Perfection

To achieve perfection takes trial and error.

If others are involved in your task, they may see your experimentation as indecision.

Ignore that gnawing urge to placate them for an easier life, and press on with your goal.

Only then, will you hope to attain something that you can be 85 – 90% satisfied with.

Sylvia Plath – In Memoriam

Sylvia Plath
October 27th 1932 – 11th February 1963

I was a few days late with my tribute to the great artist, Amedeo Modigliani. So, I decided to be a bit premature with this one to Sylvia Plath.

Poet, novelist and short story writer, Sylvia Plath committed suicide 50 years ago tomorrow.

She was married to fellow poet, Ted Hughes. And the pair had two children together, Frieda and Nicholas.

On hearing of Hughes having an affair they separated. Plath taking two year old Frieda and nine month old Nicholas with her. Five months later, with the kids tucked up in bed, she sealed the kitchen doors and windows with wet towels and put her head in the oven. She was 30 years old.

The world lost a literary colossus and prodigious talent.

Understandably, Ted Hughes came in for a lot of stick for his part in her death. Exacerbated by the fact that his second wife, Assia Wevill, (the woman he had the affair with), also committed suicide in 1969. And, even more tragically, she also took the life of their daughter, Alexandra.

It’s not my place to vilify Hughes, as I don’t know what went on in their relationship. What I do know, is that he was an outstanding poet too.

Plath’s daughter, Frieda went on to become a successful poet, children’s author and artist. (I think she lives in Australia now.)

Nicholas became a marine biologist. But, like his mum, suffered from depression. And sadly, he also took his own life in 2009 by hanging himself.

The world would have been a better, richer place if she had remained in it.

Here is one of my favourite poems; I love the way the lines break, sending one stanza cascading into the next:

EDGE

by Sylvia Plath

The woman is perfected
Her dead

Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity

Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare

Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.

Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little

Pitcher of milk, now empty
She has folded

Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden

Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.

The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.

She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.

What a smile – RIP Sylvia Plath

Addendum

Here’s a lovely little article from the Academy of American poets about

the things that Sylvia Plath loved.

Addendum II

The days before death. Read this honest, harrowing and heart-felt account, by Jillian Becker, about Sylvia Plath’s final days. (I know, as a parent, that I would’ve felt a little put-out at being a nursemaid.) Thank you to Jo Harley Hynes for sharing it with me.

I have a dream too, you know.

True, it may not be as ambitious and world-changing as Dr. Martin Luther King Jr’s. But it’s a dream nonetheless.

To be honest, I wasn’t going to post about it until I felt I was in more of a position to realise this dream. But short of winning the Euro Millions Lottery, it aint going to happen without some serious philanthropic backer.

So, what is my dream?

Well, it’s to build a School of Arts for under-privileged kids.

Kids from low socioeconomic backgrounds in large inner-city estates. Kids who might not ordinarily get the opportunity to explore the more creative aspects of their nature.

What good would that do society? We’re in a depression, don’t you know!

Problems in every field of human endeavour are virtually always solved by creative thinking. Even the great Albert Einstein said so himself. Creativity allows us to look at problems from different angles and apply new thinking to solve problems.

Moreover, I don’t see it as a school that produces an unprecedented amount of artists. But an unprecedented amount of creative thinkers – whichever vocation they choose to pursue later in life. Whether it be mathematics, science, business, computers, product design, or economics.

And yes, a few more more artists too. And what’s wrong with that? Art is seen as a dirty word in this country. If I tell people I write poetry, they shift uneasily in their seats. If I said I write poetry in Ireland the response would be a polite smile and a nod toward the back of the queue.

Do you think the first rocket flight to the moon was dreamed up by a scientist?

Sure, scientists and engineers made it a reality. But it is creative people who come up with the ideas and the original solutions of how they can be achieved.

What will the kids do?

The school will develop and encourage creative thinking and self-expression.

It will foster, nurture and encourage exploration of the arts in all its many and varied forms including: painting, drawing, sculpture, ceramics, poetry, literature, screenplays, theatre, drama, dance, music, design, digital arts, film, photography, humanities, languages, and the classics.

Where is this school?

I quite fancy the idea of transforming a derelict Victorian mill. There’s something quite ironic about that. Though it certainly wouldn’t be a prerequisite. (Salts Mill in Bradford is a good example.)

Initially, an inner-city campus close to urban populations that have a high level of low socioeconomic families. Basically, anywhere across the Manchester – Huddersfield – Halifax – Leeds belt. It’s also sufficiently ‘central’ enough to accommodate children from further afield.

It would also be good to have a rural retreat – somewhere like the Lake District, Peak District or the Yorkshire Dales, where children can attend week-long courses/classes which double up as a holiday.

I would also like to open an international sister school in India or Sri Lanka where people from distinctly different cultures can share ideas. These schools could also participate in exchange programmes. (Then subsequently, even further afield: China, South America, South Asia.)

What about science subjects?

This school wouldn’t be a replacement for existing schools and their curricula – more of an extension to them.

Would it exclude people from non low socioeconomic backgrounds?

Not at all. But opportunities for middle-class families in other schools are much more accessible, regardless of ability.

Intake for low income kids would be based as much on desire and enthusiasm to participate rather than ability. There would be a limited number of places for more affluent children. Sort of like Eton – in reverse.

What kind of courses will it run?

Day-long workshops for visiting schools.

After-school classes.

Week-long courses. (Which would include accommodation for traveling students.)

Weekend classes.

Full-time sixth form courses. (A-levels.)

Masters and PhD courses.

What ages are we talking about?

Key Stage 3, up to, and including, sixth form.

Undergraduate, Masters and PhD courses.

What else does the school have?

Apart from studios and classrooms?

There’d be accommodation for students who are visiting from further afield.

Cafe / restaurant.

Gallery to promote and sell students’ work.

Gallery featuring independent contemporary and traditional art.

Masterclasses from guest lecturers.

State of the art library. (Both on and off-line.)

Book shop.

Art-house cinema.

Who will pay for it?

Well, that’s the biggest question of all.

A like-minded philanthropist would be nice.

Arts Council grant.

Lottery funding.

A percentage of Masters and PhD students’ tuition fees could go towards funding.

Sales from restaurant and galleries.

Fundraising / donations.

An Ideal World School of Arts.

Salts Mill, Bradford.

David Hockney at Salts Mill.

Salts Mill interior.

Studio space?

Any constructive criticism and advice about how to get something like this funded and off the ground would be greatly appreciated.

Mudslide Bride – Short Story

Mudslide Bride

The story of Roman & Millie.

© David Milligan-Croft

Ethan died back in ‘48. But his two brothers managed to live right through till the ‘80s, though God knows how. Admittedly, they weren’t in the best of health and, Roman, the eldest, has been housebound for the past fifteen years. Luke could just about manage some chores around the house and garden but, would soon tire and have to rest on the verandah with a cold glass of lemonade that Millie had made.

Millie came up from the town each and every day to clean up the place and cook the old boys some food. In all probability she would have to clean Roman’s bed as he would have soiled it.

Today, she was baking a steak pie with onions, mushrooms and kidneys. The brothers would like that, she thought. Seeing as though she was baking, she may as well rustle up a blackberry pie as it wouldn’t be too much extra trouble for her.

Millie busied herself in the kitchen getting flour on just about everything from her nose to the light shade. The sun was splitting through the Black Willow trees and bathed Millie in an aura of light that made her look like some old angel as she worked at the kitchen table. She had been a very beautiful woman in her youth, but most of her golden hair had turned white as snow now. She still kept her figure though – slim as a twig she was.

She was off in a daydream – probably thinking about Roman. And how they used to go on bicycle rides down to the river and fish for freshwater crabs using a mussel on a piece of string as bait. Roman would dangle the string over the side of the jetty and let the mussel nestle between the rocks. Soon enough, a crab would tippy-toe along and grab hold of it with its claws. Roman would slowly pull the mussel out of the water, with the stubborn crab still attached. He would go on about how stupid crabs were when he was putting them in his bucket. A little smile crept across Millie’s face when, all of a sudden, she was startled by a rap on the window. Millie nearly jumped out of her skin with fright. Lucy’s dazzling smile almost blinded her. In her outstretched fists she held two Jack rabbits. Millie held both her palms to her bosom trying to calm down.

‘Come inside, you silly girl,’ Millie said. ‘You scared me half to death.’

‘Look what I got!’ Lucy shrieked.

