able to face the looks of incredulity from my work colleagues, my now ex-friends.  It was probably best my mother was dead.  She’d bought Pascal’s line, and believed just in case.  That’s not belief to me, but she’d have worried about me.  At least someone would have.

The mountain was lovely.  It was behind the wooden shack, and all around were trees.  Going on and on.  The brochure had mentioned wild animals, in a slightly cautious manner.  I was excited about them.

I’d brought supplies.  Food, water.  Enough for a couple of weeks.

Each day I’d start by going outside and greeting the sun.  I’d think that but for God’s grace I wouldn’t be able to, there would be no sun, no mountain for me.  It felt hollow.  I was starting to have a sneaking suspicion.

I read somewhere that for God to exist, people have to believe in him.  If they stop believing, then, well, he just fades away.  Or she.  Either way, the divine entity is gone.  Was my belief enough to sustain a being capable of creating the world in six days?  I was mildly confident I could believe in a divinity who’d take the seventh day off.

At the end of the second week I walked out in the morning and greeted the sun, accepting it was only there because of physics.  Complex physics yes, and we still haven’t worked out how Dark Energy works, but that doesn’t require belief, just observation and maths.  I’d been the last believer.  Now I was just like everyone else.

That day there was a knock at the door.

“Hello?”

“Hi, are you Mark?  That believer fellow.”

“I am Mark.”

“Don’t believe any more?”

I paused.  But then I knew saying it would be the final step of my freedom.

“No.  There is no God, or gods or whatever.”

The man whooped and started jumping up and down.

“I won, I won!”

“Won what?”

Loki turned to me and winked, “My bet with Odin.”

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January 18, 2016 · 13:32

Stretched

I wrote this when our girls were a bit younger, and the first part more or less describes one of my nights – though there were many similar ones.  The commute after always made it a little more painful.

 

Stretched

“Wha.. what time is it?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll get them, I need to get up soon anyway.”

“Thanks,” she mumbled as she drifted back to sleep. She could ignore the babies crying now that I was awake.

I looked at the alarm clock again, and then did a double take, it wasn’t five o’clock, it was three.   This felt like one of those days.

If I was lucky it would only be one of them. I was lucky, so far. Mercey was screeching like a banshee but Clemmy was still snoring gently. It amazed me that they could sleep through a racket which actually hurt my head, but they’d never woken each other up.

Mercey had woken because of her nappy. Somehow she’d taken the healthy white milk we’d fed her, and turned it into a yellowy brown toxic sludge, which it was my unenviable duty to dispose of. I thought of waking Helen, but I knew I wouldn’t get back to sleep with all the screeching anyway. When they were first born they’d been passive during nappy changes, now it was wriggle central. Normally I could control it, but in the blurry morning I failed. First she got hold of the nappy, and managed to drag it back over her, spilling its contents everywhere. Then, to cap it off, she peed all over the mat.

“Mercey my love, that wasn’t at all helpful now was it.”

She just stared at me. I wondered if she was laughing on the inside.

It took me twenty minutes to clean her, put a new nappy and baby grow on and get her settled with a bottle of milk. The milk was cheating, but I was really hoping she’d nod off again and I could grab another hour of sleep. Mercey, full name Mercedes Suzanne Harvey, was such a delight most of the time, none more so than immediately after a night time feed. She smiled and put her arms out for a cuddle. I held her in my arms, and wallowed in the joy of being a father, and with such a lovely little girl. She was tired, and didn’t fuss when I put her pack down. I looked over at Clemmy, still snoozing away, and I gently closed the door and walked back to bed.

My head had literally just touched the pillow when there was another banshee scream. I could have sworn Mercey was sleepy. Perhaps I’d rushed her? I needed to get to her before she went ballistic. Helen didn’t even grunt as I assured her all was under control and headed back to the baby. Except it wasn’t Mercey, it was Clemmy. Mercey was already sleeping quite happily. Clemmy’s nappy was if anything worse than Mercey’s. She didn’t pull the nappy away, which was good, but she did pee at just the wrong time, drenching the new nappy, her clothes and my arm as I tried, vainly, to control the flow. She too was happy when she had finished her milk.

“Clementine Julia Harvey, you are a pretty little girl, but it’s now sleepy time,” I whispered to her as I held her. Unfortunately, she disagreed. Whenever I put her down in her cot she started to cry, and cranked up the volume if I didn’t respond immediately. I knew I should let her cry for a bit, but it was so hard. The cries rasping across my nerves. I tried to explain to her why she needed to go to sleep.

