Moving HousebyJudith Skilleter,prosecco

 

Jasmine is seven years old and is not happy. She was happy, very happy, until earlier today but then her mum and dad told her they were moving house. They were moving so far away that she will have to change school and make new friends. Her dad had a new and better job that would enable them to have nicer holidays and nicer clothes and toys. Her mum and dad said it would be an exciting adventure – a new bedroom where she could decide how her bedroom should be decorated, a bigger garden where she could play and they would even get a puppy.

All these things meant nothing to Jasmine. She just did not want to go. Even the thought of a puppy did not make her change her mind. This was truly the worst thing ever to happen to her. She did not want to leave her two best friends, Chloe and Eva, and she did not want to change school where she was doing very well.

Jasmine has a younger sister, Amber. But Amber is just two years old and wouldn’t understand what was happening. “Amber is stupid” thinks the big sister.

Jasmine talks to her two friends, Chloe and Eva. Chloe bursts into tears when she hears that Jasmine might be leaving them and fiery Eva screamed in anger. “No, no, no” she shouted to anyone who would hear.

 Eva says to Jasmine “I’m going to ask my mum if you can live with us. You can share my bedroom.”

“And mine” says Chloe. “We have plenty of room now that Nana is in a home.”

“Yes, we will share you” says Eva “but we can’t take Amber as well. She will have to move with your mum and dad.” Amber has a reputation for being sick at every opportunity.

“Really?” says Jasmine.” Do you think that might work?”

“Why not” says Chloe “I’m going home to ask my mum now”

“Me too” said Eva and the two girls hurried off to their homes.

Jasmine felt so much better after this conversation. She was sure her mum and dad would let her stay with both Eva and Chloe. After all, they would have to buy less food and Grandma Joan, who is not well at all, could have her, Jasmine’s, new bedroom.

Jasmine couldn’t wait to hear from Eva and Chloe, she was sure their mums and dads would agree to the plan, and she went straight home to share the plan with her mum and dad.

But Jasmine was wrong. Her mum and dad said “No” to the plan. They were a family and they would stay together. They said they knew it would be difficult for her but there is nothing they can do to make it better and she would get used to the new move and even like it in time.

“I won’t, I won’t, I won’t” screamed Jasmine and she rushed upstairs to her bedroom where she got a black felt tip pen and scrawled “I am not going” all over the walls.

Jasmine’s mum and dad had told her teacher that they were moving and that Jasmine was not at all happy about it all. Her teacher, Mrs Gibbs, was very understanding, especially when Jasmine asked “May I live with you instead?”  But Jasmine’s schoolwork suffered and she was no longer top or near the top of her class. She was also very naughty and more than once Jasmine was sent to the headmistress for punishment. Jasmine just didn’t care. She was rude, she was sullen and she burst into tears at the drop of a hat – and Chloe and Eva’s behaviour was not much better.

At home Jasmine’s behaviour was appalling. When no one was looking she pinched Amber and made her cry. She deliberately broke cups and plates and whatever she could find that could not be mended. She wouldn’t speak to her mum and dad and looked at them with such hate in her eyes. 

Jasmine’s mum and dad eventually lost patience. They stopped her pocket money, they sent her to bed early, they hid her mobile phone and they prevented her seeing Eva and Chloe. Jasmine still didn’t care and with a red felt tip pen she scrawled “No” all over her already scrawled on bedroom wallpaper.

The moving day came. The huge van was waiting outside and Jasmine used all the moving activity to get away. Jasmine and her two best pals had a plan.  Eva’s family had a garden room and Eva had been secretly moving pillows and duvets into it with lots of snacks and food. The garden room had been Eva’s dad’s office when he worked at home during Covid, but now he was back at work properly the garden room was used for storage. But it still had room for a small girl to hide away in.

Jasmine sneaked out of the house when no-one was looking and made her way to Eva’s house - her new place of refuge. There was no one at home – she knew Eva would be at school, as would Ewan, Eva’s older brother and Eva’s mum and dad would be at work. But Eva’s older brother, Ewan, was not at school. He was at home; he had broken an ankle playing football and he was in his bedroom wondering where he could hobble to without causing more damage to his foot when he saw movement in the back garden. He recognised Jasmine immediately. His fiery sister had been making her own family miserable for the last few weeks following the awful news of Jasmine’s move and he quickly worked out what those two naughty girls had done. “And Chloe is probably in on it too” he chuckled.

