Feeling a Little Dicky by David Rudd, mocktail

 F

The PC’s account

So I goes into the Gents on Cavendish Street. The one near the cenotaph. We’d had a call someone was injured and I was passing. I found this man laid out by the urinal.

   It looked like he’d been having a pee, slipped and banged his head. No one else around. He was breathing regularly, so I wasn’t worried, but called an ambulance just in case.

   When he comes round, he looks embarrassed and tries to hide something in his hand. But he’s also struggling to zip up and suddenly this thing leaps from his hand, springs over to the washbasins. An effin’ penis! Looked like he’d castrated himself zipping up!

   He tells me it’s a medical thing. Says he’s got eczema, wears this thing for protection. Yeah, I thought. Pull the other one!

   At this point, Stan, the ambulance man, arrives. He seems to know the man. ‘Hi Jimmy,’ he says. ‘What’s up, then?’

   I left them to it. Personally, I think this ‘Jimmy’ had been flashing someone with his joke penis and they’d planted him.

 

Jimmy’s story

There I was, in need of a whiz, and there’s the Cavendish St ‘conveniences’. Used to be quite lively down there.

   Anyway, I stroll in. There’s this young fellow standing there, nice bum, wiggling it just for me, so I think. But then I see he’s having trouble freeing his tackle. Catching sight of it, I’m not surprised. Hung like a Suffolk Punch, he was! Standing next to him at the stalls, I couldn’t take my eyes off it.

   The young fellow didn’t seem bothered, though. In fact, I thought he relished my attentions, standing there like some fire fighter hosing a blaze. When he finishes, he shakes off the drips, giving his tallywacker a couple of stretches. It’s like watching someone cock a rifle. Is he inviting me to take him in hand, give him some pump action?

   I barely touch him before he squeals and backs off the stall. And then I get the biggest shock of all. His tackle comes clean off in my hand!

   Staggering backwards, I topple off the step. And that’s the last thing I remember until the plod finds me. Smirking he is, like he knows exactly what’s what, despite sounding all official.

   And I was still holding this fake willy, till it flies out of my grip. You should have seen the shock on the his face! I feed him some guff about wearing it for medical reasons. Lucky for me, Stan arrives, and the plod leaves.

 

Richard’s tale

I’ve always been sensitive about my member. I know it’s a common worry — ‘penis envy’ — but my concerns are based in fact. I know I’m smaller than average. Haven’t I got in all sorts of bother sizing up others’? ‘Oy, queerboy, want some, do you?’ ‘Brown noser!’ ‘Shit stabber!’ You know the sort of slur.

   It didn’t seem fair. The rest of me sailed through puberty — voice breaking, secondary hair sprouting — but nothing down below. I’d been told it might have something to do with my Coeliac Disease, which hadn’t been diagnosed for years, even though I’d been a sickly child. ‘Are we feeling a Little Dicky?’ It used to be Mum’s standing joke. After puberty, I banned her from saying it.

   You can understand, then, why I was self-conscious in public toilets – unless, that is, there was a cubicle. Otherwise, well, I’d stand there, desperate and frustrated, listening enviously to the sighs of relief, the bladders emptying, the steam rising. After a while of pretending, I’d zip up and leave, then loiter outside until things quietened down — although hanging about was also risky.

   It was all very stressful until I met up with my old pal, Wallace Bingham. We’d been at university together. He had a job in anatomical modelling, which meant designing body parts, mainly for medical training. And there was this silicone penis, slightly larger than life-size, used, he said, to show students how to insert catheters.

   Of course, I asked Wallace if he could design something I could wear. He rose to the challenge and made a prosthetic so impressive I was loath to take it off.

   Percy worked a treat. I had no more problems with what Wallace termed ‘paruresis’ (shy bladder syndrome). I voided like a veritable stallion, savouring the covetous looks of those alongside.

   Everything went fine until I was down in the Cavendish Street Gents, struggling with Percy. I suppose it looked like I was playing with myself. And maybe that’s what made my neighbour react as he did, grabbing my buddy. Shocked, I stepped back, then the shock was on him as he realised what had come off in his hand. He stumbled off the step, crashing onto the tiled floor.

   I legged it. Halfway up the road I realised he still had Percy. But I couldn’t face going back. I did report it, though; that is, about someone collapsing in the Cavendish Street Gents.

   Wallace promised he’d replace Percy, but I never took him up on it. I should say, this all happened a while back, since when I no longer experience the paruresis. Nowadays I revel in being invisible, confident that no one is going to molest me.  Even my mother is delighted. I’m her Little Dicky once again.

About the author

Dr David Rudd is an emeritus professor who, after 40 years, turned from academic prose to creative writing. He has published some fifty stories, several appearing in ‘Café Lit’. A collection of his short stories, 'Blood Will Out, and Other Strange Tales' was published in 2024 (available Amazon and elsewhere).

 

Saturday sample:Fresh Begginigs by Leela dutt, old wine

 

1.       VISITORS

It’s my father’s funeral today. So inside I’m a jelly. But outside – pure steel.

