@sandradavies
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Prior to the magic going black
June 23rd, Caithness
Pre-dawn on a midsummer morning, Tait Duncan, drove south-east along an A1 empty of all but Highlands-bound supermarket wagons, conscience similarly uncluttered by the lie he’d last night told his wife as to the reason for his early morning departure. (In what had become the daily conduct of their marriage it was no more than a gnat’s cock of misinformation— no harm to her — of the life he’d been living since his teens. Nor had he then heard of Lucy Longland (and was similarly ignorant there’d come a time when he wished he never had.)Eight miles south of Dunbar he took the Cove exit. Golden light from the just emerging sun, blazed into the car’s interior, near-blinding him. Snapping down the visor restored sight and safety, but failed to reveal the deaths which would result from the carelessness with which he seized another opportunity to deceive. (By midday the sky was black with unseasonably cold rain. Had he dismissed his desire to disprove his staid existence; to emulate the careless hedonism of the man he’d come to meet he might’ve recognised that as warning and escaped before mourning coloured his life. But no.)
Cove itself kick-started distraction. As bairns it had been the setting for John Buchan-inspired adventures. Nowadays, it was Trust-protected from the scourge of massed caravans; an undertaking part-funded by its use as a venue for film crews and fashion shoots. A use Tait had no quarrel with; Duncans of Dunbar being first choice for the haulage of their equipment.
He descended past bungalows perched for the view; past older thick-stone cottages, to the gate, open as Lars promised. The cliff-clinging road beyond in good repair, but needing concentration; similarly the concrete-patched parking space overlooking the harbour; liver-coloured walls forming a protective square; a south-facing narrow gap providing entrance to the now-sparkling sea; Lars’ yacht an incongruous gleam of pristine luxury.
Appreciating, Tait stepped out of the car. Lars himself, tanned and lithe as toffee, stood high on the bulwark between beach and ocean, camera in hand and a long-legged red-head, dressed in something better-suited to a ball, posing against the blue sky as he snapped and snapped again. A shouted, ‘Ten minutes, Tait, is all,‘ gave time for envy, Lars’ dismissing the woman with a kiss, and instruction to go for a walk, ‘No more than an hour, for the tide,’ before jumping down to stand beside Tait. Shoulder to shoulder, they watched her stroll along the jetty to the ladder below which the yacht was moored. Watched her remove the scarlet dress, pulling it up and over her head, bundle it up and drop it onto the deck below before climbing down. Stark naked.
Tait, silent, assumed Lars was reliving the previous night. For himself, the cries of the gulls, raucous above his head, gave voice to an ache of sexual deprivation he rarely permitted himself; the repetitious thud of water against stone behind him, underlining its futility.
[493 words excluding title. This an excerpt from my current wip, its timing too coincidental to ignore]
A fascinating quartet of music-generated memories resulting in stories that couldn’t help but provide their own soundtracks. Ath’s tale fully matched the discordant challenging streetwise vibes of the music chosen. Libby’s rich musical pot-pourri connected brilliantly with the warmth of disparate family interactions. Terrie’s combining needle phobia and childbirth made for a vivid tale, with, thankfully a happy ending. And Jill’s story perfectly evoked the bittersweetness of Sarstedt’s well-remembered song. Which is reason enough to hand her the baton to set the theme for June’s competition. Heartfelt thanks to you all for taking part so evocatively.
MONTHLY COMP ALERT – I was hoping for earworms, from songs I remember but despite two excellent entries, I feel a little disappointed so more Top Ten memories by Sunday night would be much appreciated.
Thank you , Terrie, both for the challenge and your comments on both my entry and Jill’s excellently crafted, sensitive story. I’ll aim to set something for MAY by the end of today.
Thank you for this Janette; as a Blurb self-publisher , (but not seller), I much appreciate this breakdown of your experiences .
I’ve always found the same, right up to last week with the theatre nurse who held my hand while my eye was bring anatheasised for an op. bless him. (all well post op.)
Crikey Moses, William, I’m heart-heartedly glad to hear you are home and hopefully on your way to some sort of recovery – what a torrid time you and your family must have gone through, and thank you for updating us so vividly.
Sendng love and the most healingest of good wishes
Sandra
Untitled
‘Gobsmacked’ the inelegant word that came to mind when I read the letter. What else would you expect , being told your three year-old daughter’s poem had been awarded first prize ? A prize which earned her up to three sittings with well-renowned portrait artist Bernard Broom. Especially when I’d not an inkling she’d written any such.
‘What was it about?’
’A butterfly.’
’A butterfly?’
‘A blue butterfly’
‘Can you say it for me?’
‘Can’t remember it. Mrs Crimp wrote down what I said.’