‘You ought not to go sneaking up on people like that. Especially if they’re working.’

‘Look what I caught down by the stream. They’d be great in a pie or stew or something, don’t you think?’

‘Just you think now what would have happened if Luke or Roman were sitting here while you did that? I’ll tell you exactly what would’ve happened, they wouldn’t be here to tell the tale, that’s what.’

‘Oh relax, Millie. It’s a beautiful day. The sun is shining, the birds are singing. Well, not all the birds aren’t singing, ’cause I bagged a couple of pheasants earlier this afternoon. But I gave one to Mrs Taylor and I sold the other one to Midway Johnson.’

‘You shouldn’t be exploiting Mr Johnson that way. His mind ain’t what it used to be.’ Millie was inspecting the rabbits. Feeling how much meat was on them, how old they were. She even sniffed the fur. ‘Lucy, where exactly did you catch these rabbits?’

‘I told you. Down by the creek.’

‘This one’s turning,’ Millie said.

Lucy began to shift on her feet and fumble with the tails of her grubby cotton shirt. ‘I caught them with my own bare hands.’ Lucy proffered her dirty hands to Millie for inspection.

‘How exactly did you catch them?’

‘You know – the usual way – with a trap.’

‘What kind of trap?’

‘What difference does it make what type of trap I used!’

‘You no more caught these than I climbed Mount Entwhistle before breakfast. Now you just go and take them back to exactly where you took them from,’ Millie said. ‘Before the old boys see them. They’ll have them skinned and eaten before I get a chance to warm a pot.’

Lucy smiled a little. ‘They are silly old birds aren’t they? Maybe I should return one of them and you could cook the other?’

‘Millie, if one of the old boys tells the postman that he ate rabbit stew for supper, then Jack Parker will tell everyone in town ’cause there isn’t enough gossip as it is. Then whoever you took them from will find out. And who will they coming looking for, Lucy? Me, that’s who. They won’t be looking for Lucy Langdon, oh no, they’ll be looking for Millie Preston.’

‘Alright, alright! I’ll take them back. You don’t have to go on about it.’

‘And if you’re quick about it, you might make it back in time for some blackberry pie.’

Lucy’s eyes lit up as she grabbed the two rabbits and darted out of the kitchen door. Millie smiled as she watched her vault the fence at the end of the vegetable garden and tear a trail through the corn field.

Lucy Langdon was an orphan. No one really knew how old she was. Least of all Lucy. But Millie reckoned she must be in her fifteenth summer by now. Her folks were killed in the mud slide of ‘48. Her aunt Angeline cared for her until it all got too much and she moved away. By that time, Lucy was fairly well able to look after herself. Whether it was by catching things, stealing things or doing the odd job for people in town. She still lives in Angeline’s old house at the edge of town, but it’s pretty much a shell now it needs so much work doing to it.

There’d been a rumour that she’d got hooked up with a vagrant but, like everyone else, he seemed to move on. She wasn’t much of a catch for anyone. Her blonde straggly hair hadn’t seen water, except for rain water of course, for many a year. And you could grow sweet potatoes with the dirt from under her fingernails.

Luke doddered into the kitchen, completely ignoring Millie, with a bed pan that he tipped into the sink.

‘What on earth are you doing!’ Millie cried.

Luke almost fell over with fright. ‘Good God, woman! Don’t be sneaking up on me like that. Are you insane?’

Luke was slavering as he spoke. Millie thought it was due to one of the minor strokes the doctor kept telling her about. He already had a limp in his left leg and didn’t have much use from his right hand anymore.

Millie sighed. ‘Luke, why are you pouring a bed pan down the sink?’

‘It’s Roman’s. He’s all messed up again.’

‘You know you shouldn’t be doing that.’ Millie clutched the front of her apron and moved towards the door. ‘Thank you for trying to help, Luke,’ she said as she climbed the stairs.

When Millie got to Roman’s bedroom she almost wretched on the stench. She pulled back the curtains and swung open the windows. Sunlight streamed into the room, highlighting a dust cloud from the curtains. Roman groaned and stirred, shielding his eyes from the light.

‘Is that you, Millie?’ he asked.

‘Yes, dear, it is.’

‘Go away! I don’t want you to see me like this.’

‘Don’t be silly, Roman. I’ve seen you in worse states.’

‘It’s not right. It’s humiliating.’

Millie sat down on the edge of the bed and held Roman’s hand between her palms.

‘Why can’t you just let me die?’’ he pleaded.

‘Because you’re not ready to leave me just yet,’ she said. ‘Besides, what would Luke do without you?’

‘You’d look after him.’

‘Not all the time, I couldn’t.’

‘He’d manage. He’s completely insane you know. He should be the one locked up in a darkened room all day.’

‘Don’t be saying that about your own brother. You know you don’t mean it. Now move over this side a little so I can pull the sheet from under you.’

After Millie had washed up and finished cleaning Roman she went back to the kitchen to pop the pies in the oven and peel some vegetables. It was while she was scraping the skin off some potatoes that her mind began to wander back to when she and Roman used to go walking together. Millie and Roman had been sweethearts ever since they were children.

Roman, being the eldest, always looked out for his two brothers. Maybe this is what Millie liked in him. He was a big man, with the gentlest of touches. He would hold Millie’s hand like he was cradling a fledgling. They would’ve married too if it hadn’t been for the accident up at the goldmine.

Back in ’48 there had been a terrible rain. The rain seemed to last for weeks, though it only actually lasted for eight days. But for that eight days it sheeted down relentlessly, causing a mist, like a net curtain, over the whole town.

Eventually, the mountain had enough of the rain and decided to move on. It looked like half of Mount Entwhistle slid down into the river. Two mine shafts collapsed, killing twenty nine miners. That’s when Ethan died. Roman was one of the last to be dug out of the mud. When they eventually found him underneath a support beam, his spine had been broken clean in two. Luke had never been the same since. Roman says it’s on account of all the mud that seeped into his brain. But Millie knew that it was because of seeing all of their friends die like that. Right there in front of them. Screaming as they were engulfed by the liquified mud.

There wasn’t one person in the whole town that didn’t know someone who had been killed or injured in the mudslide. The town grieved for years after.

To add insult to injury; the mining company closed down the mine, leaving most of the men in the surrounding area unemployed, and without even a sniff of compensation. The owners said it was an act of God, and that they weren’t liable. So everyone prayed to God on Sunday, but he wasn’t liable and didn’t give them any compensation either.

It wasn’t long before the town dried up, both literally and metaphorically. With the mainstay of the town gone, so had most of the families. Now, it was mostly populated by old folks and a few middle-class people who wanted a little bolt-hole in the country.

Millie looked out of the window and saw Luke pottering about in the garden, between the tomato vines and the artichoke stems. Probably doing more harm than good. She could smell the pastry from the oven.

She went to the refrigerator and made a fresh jug of lemonade, listening to the ice cubes clink as she stirred them around the glass.

Just then, Lucy came bounding in, her grubby yellow blouse sticking to her skin. ‘I put them back, Millie!’ she exclaimed.

‘Good girl. Now go and wash-up, dinner’s almost ready.

‘Awww, do I have to?’

‘If you don’t scrub those filthy nails you won’t get any dessert,’ she gave Lucy a whack on the behind with a tea towel as she ran past, up the staircase, taking them two at a time.

There was silence for a while, then the screech of copper pipes as the hot water started running. Suddenly, there was an almighty crash.

Millie threw down her apron and scurried up the stairs. Lucy was standing on the landing with her hands clamped across her mouth staring into Roman’s bedroom.

‘What on earth happened, Lucy?’

Lucy turned on her heels and bolted past Millie, who could now see what Lucy had been looking at. Roman had fallen out of bed onto the porcelain bedpan shattering it into a thousand pieces, whist managing to pull the dresser on top of him for good measure. Tiny porcelain fragments were protruding from his pyjamas and blood began to spread across the fabric. Millie rushed up, dragged the dresser off, and rolled him onto his back cradling his bruised face in her hands.

‘You silly thing! What on earth were you trying to do?’

‘I saw this on the dresser and I wanted to look at it.’ Roman held out his bleeding palm to show her a small framed photograph.

The glass was cracked and small splinters had embedded themselves into his fingers. Millie looked at the picture. It was an old sepia photo of Roman and Millie when they were in their late teens. She was wearing a floral dress and holding a straw hat in front of her, while he stood behind, hands upon her shoulders in his best blue linen suit. The picture had been taken the day they’d got engaged.