His mum rang him to check on him and the foot.

“We have a visitor in the garden room” he said.

“Oh please don’t tell me the fox has returned. If she has babies in there I will scream.”

“I think a fox would be easier than this visitor.” said Ewan.

“What do you mean” asked his mum.

“Jasmine is in there” he replied.

“Oh that poor girl” said his mum. “I’m coming home now. Don’t do anything till I get there.”

“OK” chuckled Ewan. Suddenly having a broken ankle was quite exciting and not the boring event it had been not so many minutes ago.

Eva’s mum came home. She wondered on the way whether she should collect Eva and Chloe as well but decided against it. They would be dealt with later. Instead she rang Jasmine’s mum and dad, who were frantic with worry and told them that Jasmine was safe and she also rang Chloe’s mum who worked from home. They were all asked to meet in her, Eva’s mums, kitchen.

At home she went straight up to Ewan’s bedroom where he was sitting with his eyes glued to the garden room door. “There has been no movement. I reckon she is waiting until Eva gets back from school” reported Ewan.

She said.” In a short while, Chloe’s mum and Jasmine’s mum and dad will arrive. Can you welcome them and take them in to the kitchen and ask them to stay there. I will come to the kitchen with Jasmine. Can you do this Ewan? I will help you downstairs”

Ewan nodded. Never ever had a broken ankle been so thrilling.

 Eva’s mum went to the garden room, went in quietly and sat down. Jasmine was well hidden behind some deckchairs. After five minutes or so, after five minutes of the tiniest noises from the far corner, Eva’s mum said in a very gentle and kind voice.

“I know you are in here Jasmine and I know you are very unhappy about your family’s move. I am so sorry this is happening”

At this Jasmine burst into tears, she cried like she had never cried before. Eva’s mum moved the deckchairs and gathered this distraught small girl tightly into her arms and sat back down with her.

When Jasmine had calmed down a little, she was shaking all over and the tears still fell but no longer in a torrent Eva’s mum said.

“Sometimes Jasmine, we have to do things in life that we do not want to do. I know exactly what you are going through. When we moved here I was leaving my family, my mum and dad and aunties and uncles and I hated it for ages. But it got better and now I wouldn’t live anywhere else.”

“I’m not going” mumbled a small voice into Eva’s mum’s wet jumper. There had, after all, been a lot of tears and no tissues.

“I know it is awful for you but I promise you that Eva and Chloe will keep in touch otherwise they will be in big trouble.”

There was a small smile somewhere in the depths of the wet jumper.

“But it won’t be the same” said Jasmine.

“It won’t” agreed Eva’s mum. “But we can make it a bit better if we all try – and that includes you. I think by now your mum and dad are in my kitchen. Shall we go in and have a chat?”

Jasmine immediately looked terrified, she knew she was in the most trouble ever.
“I will be with you. You will be fine” said Eva’s mum in her most reassuring voice – but with her fingers crossed too.

And shortly afterwards and hand in hand they entered the kitchen.

About the Author

 

dith Skilleter is new to writing fiction after a long career in social work and teaching. Her first children's novel The April Rebellion, has recently been published. Judith is a Geordie, who settled in East Yorkshire 4forty-fiveyears ago and is married with 4fourgrandchildrenDid you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee?. Half of what you pay goes to the author thothrr half goes to expense se.g. Miantaining rhhthe web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

Dare to dream by Rob Molan, flathchch chamapagne

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                                             DARE TO DREAM

As our roadie unloads the van, we wander into the pub. It’s a cavernous joint with a long bar and a high ceiling. It could do with a fresh lick of paint and the stained carpet has seen better days.

‘Can I help you?’ asks a weedy guy standing behind a till.

‘We’re ‘The Flames’ and I’m Jack, the lead guitarist and vocalist,’ I reply.

‘I thought you weren’t going to turn up,’ he says, looking at his watch.

‘How big do you think the audience will be?’ asks Steve. His greyish ponytail is tucked into his collar.

‘Around a hundred and fifty.’

Disappointing but it’s more than we got at some recent gigs.