At least I could be sure Polly Crimp had done an accurate job. ‘What did the butterfly do? Was it a pretty one? If we look in the butterfly book, could you show me which it was?’
‘Don’t know. And anyway, ‘It died.’
‘Oh, poor butterfly. But they don’t live very long –‘
‘Because, when it was on the grey spotty worktop –‘
‘I think you mean granite.’
‘No, Granny’s is yellow, Butterfly was in the classroom and Nigel poobum made the sun shine on it through the magnificent glass. And the butterfly’s wings went smoky, Then black. Mrs Crimp said “ignited” even though it was lunchtime. She was cross with Nigel. What’s a “portrait”?
(203 words)
Thank you Janette – you did us proud with thoughtful comments, and well done for every other entry, all of which fitted the remit much more closely than my hastily-grabbed from a long-ago hidden in the drawer novel.
Not yet mad enough …
Wine-heavy eyes and naked, she was cleaning her teeth in front of the bathroom mirror when he came in through the door. He stood behind her, serious-faced, saying nothing, but unignorably attentive. She finished brushing. Spat, rinsed and spat a couple more times then put the toothbrush back in the glass on the shelf, straightened … and meeting his eyes in the mirror again, offered a smile.
‘All done, love, if you’re waiting to get here.’ She thought he might have held her bum as she bent, or would now reach round and cup the paler triangles of her breasts, but instead, without replying, and unsee-able in the mirror, he reached a finger out to her back, and proceeded to draw a series of ‘x’s down her spine, while holding her eyes. His eyes were usually described as ‘sleepy’ but she saw that at this moment they were not so. There was a weary sadness there, but as she watched she registered increasing anger. Her unthinking smile retreated, diverting briefly – cowardly? – to appeasement before disappearing, and from dreamy her eyes became … not defiant … not ashamed … not scared, exactly. Alarmed? Nervous, for sure. She had not realised he had seen them on the beach
He spoke quietly, almost softly and she had to strain to hear him above the noise of the blood rushing in her ears. But having heard that other note in his voice on previous, well-deserved occasions, she made sure to listen this time too.
‘There is a part of me that would do that with a scalpel blade, that would like to think I would do it with a scalpel blade if I ever found you with him. I don’t know that I ever could do it … but don’t bank on it, my darling. Don’t bank on it. But if you know what’s good for you, you won’t do it again,’
[322 words excluding title]
Congratulations, Ath – more Teabreak always welcome, and well done Jill for so richly regarding the rules. Thanks Libby for appreciating my desire to take part, but this extract the only one I could recall which specifically mentioned ‘loving’
Snap* snippet as witnessed by Lucy from the steps of Leith’s Registry Office
Exceeds required word count and contains expletives, but best I can do this month
Then, hand in hand, another looking-to-be-wed couple arrived from the rear carpark. On foot and windblown. Well-matched in the scruffiness of their clothes. Even earlier for their ceremony than Luke had insisted they arrive for his! No doubt they’d factored in time to tidy themselves up. The bride’s long brown hair flew loose and uncombed as she laughed at the Celtic tinker’s attempts to re-wrap goose-pimpled arms in what looked like a blanket.
Luke had turned away to stare southwards, seeking his bride, but spun round dizzyingly fast when the bohemian girl spoke his name.
Lucy froze. This – she –was Luke’s wife-to-be?
And he so focused on her that he failed to see, as Lucy interestedly did, the smile on the face of the unshaven man accompanying her; the man she’d taken as groom, held more than a trace of self-congratulatory satisfaction.
Lucy had seen sexual desire in many guises on the face of Luke Darbyshere; from urgent need, prompted by a lack he had become unused to, to sun- and wine-melting, lazy, slow-paced weekday, why not? afternoons. Always good-mannered. And always, once she told him of the danger of consorting with her, understanding it a commercial transaction, despite no money ever changing hands.
He’d never made the mistake of loving her.
Which was exactly what she wanted. Too many men declared they loved her, when what they really wanted was possession. Exclusivity. Luke understood that. Which was why she’d never, before this morning, seen the different brand of desire, the heart-breakingly raw, gold-threaded, deep and abiding naked love he had on his face for the woman he was about to make his wife.
Same as the expression she’d fleetingly seen on Ed’s face, on the rare occasions he mentioned Annabel. Such emotion had never come her way, not even during the two years she and Ed lived together, in New York. When he could have had near-exclusivity. Had he ever asked.