Just about the whole town came to the party. Long trestle tables had been set up in the garden. There was music and dancing. (Jerome had brought his fiddle.) They roasted a whole pig on the spit and baked stuffed beef tomatoes – as big as your fist – on the coals. Everyone had had a great day. There hadn’t been a wedding in the town since Helena Phelps married Butcher Bob Fielding, eight years previous.

The date had been set for June 1st, 1948. But that, as fate would have it, was eight days after the rain came. And the mud that washed away their lives.

Tears began to slip down Millie’s cheek onto the back of her wrinkled wrist.

‘You look so handsome,’ she said.

‘And you look as beautiful now as you did back then,’ he said stroking her cheek with the back of his hand.

‘Don’t be teasing,’ she said wiping her nose and sniffling.

‘I’m not teasing, Millie. I’d marry you tomorrow if it wasn’t for all of this,’ he said gesturing at his prone state.

‘You dozy dunderhead, I wasn’t bothered what physical state you were in,’ she said, slapping him with her tea towel. ‘Besides, we’re too old for all of that.’

‘I guess you’re right,’ he said, fingering the hem of her cotton dress.

Millie looked down at Roman, stroking his greying black hair. ‘Anyway,’ she said. ‘I’ve been coming here for the past thirty years. That’s probably more than any woman could stand in a marriage.’

‘That’s not like a marriage.’

‘How’s it different?’

‘You know. We were never… intimate.’

‘You were intimate enough in the back row of the Odeon!’

‘That was just fooling around. We weren’t proper intimate like married couples are.’

‘I think you still have some of that mud in your head. Anyways, I didn’t care about your back. It’s what’s in here that counts,’ she said, tapping his skull with her knuckles.

‘You mean, you’d still have married me?’

‘Course I would.’

‘Guess that’s all as maybe now,’ he said.

Millie wiped away a trickle of blood from Roman’s nose. ‘Besides, I don’t think my wedding dress would fit me anymore.’

‘You still have it?’

‘Of course I do.’ Millie smiled. ‘I wonder if it would fit Lucy. It would make a right little madam out of her for the day.’

‘As a bridesmaid?’

‘No, you silly old fool. I thought you could marry her!’ she said batting him with the tea towel again.

The Boating Party – with Patrick Chapman

Luncheon of the Boating Party, 1881. By Pierre-Auguste Renoir.

The Boating Party is a brand new feature on my blog. It’s a series of interviews with writers, artists, photographers, filmmakers and the like.

In times of economic hardship the Arts are usually the first things to be axed. But, in my view, the Arts are the most important aspect of our civilisation. Without the arts, we have no culture. Without culture, we have no society. Without society, we have no civilisation. And without civilisation, we have anarchy. Which, in itself, is paradoxical, because so many artists view themselves as rebels to society.

Artists aren’t rebels, they are pioneers.

And perhaps, most importantly; without the Arts, where’s the creativity that will solve the world’s problems? Including economic and scientific ones?

I hope a brief glimpse into their lives is as inspiring to you as it is to me.

First up, Irish writer, Patrick Chapman. Poet, screenwriter, short story writer and all round raconteur. Not only is Patrick a great friend, he’s been a constant source of encouragement and inspiration, for my own writing.

Patrick Chapman

What’s your greatest personal or career achievement?

I hesitate to nominate a ‘greatest personal achievement’. As a person, I’m not entirely sure I’ve achieved anything apart from not dying. As a writer, I could nominate working with the Daleks on a Doctor Who audio play – but that’d be just the most fun. It’d have to be my New & Selected Poems, A Promiscuity of Spines, which spans 25 years of work. The book has an elegant cover art-directed by Vaughan Oliver, one of my design heroes. It was a pleasure to be able to commission him and find out that he’s a lovely bloke to work with.

What’s been your greatest sacrifice?

That’s difficult to say, as I live in the so-called First world. Someone takes away my iPad and I cite the Geneva Convention. You could say I’ve sacrificed having a regular life in order to be a writer – which to me isn’t a sacrifice.

To whom do you owe a debt of gratitude?

Too many people to list them all. There was Macdara Woods, a venerable Irish poet who, 25 years ago, gave me vital encouragement starting off. Before that, my teacher of English, Paddy Nangle, let me write short stories instead of essays.

Who and what inspire you?

People who don’t think they can write but who really can. I taught budding writers a couple of years ago and was struck by the quiet ones in the class – they hesitated and even resisted reading in front of the others but when they did, their work shone. Quiet geniuses inspire me. As for what rather than who? Everything and anything. I tend to get obsessed by a thought or an idea that won’t let go until I’ve wrestled it into a poem. Happiness, therefore, is a blank screen filled.

What was the last thing that inspired you?

It was Steven Shainberg’s film, Fur, which is an imaginary portrait of Diane Arbus. Not at all biographical in the conventional sense. Nicole Kidman and Robert Downey Jr are both superb in it. The poster for Fur showed Downey without all the hair – for most of that film he looks like a Wookiee but the marketing department, presumably, didn’t want it to come across as a sequel to Beauty and the Beast.

What makes you unhappy?

Right now it’s the thought that we’re quite possibly heading into a world of six degrees of global warming. That’s not Earth, it’s Venus. Nobody in power wants to think about it and it’s almost too terrible to contemplate, so people carry on regardless.

What makes you smile?

Woody Allen when he’s on form. His early, funny ones still crack me up, especially Take the Money and Run, and Love & Death. Annie Hall and Manhattan are my two favourites. I also have a fondness for his darker films, such as Husbands and Wives and Deconstructing Harry. Cassandra’s Dream was terrible, however.

What are you reading?

The Beginning of Infinity by David Deutsch. I loved his earlier book, The Fabric of Reality, and this one is as good. I recently finished Wetlands by Charlotte Roche, which was a hoot, especially as I was about to undergo a colonoscopy shortly after reading it.

Who, or what, are you listening to?

Dark Wood, the new e.p. by my current favourite band Abagail Grey, plus the Go-Betweens compilation, Quiet Heart, the Pet Shop Boys album, Elysium, and the David Byrne and St. Vincent record, Love This Giant.

What’s your favourite film?

Blade Runner. For thirty years I’ve loved its melancholy and its pessimism and its art direction, and Sean Young with that hair and those shoulder pads. It’s such a poetic portrait of lost souls in hell, and it’s got a great soundtrack by Vangelis. It’s also Harrison Ford’s finest two hours on film.

What frightens you?

The future. I have no idea how to manipulate it so that I don’t end up dead within the next hundred years.

What can’t you live without?

Apart from the obvious – air, water, coffee, etc – it’s the ability to write. This is what keeps me going. Without writing, I don’t really exist.

What’s your motto?

“The world is not enough.” If it’s good enough for James Bond, it’s good enough for me.

If you could be anyone other than yourself, who would it be?

J.G. Ballard, for his vision but not necessarily for his demons, though the two are inextricable. He gave a very good answer to the Paris Review when asked about his writing schedule: “Two hours in the late morning, two in the early afternoon, followed by a walk along the river to think over the next day. Then at six, Scotch and soda, and oblivion.”

If you only had one year to live what would you do?
Ignore all the warnings.

Up whose arse would you like to stick a rocket, and why?

The Catholic Church. But that’s a lot of rockets and a lot of arses. It would be only part payback, and poetic justice, for their former practice of torturing infidels to death by shoving hot pokers up their bottoms. That said, let’s not even get started on the Catholic Church and bottoms.

Who would you like to be stuck in an elevator with?

Steven Moffat. He’s a writing hero, not just for Doctor Who and Sherlock. I loved Coupling and Jekyll as well. I assume from all of this, plus his former Twitter feed, that he’d be interesting company at close quarters. I’d just let him do all the talking, and would write everything down.

What are you working on at the moment?

I’ve just put the New & Selected Poems to bed and am now turning to a collection of short stories, due out next year. Also, my physique. One of these projects is going better than the other.

Which six people would you invite to your boating party?