‘I hope you’ll be playing your old hits. The punters will want that.’

‘Of course,’ snaps Tim. The guy steps back at the sight of my six-foot, shaven headed bandmate. 

Our roadie enters pushing the equipment trolley towards the small stage which has two spotlights above it.

‘When did the three of you last play in Leeds?’ asks the manager.

‘1970,’ I reply.

‘A lot’s changed in the last thirty years.’

Indeed. There was four of us then.

 

After getting off the train, we bounded across the station concourse towards the limousine chased by photographers. We clambered inside and were whisked off to the Metropole Hotel.

‘They’ve got a great cocktail bar there,’ said Ray. ‘Let’s hit it before dinner.’

‘As long as you’re paying,’ retorts Steve.

Ray gave him the finger.

Within a couple of minutes, the terracotta façade of the hotel came into view and we spied a group of female fans gathered outside. I got out first, followed by Tim and Steve, and when Ray’s high-heeled boots hit the pavement the murmurs of excitement turn into screams and a few girls rushed over, surrounded him and pawed at his Afghan coat. He was a good-looking guy with boyish looks and shiny black curls cascading onto his broad shoulders.

Arriving in the lobby, our path is blocked by the broad figure of our manager, Derek.

‘Ray, you’ve got an interview with a journalist now. The rest of you are free to do whatever you want before dinner.’

‘I’m sick of talking to hacks,’ groaned Ray.

That was the price he played for being such a gifted songwriter.

We had sunk champagne and were finishing our starters by the time Ray was free to rejoin us.

‘That reporter was a pain. He knew little about our music and asked me stupid questions. Then he started quizzing me about my love life,’ he said with a smirk. ‘I gave him a few titbits to chew on.’

‘Shut up!’ I said, filling his glass with fine, red wine.

Four waitresses appeared carrying plates of T-bone steaks and we tucked in.

‘While you guys were gassing on the train, I was finishing off the lyrics for that new song I’ve been working on,’ said Ray. ‘I’ve named it ‘Dare To Dream’ and I think it’s one of my best.’

We’d been working on a riff for the song in the studio before the tour.’

‘Let’s have a butchers says,’ said Tim. He sported a blonde mullet then.

‘I’ve given the sheet to Dave for safekeeping. Knowing me, it would probably end up in the bin otherwise!’  He was a disorganised guy and frustrating to work with but a genius none the less.

 

The sound check in the pub has gone well. The acoustics are surprisingly good.

‘Anyone fancy fish and chips?’ asks Steve. ‘There’s a place nearby.’

‘I think our budget can stretch to that,’ says Tim. ‘We can try and cadge some free beers here afterwards.” He could do with cutting back as his belly looks bigger than it was when the tour started.

Once we’re settled in the eatery, we order tea to go with the fish.

‘It felt strange travelling through those streets earlier,’ I say.

‘I asked myself why we’d agreed to include Leeds in the tour,’ comments Steve.

‘Yeah, we had a few fights last time we were here,’ recalls Tim.  I remember him throwing me up against a wall and screaming in my face.

‘We all said things we later regretted,’ I add. ‘But now we’re the best of friends.’

‘Don’t push it,’ says Steve with a laugh.

The fish is barely edible and the chips are overcooked and we eat them in silence.

The rain is lashing down when we step outside and the three of us jog through the puddles, arriving back at the pub breathless and looking like drowned rats.

Our entrance the last time was more dignified.

 

After dinner, the limousine took us to the Queen’s Hall. It’s since been demolished but back then it was a huge venue holding five thousand people. Security staff formed a guard of honour letting us enter the building unmolested by the fans outside.  We changed in the dressing room, putting on our lycra bodysuits which boasted every colour of the rainbow and showed off our skinny frames.

A roar of anticipation greeted us as we entered the dimmed stage. The decibels increased further as the bright lights came on, revealing us in our technicolour glory, and hundreds of fans rushed to the barrier at the front to see us up close and personal.