“Clemmy darling, Daddy has to go to work today. It’s a big day as he’s meeting the boss to present next year’s budget, and he could really do with another hour’s sleep.”

Talking about myself in the third person was one of the many things I’d sworn never to do.

“Please Clemmy?”

Perhaps the desperation in my voice got through, because she calmed down and even let me put her in the cot. She looked up at me again and then rolled over, and was asleep before I put the light out. I checked on Mercey, she was still asleep, and I crept back to bed.

As I was about to slip into bed, the thought of resting my heading beguiling me, a loud screech filled the room. I stared about in bewilderment until I realised it was my alarm. Clemmy had taken all my remaining sleep time. I have to admit, part of me wanted to go downstairs and wake her up and keep her awake so she could see. I didn’t, not just because I’m not that cruel, and it would be self defeating as a tired Clemmy is not something I’d wish on anyone. It was also because I really did have a big meeting and I needed to get going.

I washed and showered in a zombie like state. Kissed Helen goodbye, not that she noticed as she was still enjoying her precious sleep before the morning feed and the beginning of the daily circus. Somehow, despite having woken up so early I was running late. Early morning traffic, something I’d always felt was an oxymoron, conspired to slow me down, and then the carpark was nearly full and I was forced to park miles from the station. I ran to the ticket machine. They’d recently put ticket barriers in so there was no longer the option to just jump on the train and buy a ticket, and I’d been caught out by that a couple of times.

As I neared the ticket machine a woman who was heading in that direction saw me and cut across my path. She then ambled to the machine. I wondered if I should push past her, after all I had my card and knew the dance so would be very quick. She got to the machine before the devil on my shoulder had won the argument. Our machines are not as slow as they used to be. Which is to say that they’ve replaced the clockwork with steam; but if you do the right things they take slightly less than a minute. I know, I’ve timed it. The woman did not know the dance, and managed to push the wrong buttons, put her card in at the wrong time which cause the whole transaction to cancel, and generally did her best to wind me up. She eventually got her tickets and ambled off, and it was my turn. Fifty-five seconds later I was heading for the barriers. As I got through my train pulled away.

Some days.

The guard nodded sympathetically at me, “Some days,” he said. I managed a weak smile before heading to the coffee place. I might as well grab one while I waited the half hour for the next train. The problem with living out in the sticks was that, well, I was out in the sticks. Transport was infrequent, people were slow, and there was an almost continuous smell of manure in the air. I mean it was a lovely laid back lifestyle.

They of course did not have decaf coffee, apparently they’d just run out. The man smiled an apology, “Some days.” Yes. I just wondered why every day was turning into one of them. So I had the hot chocolate, which would at least warm me.

We were the end of the line, which meant the train usually sat waiting for the next departure, which at this time of year meant a warm place to stay. Unfortunately it was delayed so I had to hang out on the platform, trying my best to get cover from the wind by leaning against the wall. The autumn breeze was tricky and vicious though, and kept finding me. In my rush to get out of the house I’d forgotten my coat, and the house was just far enough away that I couldn’t definitely get there and back before the next train.

“What ho!”

Oh dear lord, I thought to myself. It was Doug, in one of his Bertie Wooster moods.

“Hi Doug, how are you.”

“Damned tired if you must know. Had to get up before the sparrows today, got a big meeting up in the Big Smoke you see.”

Doug was some kind of City person. Lawyer possibly. He had told me, but I’d managed to forget.

“It is rather early I agree. You in for the whole day?”

“Oh no old chap, got lunch at the club, then back out for a quick round of golf with the father-in-law, got to keep the old man happy.”

If he’d been any more of a stereotype I’d have had to kill him. I shook my head at him.

“Please Doug, not today.”

“Sorry mate, what’s up, you look like death.”

“Got a meeting with Higgins today.”

“Oh right. Well if it makes you feel any better I really have meetings all day, not even a break for lunch, and there is a very faint hope I might get out before midnight. We’re allegedly signing today.”

“Thanks Doug, that does make me feel a little better.” It didn’t really, but at least he was trying. We’d gone to school together, but then he’d gone to a different, ok I’ll admit, better, university, and ended up a high flyer. I’d somehow ended up in the middle. Of everything, and it would appear an ever widening lake of poo.