You know when you’ve just come down with a sudden, life-threatening illness in public and someone asks ‘Who’s your doctor?’ and you say ‘Tom Baker’? That’s how you know you’re a nerd. I’d ask Tom Baker first, not just because he was ‘my’ Doctor growing up but because I really enjoyed the tales of Soho in his autobiography – getting drunk with Francis Bacon – and his disturbing and brilliant book for children, The Boy Who Kicked Pigs. Jessica Hynes would be on the list too because I’ve admired her work since Spaced. Kate Bush, simply because she’s Kate Bush. Richard Dawkins, because he’s fascinating as a scientist, and I’m in his camp when it comes to religion. Alan Turing, just so I could tell him he’s been vindicated. And Douglas Adams, because he was very, very tall.

What question would you have liked me to ask?

Would you rather be happy than right?

I’d rather not be happy than wrong.

Thank you, Patrick.

A Promiscuity of Spines by Patrick Chapman

Patrick Chapman was born in 1968 and lives in Dublin, Ireland. He is the author of six poetry collections, the latest of which, A Promiscuity of Spines: New & Selected Poems, is published on October 10th by Salmon Poetry. His other collections are Jazztown (1991), The New Pornography (1996), Breaking Hearts and Traffic Lights (2007), A Shopping Mall on Mars (2008), and The Darwin Vampires (2010). He has also written a book of stories, The Wow Signal (2007); an award-winning film, Burning the Bed; episodes of the Cbeebies series Garth & Bev; and a Doctor Who audio play, Fear of the Daleks. In 2010 his work was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

Weblink.
http://www.salmonpoetry.com/

The Wargallons – A dark story for children.

I’ve been working on this story for quite some time now. The original idea came to me about 10 years ago when I lived on Saddleworth Moor. But it’s been festering away in the dark and dusty recesses of my mind waiting to be written.

A writer doesn’t write stories. Stories come out to be written when they’re ready. Sometimes they only show you part of the story. Other times, they’ll emerge fully fledged in their Sunday best. Admittedly, sometimes you have to tease them out a little like getting your younglings ready for school in the morning.

Here’s a sample chapter for your perusal. I’ve also attached some stunningly dark illustrations by Alexander Jansson, whose work I love. And, if money were no object, I’d ask to illustrate the story. To me, they seem to capture the bleak and darkly mysterious world of the moors.

Here’s a few to get you in the mood…

THE WARGALLONS

By David Milligan-Croft

CHAPTER ONE.

The Wargallons live deep, deep underground in the wet, wild and windy Saddleworth Moors that straddle the ancient counties of Yorkshire and Lancashire in the north of England.

They are very hairy. In fact, hair covers their entire body. They have sharp horns on top of their heads. And, if people didn’t know any better, they might think them quite frightening.

But, they are very shy, timid little creatures who very rarely come out of their underground homes.

For food, they pluck vegetables from their tunnels under the earth like we would pick fruit from a tree. Sometimes, when they get to come up to the surface, they forage for berries and wild flowers.

If ever they are out on the wild moors and an unsuspecting hiker happens upon them, they simply hunker down on all fours and pretend to be a ram grazing on the grass. This only works at a distance, mind. Closer up, and you would notice that their facial features are more akin to ours.

If you’ve ever wandered upon Saddleworth Moor you will testify to its spectacularly barren beauty. One thing you have to be extremely wary of though, is how quickly the weather can turn. One minute you can be walking amidst the tall, wild grasses with views of rolling moors as far as the eye can see. Then, in a matter of minutes, you can be enveloped in a shroud of fog so that you can barely see your hand in front of your face.

If you chanced to stray from a well-worn path, as you most probably would, being the adventurer that you are, and the ghostly mist descended, you would most definitely find yourself lost. If you can actually find yourself being lost. If that makes sense.

The only time Wargallons come out of their secret hidey-holes is if they hear the sound of a child’s cry. It’s something to do with the frequency of the sound waves. It doesn’t work with adults. Their frequency is too low to penetrate the thick soil and stone of their underground homes. A child’s cry is much higher pitched which resonates in the Wargallons’ sensitive ears. In some ways, their ears are much like a dog’s. As is their sense of smell. They can smell a child’s tears from five miles away.

The doorways that block the entrances to the Wargallons’ underground caverns are made from solid granite that was forged when our planet was formed zillions of years ago. So they are pretty hard to budge. But for some spooky reason, at between 110 and 115 decibels, which is the frequency of a child’s cry, those millennia-old boulders grind open as easily as a kiddy opening a bag of gummy bears.

* * *

Jibbledibob was busy pulling carrots as they dangled from the roof of the tunnel he was in when, all of a sudden, the gateway nearest to him began to grind open. The dark tunnel was flooded with blinding light so that Jibbledibob had to shield his eyes with the basket he was using to gather the carrots.

His nostrils were filled with the joyous scent of wild heather and lavender from the moors outside.

Slowly, blinking his eyes to get used to the light, he edged toward the opening. As you can imagine, Wargallons have very sensitive eyes, what with living underground in almost complete darkness most of the time. So it took Jibbledibob a few minutes before he could open his eyes outside. And, even then, he had to squint to stop them from watering.

Jibbledibob had heard tales from the elders about Wargallons rescuing lost children from the moors, but those stories were from a long, long time ago before he was born. But he knew something was up, as why else would the secret door have opened?

Then he heard it.

It was a child crying somewhere out on the moors.

Jibbledibob was frightened. He’d never been outside before. And he knew it would take him ages to run back to the main cavern where all the Wargallons lived. And by the time he got there, the doorway would probably have closed up again.

He took a deep breath and stepped out of the doorway. And the first thing he noticed was the springy grass beneath his feet. It felt quite bouncy. Jibbledibob had a mind to jump up and down, but then there was that cry again. He pricked up his hairy ears and turned them towards the sound. He sniffed the air and got the faintest whiff of something like orange blossom.

Slowly, he walked toward the sound and smell of the crying child.

His eyes had become accustomed to the light now. Even though it was foggy, and wouldn’t be very bright to you or I, it was still very bright for someone so used to living in darkness.

The sound was louder now, and just ahead of him, was a small crag of rocks that dropped steeply into a gully. He crept towards the ledge and sneaked a peek over the edge. And there, lying on the ground, was a human child. He knew that because of the stories the elders would tell around the fire. Jibbledibob quickly pulled back from the edge. His heart was racing, he didn’t know what to do. Surely, if he just appeared over the edge of the rocks, the poor little mite might die of fright.

“Heeeeelllllpppp!” came a cry from the human child.

Jibbledibob had to put his hands over his ears for fear they might burst. Like I said, their ears are extremely sensitive.

“Pleeeeaaaaase, someone heeelllllpppp!”

Jibbledibob was panicking. He was wracking his brains trying to think what to do, when he had an idea.

He slid down the side of the scree, still out of sight from the human-child, and once at the bottom, he spoke.

“Hellooo?”

“Who’s that!?” The voice said, alarmed.

“Don’t be frightened, I won’t hurt you,” Jibbledibob said.

The little human was frightened. “Why are you saying that? Why are you hiding? Heeeellllppp!” she cried.

“Shhh, don’t cry! I just didn’t want to scare you.”

“Why? Why would you scare me?” The little voice said, afraid.

“Because of the way I look,” Jibbledibob said in his softest voice.

“Why? How do you look?” The child said in a calmer voice.

“Not like you. I think I might be a bit scary looking to you. But, I promise, I won’t hurt you. I’m here to help.”

The child was curious now.

“Are you lost?” Jibbledibob asked.

“Yes. And I’ve hurt my ankle. I slipped off the rocks,” the little voice said in a whimper. “And I’m cold and wet and hungry.”

Jibbledibob reached into his basket and threw a carrot from behind the rock which landed at the child’s feet.

“Eeww!” she said. “I’m not eating that, it’s covered in dirt!”

“It’s all I’ve got,” he said. “But there’s warm stew back at the cavern if you’d like me to take you there?”

“I want to go home,” the child cried.

“I can’t take you home”, Jibbledibob said gently. “The gateway will be closing soon. And if I don’t get back I’ll be locked out. But I could take you to the elders. They might be able to help.”

“The elders?”

“The elders,” he repeated. “You know, the grown-ups.”

She giggled at that. “Errm, okay then. But wouldn’t that mean I would have to look at you?”

“Hmmm, hadn’t thought of that,” Jibbledibob said, flummoxed.

“I could close my eyes,” the child said.

“That’s an idea.”

“Or,” she continued, “I could promise not to be frightened.”

“There is that as well,” he concurred.

Jibbledibob scrunched up his button nose while he contemplated the options. “Okay, then. I’ll come out. You ready?”

“Yes,” the child said nervously.