We got things moving with ‘Black Widow’ - always a crowd-pleaser – Tim opening up on drums, followed by Steve’s melodic, powerful bass, Ray picking up the beat with his rhythm guitar and me coming in on lead with the song’s killer riff. Ray and I leaned into our microphones and belted out the opening lines:

‘All dressed in black so nobody sees you
Smile in the wings, tell me I please you’

Within seconds, the audience turned into an enormous choir singing along with us, taking the roof off the place and setting the scene for a tumultuous ninety minutes, during which our adrenalin soared sky-high and we worked up a helluva sweat.

Halfway through the set, a girl climbed over the barrier and got on stage and ran over to Ray and snogged him. The rest of us kept playing as security prised the her off him before he effortlessly rejoined us on the chorus behaving as if nothing had happened. He was a class act.

We were on a high when we got back to the dressing room.

‘Is everyone up for a visit to Tiffany’s?’ I asked.

There was only one dissenting reply, from Ray who had a leggy brunette sitting on his knee.

‘We’re going back to the hotel first. We’ll catch you at the club.’

That was typical of Ray.

 

Only one of the pub’s spotlights is working but we still start the gig at eight. Most of the audience have had a skinful by then and sing along loudly with me. I spot a few youthful converts to the cause among the bobbing grey heads out there. At one point, a drunk guy leaning on the stage suddenly slumps forward and the beer from his glass forms a big puddle which I step over and keep playing to the sound of cheers.

After performing for an hour, we leave the stage to an ovation and I make my way to the bar. As I’m sipping my pint, a young bloke approaches me sporting a T shirt bearing a photograph of us in our pomp. I hardly recognise the thin faced guy that was once me.

‘Do you mind signing this?’ he asks, brandishing a battered copy of a paperback about the band.

‘Sure.’

I take his pen and scribble inside the cover.

“I read Ray Hunter died in Leeds back in 1970. It was an overdose wasn’t it?”

‘Yeah, it was tragic.’

I found him in his hotel room, lying limp in an armchair with his head slumped to one side and his eyes wide open. The girl was sitting on the edge of the bed with her head in her hands and weeping.

The tour was cancelled and we hung around until the post mortem. Much alcohol was consumed during those days and a break up of the band seemed on the cards.

‘You should have stopped him going back to the hotel,’ shouted Steve. ‘Then we wouldn’t be in this mess.’

‘I wasn’t his keeper,’ I snapped. “’the oldest here doesn’t make me a father figure.’   

Thankfully, Dave got us to see sense and persuaded us to stay together.

‘It was brilliant that you performed ‘Dare To Dream’ as the encore’ says the young fan. ‘It’s my favourite.’

And our last hit.

‘We’d better get going,’ shouts Tim. ‘Our bed and breakfast locks up at eleven.’

‘Are we sharing a room again?’

‘Sadly, yes.’

We’ve hardly written a decent song between us since Ray died. Maybe our old music will come back into fashion or a number will feature on a film soundtrack and win us new fans. We can only dream.

ABout the author

 

Rob lives in Edinburgh started writing short stories during lockdown. To date, he's had several tales published by Cafe Lit and others in various anthologies. He likes to experiment with different genres and styles of writing. Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee?. Half of what you pay goes to the author th otrht eehalf goes to expense se.g. Miantaining rhhthe web siter and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

Going to meet the Hoppers by Fiona Sinclair, mint tea

 

Going to meet the Hoppers

 

The announcement of a ‘major retrospective’ sent Alice’s friends giddy with excitement. Reviews in The Guardian newspaper raved.  The five stars awarded barely seeming adequate.  

Alice remained silent . In truth she had never heard of the American artist. Her tastes were more European ; Turner, Vermeer , Caravaggio.

Some friends raced to become early bird visitors . They had  joined queues like static conga lines and  came away  gushing with praise.  But to Alice , the  Hoppers became like an irritating  family,  who mutual friends declared ‘You will love’.  However past experience had taught her that when introduced , she had found no common ground.

‘We must put it on the list ‘  declared Julia.  Her closest friend and partner for any such cultural initiatives .  Julia hated finding herself on the back foot at parties when the latest  event was mulled over by guests who had already taken it in .

Alice nodded noncommittally , changed the subject by drawing attention to a stylish pair of shoes in a store window.  

Fortnightly visits to the Maudsley psych hospital in south west London had become routine to her now . A years’ worth of psychotherapy was succeeding in untangling her past. She no longer entered the out patients with eyes fixed on the squares of carpet tiles . A ploy in those early days to avoid any interaction with the human flotsam that mental health had beached in the waiting room.