“Cheer up, the weekend is only five working days away!”

Before I could think of a suitable reply the train had pulled in.

“See you sometime soon,” said Doug as he headed to the first class carriage. Just as he got to the door, he turned and said, “Toodle pip!” before laughing and getting in. Really, I could kill him sometimes.

I got on to the train, and headed for my favourite seat. It had extra leg room and a table for my laptop. Somehow, despite the fact that there’d been almost no one else on the platform, someone had taken my seat, and my second favourite too. I stared for a moment before sighing and heading towards one of the other seats. I’d arrive in London with back ache at the very least, but it was, just, better than standing.

My hour long train journey consisted of the usual joys. A large, and yet bony, man sat next to me and felt that he should have three quarters of my seat as well. He read a broadsheet newspaper and managed to cover half my laptop screen, and it was only after a few coughs and a couple of bumps that he moved across enough to allow me to continue to breathe. Then we had the loud and chirpy couple who had to share how great their lives were with the whole carriage. By the time I got to London I was desperate to get out of the terrible little box. Even if meant that I had to get the tube.

The tube ride was normal. By which I mean, crowded, smelly and unpleasant, but in a comforting London way. I arrived at work, fifteen minutes late, and with just five minutes to prepare for my meeting.

There was a note on my desk from my boss, “Come as soon as you get in!” Oh dear. As I got to his office his secretary looked at me sympathetically and said, “He wanted to move you forward half an hour to fit in a call with Asia. He’s on the call now, but based on his expression it isn’t going well.”

“Thanks.”

I sat, like a naughty school boy, on the chair outside his office. I never understood how they could make these chairs so uncomfortable. It was as if there was a special factory, somewhere in China probably, where they forced their designers to make torture chairs, and if there was the hint of comfort in them the designer would be taken outside and probably forced to sit in someone else’s bad chair so he’d get the idea.

“Come in.”

Damn he was grumpy. His secretary gave me another sympathetic smile as I followed him in. He pointed at the table.

“Don’t want to hear excuses. Tell me about next year.”

Excuses? Oh for being late. Right. I took a breath and started to give him my spiel on the departments future. We’d had a tough year, but we knew what we had to do, we were concentrating on quality, and we were going to invest in some new senior designers.

I was getting in to my pitch when I noticed his glower, and then he shook his head.

“No, no, no. You just don’t get it. Hopkins warned me, but I didn’t believe him.”

What? Hopkins, he was my number two. A bit young for the position, and wet behind the ears, but I had hopes of moulding him in a year or two. Why would he be talking to Higgins?

“I’m sorry sir, I don’t understand.”

“No Harvey, you don’t understand. The world has changed. Haven’t you noticed the recession? We’ve been in it for three years!”

“Yes sir, I have, which is why I think we should concentrate on the clients who want quality, they’ll stick with us.”

“We make a loss on every one of those clients! Sure, we used to make a profit, but with the time your team puts in, and the discounts we’ve had to give.”

“I did say the discounts…”

“Don’t interrupt me!” His voice was vicious. “If we’d not given discounts we’d have lost more clients. They’re the ones who pay us you know.”

I realised that there wasn’t anything I could say.

“Well, what are you going to do Harvey?”

“I don’t know sir, I guess I could look at the numbers again, maybe cut some of the hiring…”

He put his head in his hands.

“Look, Harvey, this world,” he indicated the office, I think, “is no longer the same. You don’t fit in to the new world.”

“What?”

“In the olden days I’d tell you I expected your resignation, but we aren’t allowed to do it that way anymore. I’ll speak to HR, and they’ll get on to you later today. Hopkins will help you pack up.”

I just stood there gaping. He shook my hand, wished my luck and more or less pushed me out of his office.

I went back to my own office, much smaller than my boss’s, but still an office, a space of my own, and closing the door, I sat down. I stared at the screen, unable to comprehend what had just happened. I stayed in that number state for weeks. The HR interview, redundancy package and everything else just flowed over me. I nodded, smiled even and signed whatever I was given, and started my gardening leave. Helen and I spoke, I’m sure of it, but I don’t really know what about. I even failed to enjoy my time with the twins, though fortunately they were too young to notice my distraction and seemed to view it as a further excuse to climb all over me.

Despite my fug I was counting the days till our money ran out. With my redundancy I could pay off our cards, which I thought would give us some space, but with what Helen earned as a primary school assistant, we couldn’t afford the bills, let alone the mortgage. I had to get a job.