“You sure?” he asked.

“Think so,” it said more nervously.

Jibbledibob took a deep breath and stepped out from behind the rock where he saw a little girl half lying, half sitting on the ground with her back against a rock, clutching her ankle. Her eyes widened when she saw him and her jaw dropped. Then, she smiled. Then the smile turned into a giggle and she put her hand to her mouth.

Jibbledibob was puzzled and he looked over his shoulder to see what she might be laughing at.

“You’re cute!” she said.

Jibbledibob smiled too and walked toward her. He knelt down beside her and looked at her swollen ankle. It was beginning to turn purple. “Can you walk?”

“I don’t think I can,” she replied.

“You can’t stay out here on the moor,” he said. “I’ll have to take you back to Pappajap.”

“Pappajap?” the little girl said.

“Pappajap. He’s our chief.”

“What a funny name,” said the girl. “My name’s Emily,” she beamed.

Jibbledibob cocked his head to one side, “Emily? That’s a funny name.”

Emily looked a little bit cross at that. “No it’s not! It’s a perfectly proper name for a girl.”

Jibbledibob looked a bit embarrassed. He hadn’t meant to upset the little girl. Emily, realising the strange creature was a bit upset asked, “What’s your name, then?”

“You’ll think it’s funny,” Jibbledibob said shyly.

“No I won’t. I promise.”

“Promise?”

Emily nodded.

“Jibbledibob,” he said almost inaudibly.

“Sorry?” Emily said, straining her ears. “I missed that.”

“It’s Jibbledibob,” he said, clearing his throat.

Emily smiled a teeny bit. But made sure not to laugh because she had made a promise. “Jibbledibob. What a perfectly wonderful name,” she said proudly.

Jibbledibob felt a few spots of rain on his nose. “I need to get you back to the caves before it’s too late,” he said as thunder began to grumble in the distance.

“My parents will be worried about me. Can’t you just take me back to Greenfield?”

“Greenfield? What’s that?” he asked.

‘It’s the village where my parents’ car’s parked. They’ll be panicking I imagine.”

“I don’t know where that is. And besides, if we stay out here much longer, we’ll both freeze to death.”

Emily looked down and fingered the hem of her cotton dress. She could feel the tears welling up inside her again. She wasn’t frightened of Jibbledibob, but she didn’t like the idea of being taken to some underground caves where she might not ever get out.

Jibbledibob could see she was frightened. “I promise,” he said. “I’ll make sure you get back to your parents. But first, to do that, we need to get back to the cave where it’s warm and dry.”

Emily thought about it for a moment, then sniffed, wiped a tear that was about to roll down her cheek, and nodded.

Very gently, Jibbledibob slid his furry hands and forearms underneath Emily and picked her up. Emily put her arms around his neck, and although his fur was a little bit damp, he felt snuggly and warm.

So, Jibbledibob and Emily walked back across the great moor to the entrance of the underground caves.

Apart from having incredible hearing, sight and smell, Wargallons also have a very good sense of direction. And Jibbledibob didn’t even have to look where he was going to find his way back to the stone entrance. Which was lucky because the great boulder was just beginning to slide closed again. Jibbledibob and Emily ducked inside the tunnel just in the nick of time as the rock boomed closed. And then, Emily began to be afraid.

ADDENDUM

There is a twist in the story which involves two children who have been living with the Wargallons for a very, very long time…

The Antagonistic Protagonist

I was reading a rather excellent blog on ‘The roots determining the structure of your novel’, by Sara Toole Miller.

It talks about ‘left brain’ planning and ‘right brain’ writing. But before I’d made it halfway through the post, I had to pause to write a little poem.

So, thank you, Sara. It might not be an 80,000 word novel, but it’s a start.

THE ANTAGONISTIC PROTAGONIST

By David Milligan-Croft

I am the protagonist of my story.
(As you are in yours.)
But in my story,
What you have to decide,
Is whether you are an ally,
Or an antagonist.

Before you decide,
You should know that,
As it is my story,
Rest assured,
I shall prevail.

Anyone who knows me, might say I’m actually the Antagonist in, not only my own story, but theirs too!

Even if you’re not planning on writing a novel, but do enjoy writing, it’s good advice.

http://saratoolemiller.wordpress.com/2012/02/14/the-roots-determining-the-structure-of-your-novel-novel-writing-prep-series/

Classic Mercedes Requires Garage. Short story.

CLASSIC MERCEDES REQUIRES GARAGE.

© David Milligan-Croft.

I watched her walk out of the bedroom wearing only a pair of white cotton knickers. A few moments earlier I had tried to coax her back into bed, but she was having none of it. I had slipped my hand into the thin triangle of fabric only to have my hand slapped playfully.

Charlotte is one of those women who looks pretty conservative when she’s dressed. Perhaps that’s because people can’t see what I can see. What’s underneath. The scars around her left shoulder and bicep. The teeth mark in her calf that looked like a sewing pattern.

When she returned she was wearing her grey woolen suit. She leaned over the bed and kissed me good bye. ‘See you later,’ she said. ‘I’ll pick up your mother’s ribbon if you let me know what colour her dress is going to be.’

The ribbon was to bind an Order-of-Service booklet. Charlotte wanted both our mothers to have ribbon that matched their respective outfits. That’s the kind of detail she went into for our wedding.
‘Bye, Charlie,’ I said. ‘I’ll defrost some chicken for dinner.’
‘That’ll be nice,’ she said as she walked out of the bedroom.

That’s the last time I ever saw Charlotte. Four days before our wedding.
I got out of bed and showered. The house was quiet. Peaceful. I could hear birds arguing away in the garden and the distant, monotonous beep of the baker’s truck reversing. I looked out over the fields as I dried myself. A mist hung over the moors.

I went down to the kitchen and made a cafetiere of Lavazza. The aroma flooded the kitchen and made me want to smoke a cigarette.

I went up to the office, a converted bedroom at the back of the house, and began to write: My dearest Charlotte, it began.

I read the four page letter over and over again. The first time it made me sob. The second time too. By the fourth time, my eyes just glazed over. I took the letter downstairs and sat on the front doorstep and smoked a slim cigar. I sat outside so’s not to smell the house up. The smoke was hard on my lungs. I was trying to pretend I didn’t really smoke. I’d been off cigarettes for a couple of years. But what with all of this going on, I capitulated and smoked the odd cigar. The only problem was, I smoked them like cigarettes, inhaling deeply. The first time I had one I almost passed out. But, like most ex-smokers, I persevered until it was natural for my lungs to be filled with carcinogens.

After the cigar I went into the kitchen and placed the letter on the table. I took the chicken fillets out of the freezer and peeled off the cellophane. I placed them into a Pyrex bowl and prised them apart with a knife. I went outside and smoked another cigar. The pain in my lungs felt as though an anvil had been placed on my chest, but I was determined not to go back on the cigarettes.

I walked down to the grocer’s store on the village main street. There was a sharp, cold gust buffeting me along. The man behind the counter looked irritated when he heard the tinkle of the shop bell. He looked up from his tabloid, over half-moon spectacles, sighed and closed the newspaper. I bought: courgettes; shallots; leeks; mushrooms and some fresh ginger root. All organic. That was on account of Charlotte’s illness.

She has Multiple Sclerosis and will only use homeopathic and holistic treatment. (As opposed to steroids which have bad side effects on her.) Sometimes her slender face swells up, other times she would find it difficult to walk. She visits an acupuncturist seventy miles away once a month, and a holistic healer who tries to unblock her energy channels using crystals. On one occasion, he told her he could sense another man in the room with them. The spirit said he was Charlotte’s soulmate and was just there to see if she was alright. When she told me about it I was a bit jealous because she had always said that I was her soulmate. You just never know who’s hanging around to steal your thunder.

When I got back to the house I placed the shopping on the counter and pricked the softening chicken with a knife to help it defrost quicker. I went back up to the office with the letter. I looked around the room at all my belongings. The books, c.d.s, disks, computer, more books, printer, scanner, files. Boxes and boxes of writing. I looked at my watch. It was four o’clock. I had lost the day somewhere in a box of thoughts that I had already mentally packed away and put in the car. I jumped out of the leather swivel chair that Charlotte had bought me for Christmas and began to throw some clothes in a bag. A box of books. Some unread, others were old favourites. Not much for thirty two years on this planet. ‘It’s only stuff,’ I told myself. ‘Nothing that can’t be replaced’.