Such was Luke’s relief at seeing Fran his conscience re-awoke to chide him. Had he really doubted her, to that extent? Christ what a fucking wanker! That she’d come with Ivo Kinnersley didn’t … no, he couldn’t deny his twitch of … wondering. Because Ivo the man who’d taken her virginity. Who named her Chess but who, she’d claimed, had never seen the tiny chessboard tattoo at the base of her spine. A man who’d twice faced – and twice escaped from – a charge of murder, and who now grasped her hand and led her up the steps towards him. Giving her away.
Had she been in Kinnersley’s bed every night she’d been absent from his? Dare he ask?
Yes … But not until after.
Because … because, he suspected, to the same extent, as she had read in his, there was surprise, a swift-concealed calculation in her eyes, on seeing Lucy by his side. He should have thought, she knowing of his past relationship with Lucy, she’d be as unwelcome a participant in their wedding ceremony as Ivo had been for him. Initially. He’d nothing against the man, despite his near-derailment of his plan to finally confess his love that August weekend. Fitting, even, that he should witness its culmination. Not that he, nor Lucy, had ever been intended to be part of this.
*Snap is not a Children’s game the title of my current, sloth-progressing wip
Well done Libby, like Terrie my mind was contorting to keep up; the wellies adding much to the scene. And thank you Terrie for a theme which was instantly fulfilled (and I’m still re-reading and finding further inspiration, except I can’t get my head around irony)
Fingers crossed, yet another resolution
New book and a new – and very welcome – experience for me: a “How To” write book received as a birthday present which I found many times more compelling, educational; entertaining and personally useful than the many “How To” books on writing I own: a dozen on my bookshelves, and knowledge of one discarded as not even being worthy of its slender shelf room.) I admit the title was a little daunting – “How to write like Tolstoy” when the only time I tried reading him was when, having gone into labour with my first born, four and a half weeks early (and I novel-informed of hours of straining agony) I took ‘Anna Karenina’ into hospital with me. Don’t think I made much past the fourth page, so any thought of attempting to emulate Tolstoy’s writing never happened) But Richard Cohen’s book grabbed my attention from the first, I found it compelling, amusing – the chapter on writing sex scenes is titled ‘Just like Zorro ‘ – apt and educational and have inserted several Post-it notes for further action on my current wip from ideas gained from chapters on Points of view – a new approach to structure seems an idea worth trying – and Rhythm in prose writing , and as 2026 is the sixth or maybe the twelfth year ‘Finish ‘Snap’ – the fifth novel in my ‘Love triangles with murder’ series – has been a resolution I’d better get on with it. Thanks for the prompt, Terrie
[230 words]
Well done Terrie, and everyone else who between them provided a kaleidoscope view of Christmas, and thank you Ath for prompting me into putting a long-held memory into words.
A never-forgotten Christmas
The telegram sent by my new-made grandfather, telling my father of my safe arrival, at five minutes to midnight on the twentieth December (and, according to my great-grandfather’s fish scales, weighing 6lbs 4 ozs) is explanation enough of why I don’t remember my first Christmas.
To establish whether it was my second or third Christmas I’d have to do some research on the comparative height of dining tables and eyelines of ‘tall for her age’ two and three year-olds to be sure which it was I have such a strong and still vivid, both visual and emotional memory of. Not just of the dining table, nor of the pile upon it, (as tall again as me) of a multitude of pretty-wrapped parcels. Nor is my memory merely visual, because, sandwiched between table and the semi-circle of suspense-filled, adoring, anticipatory aunt, grandparents I was strongly aware of the weight of expectation; the requirement for me to react appropriately. And also of the presence of my mother, from whom I sensed a complexity of disapproval, of resistance, of unhappiness, familiar as ever as yet another skirmish in the ever-present rivalry for my attention. An ill-tempered, resentful battle, begun from when my father, newly discharged from the RAF declared his intention to marry my mother, exacerbated when poverty, through lack of employment necessitated his moving wife and child (soon children) into their house to live.) .
All of which, ever familiar, flicked through my head, to be speedily dismissed. I can only add that I have not the faintest memory of unwrapping any of the pretty paper, nor what gifts it concealed, but I can still conjure that first impression of surprised curiosity. And being surrounded by love. [285 words]
This the result of spending 5 days writing with a gathering of Self-Edit participants.
Games people play
Monday morning’s plumping of the pillows of our marital bed effortful, thanks to both sleep and sex absent as snow in August throughout the weekend. Similarly, energy enough to dissipate the sourness of my reaction when I noticed the words on the blood-red cover of the book on my husband’s bedside chest: “These Darkening Days”. His views on the current state of our marriage? Bit much considering what he’d been up to. Things’d be a lot less dark if only he told the truth.
Then it occurred to me, tonight was Hallowe’en, and we were going to a party. With good friends. The sort we laugh with and get happily drunk with – Dan renowned for his spicy punch. One Christmas, I recalled Delia, Dan’s wife, got us playing ’ Truth or Dare’ which had been brilliant at the time but we confessed none of us had told the truth, nor – and what was worse, remembered who admitted what.