But over time she saw that this was a place where calmness was carefully curated. Pictures of flowers bloomed on the walls ,  the décor was always spruce,  and the staff from receptionists to psychiatrists treated the patients  however ramshackle with respect .  

Now she and her therapist Margaret would chit chat as key codes where punched into pads , in order to gain admittance to each level of the labyrinthine building . The sounds like birds of prey that issued from the acute wing no longer making her start.

This particular Monday morning , her appointment  was at a bleary eyed 8 am. Fine if she lived in London however she was a two hours train ride away so her alarm clock blared reveille at five am.

Her session was finished by nine. ‘You’ve got the rest of the day to yourself ‘ Margaret remarked as she shouldered the final door whose second line of defence seemed to be that it always stuck.  Alice was at a loss as to how to spend this time . London brimmed with museums and galleries but nothing tempted her. ‘ You know what Dr Johnson said ‘ grinned her therapist .

‘ When a man is tired of London  he is tired of life ‘ responded Alice. ‘ Probably not the best sentiments to quote in Maudsley they both agreed.

Since the peak hour ticket had been expensive Alice felt  the outlay  should reward her with more than  counselling . She was not in the mood for aimless shopping.  But scrolling from memory through the current exhibitions , she found there was a dearth , accept of course for the Hoppers at the Tate . It was a short tube ride away . ‘Well there’s always cappuccino and cake in the café afterwards’ She consoled herself.

On the Victoria line , as the train jolted to a halt at each station,  her carriage never fully aligned with hoardings that  trumpeted the event . And as the tube accelerated away she  only got a zoetrope impression of images that did nothing to ignite her enthusiasm.

‘ If it’s crowed ‘ she decided ‘I won’t bother. ’ Envisaging hordes of retirees , school parties and tourists mobbing the entrance  all waiting for 10am like a starting gun.

In truth most exhibitions only admitted a hundred or so visitors every hour. But even so  from past experience , she knew there would be a funeral pace past each picture as if it was laying in state.

Alice blamed those headphones that explained each painting  down to the final daub. Visitors planted themselves in front of the picture until the recording told them to move onto the next image. ‘ Just look and form your own opinion  ‘ she would mutter whilst craning to catch a glimpse of the artwork.

The Thames accompanied her towards the Tate. There was a Monday morning feeling in this part of London, as if the area was drawing breath after a busy weekend. The district  was dedicated to tourism with The Globe and The Turner being near neighbours.

The gallery was housed in a decommissioned power station designed by the architect Sir Giles Gilbert Scot,  in a time when even functional buildings were given an aesthetic flourish. The conversion to art gallery had  retained the original deco building  but also made sympathetic modern additions. The brickwork was cleaned back to its original red and the towering chimney advertised itself on the London skyline.

With the internal machinery removed , the empty core allowed for spacious galleries ideal for art on an ambitious scale . The turbine hall alone was so vast that it dwarfed the escalators that bore visitors up to the galleries. Here even Michelangelo’s’  17 ft David would look lonely.

Alice was quite accustomed to taking herself off to the cinema , theatres, exhibitions alone. Most of her friends were married , therefore had commitments. She was often too impatient to wait whilst they managed the logistics of their domestic lives, to find  time to accompany her.

There was a freedom in being on her own , a spontaneity that meant she could hop on a train, and head to London whenever she felt inclined.

Friends found her ease at flying solo incomprehensible. ‘ You’re so brave ‘ they would remark in tones that simultaneously managed to be admiring but also patronising  ‘ I could never do anything like that on my own.’

‘It’s practice ‘ she would explain. As an only child she had grown up used to her own company. Moreover without a partner now , the fact was if she wanted the rich cultural life she craved , Alice had to take matters into her own hands.

Over time she had developed strategies that gave her confidence. Aware that even in the 21^st a single woman going to the theatre or cinema on her own still  garnered curious glances,  she was therefore  always accompanied by a book .

Arriving at the Tate’s ticket desk, Alice was surprised to find only a dribble of people. 10 am on a Monday morning was apparently too early even for the keenest of visitors.