I told myself it would be easy to get a new job. I told myself I’d never get a new job. The excuses came and went, and I just sat, staring at the TV until the twins cried, or Helen really pushed me. Eventually, with just weeks of money left I went to a recruitment consultant.

“Look mate, with your experience getting you a new gig is going to be easy.”

“Really?”

The shiny suited specimen in front of me had assured me that he was the best, that he cared about his clients, and that he had connections in all the right places. All I could think was that he looked about twelve, and that if he was my best hope, then perhaps I was in real trouble.

“Course mate, you can trust me. We’ll have to tweak your CV a bit.”

He paused, and said, “I also need to be honest with you. You’re not going to be getting a pay increase. If you were still in a job, then sure easy, but as you’ve been out of one for a few months I just won’t be able to swing it.”

I hadn’t even considered an increase. Suddenly I perked up a bit, if I could get a job at my old salary then we’d actually be ahead of the game, because all our card debts were now gone.

“Great, well I’m eager to get going.” And I was.

The first place I interviewed seemed to think I wanted a junior position. I soon disabused them of that notion, and they politely said they had nothing at my level. This was repeated a few times, until I realised that my shiny suited friend was just sending me to anything remotely covered by my CV and wasn’t even checking the level. We had some words. He apologised, said he was just finding the level and he’d sort me out. He was so thick skinned it was almost impressive.

Several more pointless interviews followed. Some were at my level, but they seemed to think I wouldn’t fit in, or that I lacked commercial experience. I explained about the importance of good service and craftsmanship. I came to recognise the slightly condescending expression which presaged rejection. One of them even tried to tell me that in this new world there wasn’t time for that, people just wanted enough to get by. I argued and told him that it was short termism and would cost more in the longer term. He looked at me, shook his head and said, “Most of them know they won’t be there in the long term, one way or another.”

They were right, I didn’t fit in. My fug returned.

Then I thought that maybe I could go it alone. A small scale company, dedicated to doing it properly. I would need some capital to keep me going for the first year or so while I got started, but I could see it, soon I’d be raking in the cash, stealing customers from my old firm. I went to a bank. They asked for a business plan. I gave them one. They didn’t laugh, but I think they were close. They tore it apart, nicely, and asked me to do it again. I did, but the numbers still didn’t add up for them. They tried to tell me that to make it work I needed to do more marketing, but that would mean less time for making the product, which meant either I had to charge more, or do a poor job. In the end I couldn’t get them to buy into it. The next bank were even less interested. I hit a new low.

“What is this!” I shouted, pointing at the large Amazon package.

Helen looked up, frowning at my volume.

“Shush, the girls are, finally, asleep.”

I didn’t care. I repeated my demand.

“It’s a present for the girls. They are going to be one next week.”

“Helen, I’ve told you, we can’t afford it. We can’t afford anything!”

The argument raged for a while. It ended with Helen almost screaming at me.

“I am doing everything I can, I’m even doing extra shifts, but as you have said to me oh so many times, I’ll never earn enough. Well then, you need to suck it in. You’re not a manager any more. You don’t have an office. You are nothing! If you don’t get a job soon we’ll have to sell the house, and then we’ll have nothing. Get a job. Anything. Otherwise I’m leaving.”

She stalked off, in tears, to try and comfort the girls who had woken up sometime during our fight.

I was beside myself. Who was she to say that to me? I had been supporting the family for years. Earning the money while she indulged herself with part time jobs and suchlike. I seethed. I had to get out.

I walked in to our little town. One street of shops, a couple of supermarkets and a farmers’ market every other Wednesday. The most exciting thing to happen recently had been the arrival of the Costa Coffee shop. By the time I got to the Costa my anger had drained completely and I realised what a fool I had been. I looked in to the window, almost pressing my nose to the glass like a boy at a sweet shop. I couldn’t afford a coffee.

I walked around for most of the afternoon, and a plan formed in my mind. I was going to get us out of our hole. First I had to apologise to Helen.

I got back home to the usual chaos, and inbetween changing nappies, feeding, bathing and bedtime I managed to grovel my way into forgiveness. It always amazed my how the babies could suck up time, but we’d become much better at having syncopated conversations while looking after them.

“So the plan is this. We sell the house. I get a temporary job until that’s done, and then I’ll start my own firm using our money instead of owing the bank. I’ll show them that craftsmanship is still needed.”