I left the letter on the kitchen table. The chicken had completely defrosted. I walked into the hallway and paused by the mirror. The scratches on my throat were beginning to calm down, but the ones on my face had started to turn black as the scabs had dried.

‘How did you get those?’ Charlotte had said to me a couple of days previously. She must have looked worried judging by my incredulous expression.
‘Don’t you remember?’ I said. She looked scared. ‘You did them.’
Her hands trembled. ‘No I didn’t. You must have done it to yourself when you were looking for my engagement ring on the floor of the car.’
‘When you threw it at me?’
‘Because!’ her eyes filled and her brow furrowed. ‘You, you wouldn’t take my shoes back!’
‘I was going for an interview. I didn’t have time.’
‘Time! Time! I’ve done everything! Organising this fucking wedding! I only asked you to change my shoes while you were in town! How fucking much is that to ask?’

I’d smiled as sympathetically as I could, or was it patronisingly? I don’t recall. ‘It’s alright,’ I said. ‘You didn’t do it on purpose. You were just having a bit of a wobbler, that’s all.’ Charlotte looked like Death had brushed His arm against her just out of mischief.

I turned away from my reflection and walked out the door. I put my stuff in the boot of the car and tried to start it up. Nothing. Ever since I’d moved up to the Moors I’d had problems starting my old Merc. It was a ‘67 Fintail and didn’t like the damp weather one bit. It didn’t like being outside either. Come to think of it, it didn’t like being driven too far. Charlotte used to call it “The Great White Shark” because of the fins on the back.

I lifted the bonnet and sprayed the plugs and points with WD 40 and waited. I waited long enough to smoke a cigar and look at the converted barn that was our home on the Yorkshire Moors. As I stubbed the cigar out I turned the ignition and the old engine rumbled into life. I had to wait another ten minutes until it had warmed up enough to move. So I called Charlotte’s sister on my cell phone and asked her if she’d be round at the house when Charlotte got home at six.
‘Why,’ she asked. ‘Has Charlie forgotten her key?’
‘No,’ I said and hung up. I wanted Jill to be there when Charlotte got home just so she wouldn’t do anything silly when she read the letter. And, by silly, I mean kill herself.

I found out later that while Jill was waiting for her sister to get home the phone rang. But Jill was afraid to answer it. It was Charlotte. The message went something like this: ‘Hi Lover, only me. Just ringing to say I’m on my way home. Just remembered; you might have gone to your mum’s for tea. I’ll try you on your mobile.’ Jill was sitting at the kitchen table staring at the envelope with Charlotte written on it when the message clicked on. She cried for her sister.

After driving for a while over the moors, I don’t know, it could have been about an hour, I got a text message. It was from Charlotte. It read: You’ve killed me. The shock has brought on a relapse. I can’t see. I can’t hear. I can’t feel my legs. Why have you done this to me? Why, why, why wh. Then the message ran out of space. I did ask myself why. ‘Why Michael? Why did you do that to her? How could you be so cruel? How could you destroy someone’s dreams? Their life?’

But no answer came. Not for a while anyway. Not until I remembered the arguments, the fighting, the hostility, the counseling, the Fluoxetine. Then the answer came. ‘Because Michael, it was either you or her.’

* * *

I had to resits his advances. I was late for work. And if I let his creeping fingers anywhere near me I would be even later. I slapped the back of his hand and he took it away. While I was getting dressed I was already looking forward to coming home from work so we could pick-up where we left off.

When I went back into the bedroom Michael was laying on my side of the bed. He said he liked to smell me when I wasn’t there. I leaned over and kissed him goodbye. He said something about chicken for dinner. But I had too much on my mind to be sure.

I drove all the way into work squeezing my thighs together, squirming on the seat. Trying to get rid of the tingling sensation he had already started in my knickers.

Everyone in the office was all excited for me. ‘Only four days to go!’ they said. Today was the day the girls in the office were taking me out to lunch. Sort of a pre-wedding treat. I wanted to go, but I also had to pop into town to get some ribbon for Michael’s mother’s order of service booklet. He’d said her outfit was green. Light-ish. I’d already got my own mum’s. Royal blue. What else? I had to finish off the place-name cards. We’d decided to write the definition of everyone’s name on the inside of the card. That was fine except for one. Mary. It means ‘Bitter’. Well, there was only one Mary coming and she was a bit miserable to tell the truth.

Oh, and Michael’s waistcoat. I have to sew the buttons on. I bought the Navy blue and silver fabric from an Indian dress makers store in Bradford. It was luxurious. Regal. The silver embroidery wove and intertwined around the chest like a medieval coat of arms. Blue is Michael’s favourite colour. It suits him, especially with his grey hair.

That’s it, I think. Except for the folding of the order of service. Dad can help with that on Thursday.

I rushed through all my work so I could sneak off early before lunch to buy the ribbon. I met up with the girls in Pizza Express on Cable Street. I love pizza. I could eat it all the time. The girls had wine, but I brought my own water. I stopped drinking alcohol when I was diagnosed with the M.S. I have a special water filter at home that takes all the acid out and leaves it alkaline, which is better for my body. It’s like medicine really. The only down-side is that I have to lug about four litres of the stuff with me every morning before I set off for work. Michael usually fills them for me and loads the car up. But he didn’t this morning, for some reason.

All the girls had bought presents. Jane got me some eyeliner. Prudence got flowers, Cathy some lippy, and Mary got me a cook book. Cheeky bitch. Susan, my boss, sent a bottle of champagne up from London. Well, okay, I have the odd glass of champers. I just think that if I’m going to have a drink I may as well have the best! If I’m going to fuck up my already fucked up body I might as well go out in style.

Things were going ballistic back at the office. The way they always do when you’re going to be away for a few weeks. It was tough enough trying to earn enough for the two of us without this extra hassle.

Michael had been out of work since we’d moved back from the States. He reckoned it was because the ad industry in Newcastle was jealous of the work he’d got to do in New York. I told him he should bite-the-bullet and take something below his experience. Just for the time being. But he had his principles. Well, stubborn or not, he’ll have to get something when we get back off honeymoon.

Just think; this time next week, I’ll be on my honeymoon! Mrs McEvoy. It feels like I haven’t had sun on my body for years. It’ll be nice just to unwind in the sun. With my husband. He’s probably preparing dinner right now. He only knows two chicken dishes. It’ll either be Thai green chicken curry, or a concoction I taught him. Marinading the chicken in olive oil, garlic, lemon and cumin. Then stir fry a few veg, a few leeks, courgettes, mushroom and onion with olive oil and soy sauce. Sometimes he’ll do noodles but it’ll probably be couscous.

I remember when he first cooked for me. It was when I visited him in Manhattan. There was nothing going on between us then, we’re cousins you see. We’d always been friends, ever since we were kids. If truth be known, I’d always had a crush on him, but he was older than me. Not a lot you can do when you’re eight years old and your cousin’s thirteen and into The Ramones. I suspect he had designs on older girls.

I’d gone to visit him just after I’d been diagnosed with the M.S. He’d said that if I needed to get away there was always a place for me. I woke up in his spare room to a knock on the door. ‘Do you like leeks?’ he’d said.

He’d made an omelette with soya milk instead of cow’s milk. Leeks, mushroom and spring onions. He topped it off with dill and some granary toast. No butter. He’d even gone out and bought some fresh ginger root to make my tea with. That was a glorious holiday. We went to a small fishing village in New England. We even made sand castles! Can you believe it? At the age of twenty seven, making sandcastles. That’s the happiest I’ve ever been in my life. It was that night, over dinner, that Michael told me he loved me. He said that he’d loved me for about twenty years.

I didn’t know how to react. This was my cousin. It was one thing having a crush on him, but quite another to actually get it together with your own family! It took me about two weeks to decide. Decide that I loved him that is.

I finished up early. Packed my stuff in the car and headed out of town trying to beat the rush-hour traffic. I called Michael just to let him know I was on my way home. ‘Hi Lover, only me. Just ringing to say I’m on my way home. Just remembered; you might have gone to your mum’s for tea. I’ll try you on your mobile.’ I tried his mobile but it was on call divert. He was probably in transit. He never answers the phone when he’s driving. Thinks it’s dangerous.