She said she’d got the questions online. I found a whole range, from ‘saucy, through’ deep and dirty’, The dares suggested were even more eye-opening and I wasn’t including them, but there were several ‘Truth’ questions asking what I wanted to make him admit to. Knew I had neither the vocabulary nor the balls to do so. I gave my list to Delia soon as we arrived. She said Dan had promised an even stronger punch. Maybe it was risky, but surely there was no better night for folk to get away with walking round the streets weeping and wailing?
Well. Insofar as he went white as a sheet and said I’d misunderstood, he certainly wailed. Wailed even more – and shouted – when Dan claimed he’d been sleeping with me. I suppose the bloody trickles from Dan’s nose added veracity to the the wailing, white-wrapped ghosties we impersonated, but I’m not sure it was in the full spirit. And I have to admit the days thereafter certainly darkened, but things between us were brighter by the Ides of March. [340 words]
Fabulous indeed – thanks for the link, Libby. I’ve much enjoyed Emma’s two previous novels, so this will be a cert.
Sorry Jill, Returned from ten days away to a refusing-to-charge laptop, and, three days from going away for another week, I’ll not be posting anything for this month’s comp’ Looks like you’ve got some good response so I’ll aim to read ASAP.
Only two entries, as Athelstone rightly points out, but both were a joy insofar as they echoed some of my experiences. Like Jill, Steve and I were but 16 and eighteen – me young enough to be banned from going on the back of his motorbike, but after four years of ‘going steady’, when Steve asked my Dad for, permission to marry me his response was ‘Are you sure? ‘You’re worth ten of her!’ Steve’s Mum said only ‘But so soon, while my future father-in-law simply said ‘Oh gor blimey Steve, what do you wanna go and do a thing like that for?’
Janette’s snobby neighbours had an echo too, but sadly it was my mother forbidding me to play with one family, her not understanding that the eldest daughter was the only one to show me kindness on my first day at the local school.
So, much as I’d like to declare a tie, I’m declaring Jill a winner, for evoking the happier memories. And looking forward to September’s challenge.
Only two entries, as Athelstone rightly points out, but both were a joy insofar as they echoed some of my experiences. Like Jill, Steve and I were but sixteen and eighteen – me young enough to be banned from going on the back of his motorbike, but after four years of ‘going steady’, when Steve asked my Dad for, permission to marry me his response was ‘Are you sure? ‘You’re worth ten of her!’ Steve’s Mum said only ‘But so soon, while my future father-in-law simply said ‘Oh gor blimey Steve, what do you wanna go and do a thing like that for?’
Janette’s snobby neighbours had an echo too, but sadly it was my mother forbidding me to play with one family, her not understanding that the eldest daughter was the only one to show me kindness on my first day at the local school.
So, much as I’d like to declare a tie, I’m declaring Jill a winner, for evoking the happier memories. And looking forward to September’s challenge.
Aargh – busy weekend filled with grandchildren visits and attempts to add names to a 1905 photo of a Christmas celebration. I’ll get to reading and deciding ASAP.
Have to say I am astonished to be chosen, Sea – and grateful, despite feeling that I fell far short of ‘enthralling’ in comparison to those far more apt which were posted, and made impressive reading. Also, following what has been something of a let-down day, this was a welcome cheering, so thank you for that. I’ll aim to post August’s competition by midday tomorrow.
Okay Sea, that ‘honesty snagged my conscience:
The last time I cried was as I attempted to sleep, having earlier been admitted to hospital after my husband Steve correctly diagnosed the oddness of my being unable to control my fingers, while doing the Saturday General Knowledge as potentially a stroke. Quoting ‘FAST’, he did everything right and within 60 minutes I was being reassured, ‘We’ve stopped the bleeding in your brain.’(I did wonder how they could tell) What they couldn’t stop was the ever-present image of Steve’s face as the ambulance left him on the footpath outside our house, the sharp pain of separation. When the ward lights finally went out (and silence failed to fall I could only picture him lying in our bed on his own, and couldn’t stop the tears then.
A more honest – and undoubtedly shaming – confession is that I never cried a single tear when my mother died.
Earlier in the day, at home in her own bed, she repeatedly begged, ”Just let me go, I’ve had enough.”
Hard to wish otherwise for her. My Dad and her sister needed greater care. As did her grandchildren when I reached home with the news.
<p style=”text-align: right;”>Sorry Sea, I’ve been racking my brain (while fighting off Ken Dodd and attempting to pack for some days in the Hebrides) but am totally bereft of words about tears.</p>