Consequently with extraordinary timing she had the luxury of being the only person in the exhibition. Grinning at her good fortune she placed herself in the centre of the largest room. She then made a 360 degrees turn to get an overview of the Hoppers before moving in on specific images that beckoned to be examined.

What she saw utterly contradicted her preconceptions of the artist and his work. These were not the cosy representations of American life she had expected.  

Human loneliness was delineated in every scene. There were no cosy family meals or girlfriends gossiping. Indeed these people seemed to possess no faculty for laughter. Married couples who had run out of things to say to each other long ago,  now gazed off into their own private horizons.  Solitary men sat on stoops smoking with blank expressions as if they had given up on thinking . Many eyes were cast down , or concealed beneath hats , so that all emotional cues were transferred to their body language whose droop spoke of hopelessness.

This despair was not confined to cityscapes. There were landscapes too , where forests growled at the edges of civilisation  and unkept grass prowled up to the stoops of solitary white wooden houses. These homes  were personified as if conveying by proxy the emotions the characters in other pictures could not. Doors screamed and windows gaped.

Above all she had never seen an artist paint silence so effectively . It emanated from the pictures , seeming to seep into the gallery itself. 

In all the years of visiting exhibitions she had never seen one that reflected back her own experience of life. The images did not bring her mood down rather she felt exhilarated that she was able to look these pictures in the face without flinching .  

Alice returned home buzzing with a convert’s zeal. As a result her friend hastily cleared a Saturday . She farmed her kids off to their cousins for the day and left a ready meal for her husband in the fridge. Of course Alice was champing to revisit the exhibition , although she was savvy enough to understand that she would never be able to recreate the timely conditions or the wonder she had experienced on first seeing the pictures.

The two women arrived at the gallery early enough for there to be a lunchtime lull .  From past experience she knew her friend  did not work her way methodically through an exhibition but liked to see the artist’s greatest hits first. Juila made for  the voyeuristic  ‘Night Windows’,  where a woman is observed in a bedsit ,  her back to an open window from which curtains billow  , a favoured image for fridge magnets and coasters.

Alice felt the same rush of enthusiasm for the pictures. She was desperate to enjoy again images that had particularly affected her but good manners tethered her to Julia’s side . Nevertheless she could not help breathlessly pointing out details in ‘Night Windows ‘ that had struck her before. Alice’s words tumbled out in her desire to share the image with her friend. However Julia seemed to have left her enthusiasm with her coat in the cloakroom. She regarded the painting in silence. Alice grimaced inwardly wondering if her effusiveness was deterring her friend so turned off her gush of words .

However Julia still did not engage with this painting or indeed any others. She paused before each image briefly without comment. Alice trailed behind her at a loss. She wondered if her friend had suddenly become unwell. There was a precedent for this when she had once passed out from a UTI at the theatre. And she knew her friend well enough that if she hated an exhibition she was quick to speak her mind. ‘ Are you feeling Ok?’ she whispered . ‘ I’m fine’ Juila responded . But the ‘fine’ was loaded with a subtext Alice could not at that moment fathom.

Julia stood briefly before the artist’s other well-known pictures as if mentally  ticking them off.  Alice desultorily picked out a detail here and there like offering titbits to someone who had lost their appetite. Her friend merely nodded or squeezed out a ‘hmmm’.

From her peripheral vision the paintings she ached to enjoy again beckoned to her. Finally she made her way to them. Hoping that by giving her friend some space she might find some way into the works. However looking over her shoulder she saw Juia had begun to move past the paintings without pausing, barely glancing at the images. Eventually feeling as if she was abandoning her friend at a party of strangers she returned to her side . They had reached ‘ Night Hawks’  ‘ surely she’ll respond now ‘ she thought . Her friend did but not with appreciation,  instead she raised her hand to her eyes as if shielding her gaze. Alice was reduced to foolishly gesturing’ the famous one’ as if trying to chivvy a child’s interest.

 

‘’Well I think we’ve seen enough ‘’ Juila suddenly found her voice again ‘Let’s get out of here.’  And without waiting for Alice she bolted through the exit and plonked herself in a comfy armchair in the coffee shop , and took a deep breath as if the atmosphere in the gallery had tried to choke her. In an effort to raise her friend’s spirits , Alice brough her a double shot cappuccino and a slab of cake. Seated by a large picture window looking down on the Thames, Alice commented on a few landmarks by way of breaking the silence. It was still a one way conversation though until revived by the food , Julia began to join in.