When I got home my sister, Jill, was sitting in the kitchen. ‘Hiya,’ I said. She smiled. And then I said, ‘He’s left me hasn’t he?’ She looked down at the table and that’s when I noticed the letter with my name on it. I felt sick. I thought I was going to pass out. Not now. How could he? Four days before the wedding. I opened the letter. My dearest Charlotte, it said.

I have never known pain like it. I didn’t know it existed. I thought I was going to die. Right there in the kitchen. I thought I was going to die of grief. How could he? My Michael, do this to me. After all these years, all those memories, the poems, the sand castles. No. It couldn’t be. I tried his mobile but he wouldn’t talk to me. I left message after message but he never returned my calls. I begged him. But he wouldn’t reply. I cried for England. I cried for month after month. There were so many questions I wanted to ask him but I couldn’t find him. I just wanted to know if he was alright, if he was safe. He might be dead. Maybe he’s had a nervous breakdown. You know, those pre-wedding jitters. But the wedding day passed. Then a week, then a month. It was three months before I was well enough to leave the house. Before my relapse remitted. For ages I couldn’t see very well, or feel my fingers. My legs trembled when I tried to walk. And my ears, God, my ears. Waaaooo, waaaooo, constantly. It almost drove me insane.

It was Jill and mum who got me back on my feet. Got me out of the house. I went to the local grocer’s to get some vegetables and some chicken. It was while I was waiting that I was looking at the notice board in the shop where locals put ads. There were ads for all sorts of stuff: Labrador puppy for sale; a pram; a kid’s bike; cleaners looking for a few hours a week. Then I noticed the ad Michael had put up a few months previously: “Classic Mercedes requires garage. Richmond area, call: 0927 591 470”. I took the ad down and placed it in my purse.
‘You alright, love?’ The grocer said.
‘Yes.’ My legs began to quiver. I walked out of the shop without my shopping and I never looked back. As I walked down the main street I remembered a time when I was young. It was when I was on holiday on the Gold Coast in Australia and I’d been attacked by a shark. I was only ten at the time. It grabbed my arm and pulled me under the water. It pulled me so far down that the sea went black. It shook me like a rag doll, rolling me around and around. For some reason it let me go. I scrambled to the surface, the flesh on my left arm hanging off. I gasped the air and breathed an ocean of screams. I was frantic. I was flapping around looking beneath the water to see if I could see the shark, but it had gone. I started swimming back to shore. To where the other kids were playing and my parents were sunbathing. I was almost there when it happened again. I felt the shark’s teeth sink into the flesh of my calf and pull me under the choking salty water. I screamed until all I could see in front of me was my own breath in the form of a billion tiny pink bubbles. I kicked and I struggled and I punched until the shark tired of me again.

This time it did not return. And my frantic flapping had attracted attention from the beach and a young man came out to rescue me. But even now, as I walk down the street with a reminder of my ex-fiance wrapped up in my purse, I am reminded that that’s what life’s like: A shark attack. Just when you think you’ve got away, it comes back to drag you back under again.

Gravy by Raymond Carver

Raymond Carver is one of my favourite poets. Actually, come to think of it, he is my favourite poet.

He’s better known for his short stories than his poetry. Anyone seen the film Short Cuts by Robert Altman? It’s based on Carver’s stories.

I love Carver’s voice. His writing appears effortless.

Sadly, he passed away in 1988 at the tender age of 50 from the big C.

This is one of my favourite poems.

Gravy

by Raymond Carver.

No other word will do. For that’s what it was.
Gravy.
Gravy, these past ten years.
Alive, sober, working, loving, and
being loved by a good woman. Eleven years
ago he was told he had six months to live
at the rate he was going. And he was going
nowhere but down. So he changed his ways
somehow. He quit drinking! And the rest?
After that it was all gravy, every minute
of it, up to and including when he was told about,
well, some things that were breaking down and
building up inside his head. “Don’t weep for me,”
he said to his friends. “I’m a lucky man.
I’ve had ten years longer than I or anyone
expected. Pure Gravy. And don’t forget it.”

Short Story – Shall I Be Mother?

A slighter darker tone for this next short story. Come to think of it, it’s pretty macabre. So, I wouldn’t be letting any younglings read it if I were you.

SHALL I BE MOTHER?

© David Milligan-Croft.

I’ve always loved raspberry jam. Preferably the stuff with seeds in it. Hot, white toast, smothered in proper salty butter, (none of this polyunsaturate stuff), and a good dollop of Bonne Maman. I could sit and pick the seeds from between my over-sized teeth all day. My twin brother, Walter, on the other hand, finds this habit disgusting. So much so, he’s tried to kill me on several occasions.

Mother used to tell me that it was nothing to do with my habits, but because I am the ‘Good’ side of our birth and Walter is the ‘Evil’. I can’t say for sure whether she’s right or not, but I don’t think it’s helped Walter’s progress in life by actually telling him this repeatedly since he was a baby.

My brother gets out of prison today and has vowed to kill me. So I can understand why you might think it foolish of me to be driving there to pick him up.

Walter first tried to kill me when we were eight. We were playing ‘Houdini’ at the time. First, I tied him up and timed him to see how quickly it took him to escape. One minute forty eight seconds – a new record. Next, it was my turn. But I found Walter’s Alpine Butterfly knots a little too secure to break free of. Satisfied that I was well and truly trussed up, he proceeded to bash my head repeatedly against the side of Dad’s workbench. I passed out after about thirty or forty blows. I think the only reason I survived was because he got too tired and had to stop for a breather. He’s always had breathing difficulties ever since the doctors had trouble getting him out of our mother’s womb after I was born. They ended up using forceps on him. You should’ve seen the shape of his head! In old baby photographs of the two of us, Walter has this bizarre cone-shaped bonce. He looks like he was given birth to by an alien.

Eventually, Dad found me on the garage floor in a considerably large pool of blood. I had a fractured skull, twenty seven stitches and lost the use of my right eye. Social workers came and asked me a lot of questions but I just said that I didn’t remember what happened. They talked to Walter a lot too, he just said that I had slipped and banged my head. I know they didn’t swallow his story, but what could they do?

The second time he tried to kill me was when he harpooned me with an eel trident. We were about eleven I reckon. Harlington Creek was murky and warm. We stood like statues up to our knees in the greeny-brown water waiting for an unsuspecting eel to swim between our legs. We waited for quite a long time. Eventually, Walter said we should try further upstream. The farther we walked the more dense the forest canopy became and the slippier the rocks under our feet. It wasn’t long before I slipped and fell on my backside.

As I held out my hand for him to pull me up, Walter promptly speared me through the chest with his trident. I didn’t know what to say. I was shocked. I was also finding it a little hard to breathe as he’d punctured my right lung.

I don’t know if you know anything about punctured lungs, but apparently the trick is to lie on the side that is punctured. This is so the blood from the wound doesn’t pour out internally and fill up the good lung, thus asphyxiating yourself. Handy to know in such a situation. The only slight flaw in this plan was that I was up to my waist in water, so any attempt to lay on my side would have been totally futile.

Walter told the police and folk at the hospital that he had slipped on the mossy rocks when he was trying to help me up and accidentally harpooned me. By the time I had come out of my coma from blood loss the whole thing had pretty much blown over so I didn’t bother mentioning anything. Plus my memory was a bit hazy at the time.

Their was nothing wrong with my faculties when, for a third time, he tried to do me in. To be honest, I was getting a bit sick of it.

‘What have I ever done to harm you?’ I asked him just moments before he whacked me over the head with a replica samurai sword. I would have preferred it if it had actually been a real sword. At least then I wouldn’t have known anything about it. These replica types are about as sharp as a Peeler’s cudgel.

‘Ow!’, I remember saying. ‘What was that for?’

‘That’s for being my moronic twin brother!’, he hissed as he took out his zippo. Walter had started smoking on his 15th birthday. Partly because he thought it made him look cool, and partly to piss off our parents.

My vision was coming in and out of focus as a result of the blow to the head so I couldn’t really make out what he was doing. I thought he was lighting a birthday cake or something when he said: ‘Happy birthday, you little shit.’

It wasn’t until some weeks later that I found out that he wasn’t lighting a birthday cake after all, but a blow torch. As you can imagine I’m not a pretty sight when it comes to sunbathing on the Cote d’Azur. Fortunately, he did stay away from my face, so you can only really tell if I have a couple of buttons of my shirt undone.

Walter didn’t really have much of an excuse this time. He did try to tell Dad that he had been soldering a part for his motorbike when the torch slipped from his grasp as I entered the room and accidentally set me on fire. I think 80% first degree burns and a bit of ‘previous’ failed to convince the authorities this time.