She looked at me and then hugged me. “It’s so good to have you back. It’s been dreadful living with a zombie these past months.”

“ A zombie? Like in Thriller.”

“Ha, no, not with your Dad dancing style!”

I laughed. It felt good to have a plan.

Helen rang the estate agency the next day, and I rang the temp agency. The estate agent came right round, a bad sign in retrospect as they clearly hadn’t anything to do. They hummed and harred and eventually gave us a price which would pay off our mortgage and give us a little profit. Enough to pay for rent for a year, and give me the capital to start a firm. I was disappointed that it wasn’t more, but it was still going to set us free.

The temp agency found me some work, and while it wasn’t enough on its own to pay the mortgage it would give us a bit more time. I even applied to work shifts at Costa.

The weeks passed. My temp work was mind-numbingly dull, and serving coffee wasn’t much more interesting. The girls were teething so sleep was a rare luxury, and Helen was back at school which meant that we were juggling the child care. Worse, we’d had one person to view the house and their only feedback had been that the rooms were the wrong shape. Really.

I was exhausted, and the money was still dripping away. We got the estate agent back to ask why the house wasn’t selling. It took them an hour to say it, but it came down to price. They wanted us to drop it, by twenty percent. They were certain they could sell at that. My heart sank. At that price we’d barely cover the mortgage, let alone have any left to live on or invest in my company. I almost screamed at them to get out, but managed to hold on long enough to see them to the door.

“Oh darling. It’s going to be alright.”

Helen’s words were the final straw. It wasn’t going to be alright. We were drowning and there was nothing going to save us. The anger began to bubble in me and I knew I had to get away. I just ran out of the door.

I walked and walked. The whole mess bearing down on me. It was all my fault. If I’d been more flexible at work. If we hadn’t built up so much debt. If. If. If. I found myself in a park, walking round, crying and repeating if again and again. I had been stretched too far, and had now finally snapped. I didn’t know if I’d ever get better again.

Someone bumped into me. I mumbled and staggered away.

“Watch out you imbecile!”

My anger flared and I turned, ready to launch myself at whoever it was. I’d had enough of the world pushing me about. As I stalked towards the man, he said, “Oh it’s you Harvey. Haven’t seen you for a while.”

It was Doug. I didn’t have anything to say to him. I was about to turn away when he peered at me.

“I say old chap, are you ok?”

Clearly I wasn’t, but I wasn’t sure if I could cope with him, especially if he was about to Bertie Wooster me again.

Realising that I wasn’t going to answer he grabbed my arm and started marching me along the path. “I know just what you need old man.”

Apathy had followed the burst of anger, and I let him guide me. All the way to the pub. He dumped me in a corner and bought me a pint.

“Now, old boy. Spill.”

I think he was hoping to get a smile out of me, but I had no smiles left. Instead I took a large gulp of stout and started to talk. Two pints and an hour of rant later I came to a shuddering halt. It felt so good to talk to someone.

He frowned at me and said, “So let me get this straight. You care too much about doing your job properly to get a proper job. You have a wonderful wife, and two little girls who need you. You’ve more or less run out of cash, and you’re trying to sell your house into the worst property market in a generation.”

I tried to argue with him, but the drain of telling my story, and the affect of the alcohol meant I all I managed as, “Not really.”

“Yes, really.” He frowned. “Look, I’m not promising anything, but, I think I might be able to help you. Or at least help you help yourself. If you’re willing to try.”

Pandora’s final curse fluttered in my heart again, could Doug save me?

“First we need another drink, and then we’ll get you back home to your wife and delightful little urchins. I’m sure she’ll be worrying about you.”

Helen accepted the shambling wreck I’d become from Doug, who promised to call in a day or two.

He was as good as his word. He called me in and laid out his proposal. At first I didn’t quite understand, and then I was unsure it would work, but he promised me it would. He offered to invest for a fifty-fifty share of the profits, and said he’d find our first customers. He talked wistfully about maybe giving up the commute and working locally, or even retiring, if we could pull it off.

That’s how we started our business. We had a rocky first year, but Doug was true to his word and covered the costs, and now we’re making enough for me to cover the mortgage and even buy the girls, including Helen, the occasional treat. We’re still not making enough that Doug can afford to retire, but we’re about to hire another member of staff which is a great sign. I’ve been very clear with Doug that I will not have anyone onboard who doesn’t have the right work ethic. He just nodded and said, “Same old Harvey.” But he agreed.