Clearly there was not to be their usual post event discussion.  This was unprecedented . They could not even agree to disagree as they had many times before if they could not even discuss the exhibition.   During this smallest of small talk , Alice tried to make sense of her friend’s reaction. She began to feel as if she had forced Julia to accompany her. Then remembered it was actually her friend’s agency that had brough them to the Tate. Reasoning to herself that they couldn’t spend the rest of their lives avoiding all reference to the Hoppers she brushed the small talk aside , took a breath and blurted out ‘Did you not like the exhibition?’ .

Julia paused before speaking ‘ Look, I know you love them but for me , there was no beauty in there’ she gestured with her head towards the gallery they had come from. ‘ They are so dreary.’ Her tone verged on whining as if the exhibition had got her there under false pretences . Alice was quick to point out that they had seen other exhibitions genuinely devoid of  conventionally beauty ‘ Rothko, Warhol, Gilbert and George . None of whose work could have comfortably inhabited a sitting room.

‘But I know what to expect with abstract art ‘ her friend pointed out . ‘ I can stomach geometric shapes and dribbled paint because they engage my mind not my emotions . ‘ she paused ‘ also somehow they don’t reflect real life.’ The caffein had clearly loosened her tongue . ‘ I expect at least some beauty in representational art. ‘ She began to list Hopper’s faults. ‘ Why are there so few people in the city? It looks post-apocalyptic . And they are so miserable . That picture of the psycho house seems to sum up the whole collection.’ She added as a last shot.

Alice felt as if her friend’s criticism was aimed at her as well as the artist. She attempted to put her case for the paintings. ‘ But don’t you see that they reflect the isolation of modern life ? .’ Her friend’s face remained adamant. Alice searched for a comparison then had a brain wave ‘ Look’ we both studied TS Eliot at uni . Can’t you see it’s The Waste Land translated into art?’ She felt rather pleased with her analogy. But Juila shook her head. ‘You can distance yourself from words , but pictures , ‘ She grimaced’ nothing erases an image , once seen it gets trapped in your mind . ’

Alice pondered the two divergent responses to the Hoppers. Both were extreme in their own ways. She wondered if the roots of their reactions lay in their backgrounds. Her own history , even her therapist agreed,  verged on the Gothic. Whereas Julia had enjoyed an Enid Blyton childhood. Throughout her life she had been adored by her father and  encouraged by her mother . Her marriage to Jim was that rare thing , a pairing that lasted without a whiff of infidelity. Admittedly their life together had not been entirely charmed , ill health, a father’s dementia , redundancy had been faced down over time. Now their reward was a very comfortable life .

Her friend seemed to have read her thoughts. ‘I know I have a good life compared to most ‘ Juila admitted ‘ And  I know there’s ugliness in the world . I just don’t want to be reminded of it on a day out.’   

Alice began to understand that the pictures were an uncomfortable reminder of less kind lives. Whilst they were not in the your face brutality of war , instead they showed men and women recognizably modern whose lives were the playthings of circumstance and as such had visibly given up.

They seemed to have awakened some existential fear in her friend, perhaps a dread of feeling hopeless. The Hoppers were a reminder that even middle class lives could falter and fall if fate gave a push.

Julia suddenly changed the subject with a hand brake turn. She gave a round up of her daughters’ careers and love lives , her husband’s progress on the kit car he was building . She seemed in this way to be deploying her family as a buffer against the images she had just seen.  

Making for the exit , it was usually part of their ritual to visit the gift shop. But whilst Alice turned to enter , eager to buy more Hopper related merchandize ,  Juila swept passed deep  in  describing  the minutiae of her family’s next trip to Italy . Alice shrugged ‘ I’ll pop in next time ‘ she thought. 

About the author 

 

Fiona Sinclair lives in a village in the UK. She has had several collections of poems published . The latest ‘Dining with the dead’ was published by Erbacce Press Liverpool. Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee?. Half of what you pay goes to the author th otrht eehalf goes to expense se.g. Miantaining rhhthe web siter and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.