That’s why he got 15 years for attempted murder.

I know it seems like a bit of a coincidence that they would release him on our thirtieth birthday, but sometimes life is like that. It’s not that I haven’t seen him in the past fifteen years, I went to visit him once or twice. Thankfully though, they did have two inch bulletproof glass between us, which I was glad to hear about after he wrestled a .45 off one of the guards and tried to put it to the test. They were going to let him out after eight years for good behaviour until that little incident.

Mam and Dad would be horrified to know that I was going to pick him up after all that’s happened. Unfortunately for them they aren’t around to see it. Mam and Dad fell foul of Walter when he was let out of prison as a goodwill gesture one Christmas. He’d only been inside for a couple of years and the authorities seemed to think he had been making good progress. I made sure I was as far away from festivities as possible. I didn’t want to put a dampener on things.

It wasn’t actually Walter’s fault as the coroner’s official verdict was suicide. But I get the impression from some of the conversations I’ve had with him since, that he tormented them so much psychologically over the festive period that they locked themselves in the garage to get away from him. They sat in their Morris Traveler and asphyxiated themselves by carbon monoxide poisoning.

Walter was actually quite traumatized by it. He said that he was only trying to show them how much he loved them. The authorities did try to convince him that love and rape were not exactly the same thing. He failed to grasp this.

I’ve brought a packed lunch for us today. I thought it might be nice to go for a picnic after I pick him up. I’m sure he’d prefer to be out of doors in the fresh air rather than being cooped up in a cafe or a bar.

I freshly baked some scones and brought a jar of raspberry Bonne Maman. There’s peaches, Italian salami, French bread, German sausage, Swiss cheese, South African wine, (Stellenbosch chardonnay to be precise). I also brought a punnet of cherry tomatoes; Walter so loves cherry tomatoes. So much so, that once when we were kids he ate two whole punnets by himself. When I tried to take just one he forced my fingers into the door jam and crushed them. I suppose that’ll teach me for trying to pinch his cherry toms. Think I’ll leave well alone this time.

There’s a lovely spot near to the prison which has an old dilapidated monastery with a river running past it and some stepping stones. There’s a waterfall too, which we used to dive off when we were kids. One summer, Walter, my parents and I went there for a picnic. We had an inflatable dinghy which we would generally frolic about in. Walter dared me to climb up to the top of the waterfall and jump off. He said he would wait at the bottom to make sure I was alright and pull me out if need be. I was a little nervous and suspicious, but after seeing him do it twice already and the fact that our parents were in such close proximity I couldn’t decline the challenge.

I crawled out along the slippery rocks and peered over at the gurgling white water swirling beneath me. Cautiously, I got to my feet and shuffled closer to the edge. I breathed in as deeply as my lungs would allow and pushed myself off. As the water rushed toward me so did the sight of the upturned oar of the dinghy. Fortunately, it was blunt enough not to impale me, but it did break four ribs and rupture my right kidney. Hopefully, things will be different this time.

‘Happy birthday, Walter,’ I said holding out my hand. He looked at me briefly, gave a half smile and got into the passenger seat. I looked at my trembling fingers and sensed that our reunion wasn’t going to be as easy as I had first imagined.

Walter looked different from the last time I saw him. Sure, physically he looked the same. Same hooked nose, same down turned mouth, same receding hair line, same hollow eyes. But now he seemed to radiate something. Something I can only describe as inner peace.

I put a tape into the cassette player and turned up the volume a little. I knew from when we were kids that he always liked the Bay City Rollers so I bought every tape I could lay my hands on. ‘We ran with the gang while we sang shang-a-lang’ boomed out of the tinny door speakers. I looked over at him from time to time to see if he was enjoying the music, but Walter just looked out of the window and gazed dreamily at the passing countryside.
His tranquil state put me a little more at ease. This was certainly not the Walter I knew and feared of old. He seemed much calmer. Perhaps, I thought to myself, he has truly changed his ways.

‘Stop!’ Walter shouted. I nearly drove into a ditch with fright.

‘What’s up! What’s the matter?’ My heart was racing fifteen to the dozen.

‘You nearly hit that fox.’

The fox scurried across the road and into a hedgerow. I tried to calm my breathing as I stared incredulously at Walter’s angelic profile.

When we eventually pulled up in the monastery car park things looked pretty much the same as they had done twenty years or so ago. Except that the monastery was missing a few more stones and the stepping stones across the river didn’t seem quite so daunting. I took the picnic basket and blanket from the boot of the car and headed down to a spot by the waterfall. Walter walked a little behind me and I couldn’t help glancing over my shoulder every once in a while to exchange nervous half smiles.

I unfolded the red and green tartan blanket at the foot of the waterfall just out of reach of its spray. I placed the picnic basket between us and began taking out the contents. I offered Walter the wine to open but he shook his head gratefully telling me that he didn’t drink but that I was welcome to do so if I so desired. I placed the feast before him and held out my palms for him to indulge. He looked down at the smorgasbord as if it was the first real food he had seen in a long time and a tear came to the corner of his eye. I took the punnet of cherry tomatoes and offered them to him. He stared into them as if surveying a miniature treasure chest filled with rubies and tiny emeralds.

He picked out one of the cherry tomatoes between his thumb and forefinger, drew it close to his eye as if trying to penetrate its skin with his gaze then thrust it toward me. Tentatively, I took it from him feeling the firm warm flesh beneath my fingers and popped it into my mouth. I crushed it against the roof of my palette with my tongue feeling the juice and seeds explode into a sweet frenzy as they glided down my throat. He smiled at me.

‘Exquisite, aren’t they?’ he said. I nodded slowly as he popped another then another between my lips. After he had given me about ten or twelve cherry tomatoes he placed the punnet on the blanket and crossed his legs beneath him.

‘You know, Wilt,’ he said with a grimace. ‘You know that I’ve wanted to kill you all of these years? And I know you know that I was going to kill you today on the day of our thirtieth birthday. To be honest, I’m surprised you turned up. I don’t think I would have. Knowing that my insane brother was going to bludgeon me the first chance he got.

‘It’s just that I’ve had a lot of time to think since I’ve been inside. And, with the help of the clergy and councilors and doctors I think I’ve changed. Bottom line, Wilt, is I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I did to you. I beg you to forgive me for the pain I put you and our parents through. I don’t deserve forgiveness and I will understand if you won’t give it to me. But it was just important for me to tell you.

‘Last year, I had a moment of clarity when I was polishing the vestibule in the chapel. I saw Christ up there on the cross with those nails in his hands and feet and the gash in his side and I wondered how much pain he was in at the time. Then I thought of you, older brother. And how much pain I have put you through. I thought of all the times I have made you bleed or scream in agony and I felt remorse. I felt guilt. I felt a need to atone.

‘The doctors call it something else of course. Primo-natal psychosis or something or other’, he said gesticulating quotation marks with his fingers. ‘Basically, they put my violent behaviour down to sibling jealously. The fact that I was born a full one minute forty eight seconds behind you makes them believe that I feel I was a mistake. That I wasn’t meant to be. Subconsciously I blame you for my oxygen deprivation. If you never existed I would have been okay and would have had a healthy relationship with our parents instead of them always thinking I was some kind of freak.

‘I’m not saying they haven’t got a point. Only that, whatever the reason, I am truly sorry and I beg your forgiveness, dear brother.’

Walter uncrossed his legs and knelt before me proffering his upturned palms for me to take. He gulped a little as if regurgitating something he had eaten earlier. Then a tiny trickle of blood spilled from between his closed lips and ran down his chin. He looked perplexed.

I looked at his blood dripping onto the back of my hand that was clasped around the handle of my carving knife. I thrust the knife up under his sternum and twisted it a full 180 degrees.

When he smiled, his teeth were crimson red and a great mouthful of blood splattered the cuff of my white shirt. The blade made a sucking noise as I wrenched it from his flesh. Walter fell forward banging his head on my shoulder. I moved to one side slightly so that he slumped onto the blanket. He lay there twitching for a few moments then stopped. I wiped the blood-stained blade on the shoulder of his threadbare black suit jacket then tossed it into the river.

I took two plastic teacups from the wicker basket and placed them on the blanket. Then I unscrewed the lid of the thermos and tilted it towards Walter’s prostrate form.

‘Shall I be mother?’