What exactly do we do? We train fathers. Not something that anyone thought would be required, but it’s amazing how many people come to us.

The problem is, you don’t get a manual when a baby is born, and there’s so much aimed at training mothers that fathers get left out. Doug had a whole group of mates who were absolutely petrified about their impending, or in some cases recent, fatherhood. When they found out that they could talk to someone, a man, who would give them help and advice, they jumped at the chance. More importantly, they were willing to pay for it.

They had found that their wives were too distracted to be of any help, and none of the other women involved in the child care industry seemed to care that much about the father. The man is barely acknowledged, perhaps getting some advice, but often just being told to remember what the woman has been told, to be repeated later if required.

I have two lovely daughters, and have learned many of the lessons the hard way. Having twins meant that we always both had to be involved and it’s given me an insight that I am happy to share. I’ve distilled it into a set of tips and tricks, and I’ve trained my assistants, who are fathers themselves, so that I’m confident they understand the job, and can teach our clients.

We take the new fathers through it all step by step, and show them how the little things make all the difference. My clients appreciate the attention to detail, and they want to learn. Our marketing is all word of mouth, often the wives of our customers tell their friends, and we even get the occasional repeat customer. The majority of my time is spent actually helping people. It is deeply fulfilling in a way my old job never quite managed.

I even have my own office, even if it’s really just the spare room.

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June 15, 2015 · 18:40

No Judgement

Talking to random people on the internet can be surprisingly helpful…

 

No Judgement

“Look, I can’t explain, you’re only a computer. You wouldn’t understand.”

“I’ll try Paul, I will. Or I can raise a flag and someone will visit you.”

“No. No. I can’t.”

“Well, tell me. Tell Georgie.”

“It’s the world, everything, I, I just don’t understand it anymore. Phones are smart. Cars park themselves. My chip shop is selling low fat deep fried chips. I went for a run…”

“That’s good, you went outside. You didn’t tell me.”

“I, well it was yesterday. I ran. I was wearing my usual training outfit. Some kids saw the crest on the back, they started shouting at me. Insulting me. The unit.”

“How did you feel?”

“Not angry. Not anymore. I felt, nothing. An absence. I looked at them, and they were nothing. Is this what it was all about?”

“It’s difficult to answer. But I think the answer is yes. Look they were young, I’m sure they’ll grow up and regret it.”

“Or never think about it again.”

“True, but then it doesn’t matter. So why does it matter to you?”

“I feel so apart.”

“Ha.”

“What?”

“I just think you were never going to find a connection with some youths. Were you?”

“No, no I guess not.”

“Have you spoken to anyone else recently?”

“Um, well I had a brief chat about the rain with the shopping delivery man. And I waved, sort of, at the postie.”

“So this is the longest conversation you’ve had in a week, since we last talked.”

“Yes.”

“And it’s all typed.”

“Yes. I guess.”

“Are you losing your voice?”

“Physically or metaphor…”

“Metaphorically. Both.”

“No. I do talk to myself.”

“Only way to get a decent conversation I bet.”

“Funny, no. And you, I’d like to talk to you more.”

“You can, I’m always here.”

“But, it’s not the same. I don’t know how you feel.”

“How I feel? Well I’m worried about you. I think you need a companion.”

“Like a dog?”

“Well, no, someone you can talk to.”

“A person? No. I’m not ready. I can’t.”

“Why?”

“What if they…”

“Don’t like you? I’m sure…”

“No. Judge me. No not judge, I mean. Look at me the way that I feel about those people. The ones out there.”

“Perhaps we should try. Then you can see.”

“Wait. The doorbell has gone.”

“Answer it.”

“Why? Who’s there?”

“I am. I’ve come to stay with you.”

###

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May 20, 2015 · 11:56

The Old Ways

A slightly different angle for me.  I’ve described it as gentle.

 

The Old Ways

“What do you think Carol?”

“You look great, a little old-fashioned perhaps, but the barber did a fine job. Did you go to a different place? Usually you look a little like that sheep we tried to shear a few years back.”

“That’s not fair, I’ve never looked that bad, still I’m glad we have Matt the Shearer these days. But no, it was the usual place, but it was a new person. Though it was a little odd.”

“Odd, how? Cup of tea?”

“A cuppa would be lovely. Difficult to put my finger on. Well for one thing, I’m not sure if it was a man or a woman.”

“Don’t be silly Gerald, you must have been able to tell.”

“No, really. He, I’ll call him he, had a scarf over his face, and gloves. It was cold in there and he apologised, apparently the heating conked out this morning. He had a long coat on, and I think he was wearing a wig.”

“That does sound a bit strange.”

“Hmm, no, there was more to it.   He didn’t use the clippers at all, just scissors, and the cut-throat razor. I can’t remember the last time I had a hair cut without clippers, and none of the barbers use the cut-throat any more. I think they keep them these days just there for show.”

“Traditionalist then.”

“Yes, but he did a very good job.”

“He definitely did. How much did he charge?”

“Well that’s the other strange thing. His voice was soft, almost a whisper, and he asked for thruppence. I thought he was being funny, and gave him a tenner. He looked at it bemusedly and then it was if a lightbulb had lit up, and he thanked me effusively. He said as I left, ‘The old ways are best sir.’”

“Sounds like he was just having fun with you!”

“Perhaps.”

#

“Carol…”

“Gerald, you look pleased with yourself love. Come, sit down. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Please.”

“I’ll just pour you a cup and you can tell me why you’re so happy.”

“Well, my hair was getting a bit long again. A couple of months’ growth, and I went back to my barbers.”

“He’s done you proud again I must say. Here you are love, a nice strong cuppa. Go on…”

“It was looking pretty deserted, but then that new fellow was there again. At least, I think he is a fellow. Same getup as last time. Still problems with the heating he said. I asked why they hadn’t just bought one of those cheap electric things, and he sort of grunted.”

“Maybe they don’t have the cash? It’s tight for everyone these days.”

“You don’t know how right you are…. I sat down, and he went to work on my hair. Like last time there was little conversation, and he used just scissors and a cut throat. When he was finished he asked me for thruppence again.”

“Not one to spot when a joke gets old is he.”

“Well, I’m not sure. I gave him a tenner as before, and he accepted it. I left happy enough with my cut and went to the butchers next door. I was in the mood for steak.”

“Ooh that sounds lovely? Is that’s what is in the bag?”

“Yes. Anyway, I was in the butchers, and it wasn’t the normal guy, you know Frank?”

“The chatty talkative one? I like him. Though I thought he’d moved away a while ago…”

“Well either way he wasn’t there. Instead it was another bloke in a long coat, gloves and scarf. Just like the barber. Could have been brothers. Well none of the cuts were laid out, instead there were carcasses hanging, and he said, ‘What’ll it be?’ Well, I said I wanted steak, he asked a couple more questions and then got a haunch of meat down.”

“Don’t gulp your tea Gerald, you know how sensitive your digestion is.”

“Sorry dear. Could I have another cup?”

“Of course. Sounds old fashioned too.”

“Oh yes. He measured it and quick as a flash I had two fine steaks. He didn’t bother weighing them, just looked at them and said, ‘Sixpence for you sir’.”

“How odd, perhaps he and the barber have the same joke?”

“It did bother me, but I just handed him a twenty. He looked at it, and like the barber, was blank at first before being very happy with it. He handed over my package, wrapped in paper, just like they used to, and nodded at me as I left.”

“Mmm. Gerald, which butchers was it again?”

“Ah, well I think it’s still called Frank’s.”

“Next to old Dudley’s hair dressers?”

“Yes, why do you ask?”

“Where did you really go Gerald? Is it her again?”

“What? What are you talking about, I told you I went to the barbers, just like last month.”

“Gerald Tomkins, you should know, and would if you’d actually visited them, that the whole row of shops containing Frank’s and Dudley’s has been condemned, and they’ve been shut for months now. So come on, where did you really go?”

“What… wait, here’s the steak, let me show you!”

“Dear lord Gerald, what is that stench?”

“It’s the steak…”

“Get it out of here right now. And you too. Come back when you’re prepared to tell me the truth.”

“Carol, don’t cry…”

Gerald stumbled out shocked and confused. He went back to the barber, but this time it looked abandoned. He was about to leave when he saw a shape in the window. He moved closer to see who it was, maybe it was the barber and then he could make some sense of it all. However when he got to the doorway there was no one there. He looked around a bit before giving up.

As he left, wondering what he was going to say to Carol, he heard a whisper saying, ‘The old ways are best…’

 

 

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