Meanwhile, way out in the so-called real world, up to a billion people are said to be glued to their television screens waiting for a couple of American guys to step onto the dusty surface of the moon for the first time without a care in the solar system.

But none of that has anything to do with me, because I’ve just lost the best friend I ever had: Evan Griffiths, born Carmarthen 1910, resident of north London. He died last week at the Edgware General of complications following surgery for cancer; ridiculously young – not even a pensioner. So I am not in the least interested in the first moon walk today; they say there will be plenty more of them in the future.

I’ve reached Golders Green crematorium an hour early, and there’s only one other person outside, an elderly woman.

“Hi there, Jennifer! I thought some extra flowers might come in useful…” She looks at me with a kindly smile.

Damn! We haven’t done flowers. My mother said you couldn’t be expected to deal with anyone as trivial as a florist, for God’s sake, at a time like this.      

“I can get some more if you like,” the woman goes on.

Can’t quite place her for the moment. She’s clutching a massive armful of summer blooms in brilliant colours. “Sorry it’s too late for his favourite daffodils!”

Ah, she knows Dad, then. She looks familiar – grey hair with tinges of red, probably a member of the family on Dad’s side. Not sure who – reminds me of great-aunt Morag –  who died when I was little.

“Oh that’s really kind of you, er…?”

“Call me Jay – everyone does, these days.” She sticks her hand out and her grasp is firm.

Dad’s is the first cremation of the day so they let us in early. Help! I’m going to start sneezing – there’s an ancient dusty smell in here. It’s a huge place, this chapel, and Jay’s flowers don’t go far. She whips out a little black thing from her pocket and taps a few buttons on it, then she presses it to her ear. Oh gosh, has she got earache?

“Hi, it’s me….” she says, gazing up at the ceiling. “Yes, I’m here at the crem… Fine… Signal’s OK so far. Listen, Kate, can you bring five or six more bunches of flowers when you come? Thanks… I’ll see you soon – got to go!”

Then she puts the little black thing back in her pocket; what the hell is it?

“My daughter will sort something out.” Apparently she’s talking to me again. “You’re looking great, by the way, Jennifer; turquoise really suits you. And your hair is just right.”

Which is not at all what my Mother said this morning; she told me it was a pity I could never do anything with my hair these days. Mother went on to inform me that it didn’t really matter, since I only work with primary school children. But the turquoise was her idea – Mother comes from Holland, and she maintains that the obsession over here with black for funerals is ridiculous.

“And how’s the writing going?” says Jay.

What? How the hell does she know about that? No one knows that I write. No one at all – well except for Duncan of course, but that doesn’t count; sometimes I think Duncan lives inside my head. Oh, and I told my sister Sue once, but she wasn’t listening.

There’s a noise at the back, and several more people have arrived.

Oh good heavens!  There’s Duncan after all; I didn’t think he’d get time off work to come. How very kind of him! He’s the father of Joey in Standard Two, the class I teach. He’s also an old friend of Dad’s; they met at bookbinding classes, of all things, at the institute where I went to school. He lives alone with Joey now, since his wife died a couple of years ago. I’ve got a lot of time for Duncan.

“Morning, Jennifer,” Duncan is coming over, his thick black hair flopping untidily over his eyes. “How are you feeling?” He looks at me solemnly and shakes my hand – I don’t think we’ve ever shaken hands before. It feels good. “Today must be a big ordeal for you, but you look stunning. You always do.” I grow six inches and the jelly inside begins to set.

Why is everyone suddenly telling me… Oh look, my sister Sue’s just sailed in. She’s positively blooming, carrying all before her, in a tasteful black maternity dress. She’s not actually due for another six weeks, but you wouldn’t think she could get much bigger. Drippy Tim is following in her wake as usual.

“Is Mother here yet?” Sue calls out. “We ought to wait outside till she comes, don’t you think?”

Duly we all troop outside and stand gazing up at the huge plane trees lining Hoop Lane. I know this road so well – I walked up here every day for eleven years when I was a child. When I was very small Dad used to walk with me.

Jay disappears for several minutes, and comes back with some more flowers – where has she got them from? But there’s no time to think about that. I glance at my watch after twenty minutes – time is passing – and Mother is cutting it fine. Presumably she is planning to turn up?

“Tim has only just managed to fit the funeral in,” Sue mutters as we stand waiting. “He’s off to Edinburgh to see his supervisor tonight.” She pauses to wipe what looks like an egg stain from Tim’s black tie.

At last the car bringing Mother comes round the corner, followed by the hearse, and we all turn towards it.

My brother Max leaps out of the car first, and dashes round to open the door for Mother. She glances up, taking in what is quite a crowd by now, and regally stretching out her legs she steps onto the pavement, taking Max’s arm for support. She smells strongly of eau de cologne.

“Thank you, all of you, for coming, thank you so much,” she murmurs. Effortlessly she has become the focus of all attention.

No change there, then.

The coffin is unloaded and wheeled into the chapel in front of us. Oh, how small it is! Dad isn’t – wasn’t – a big man, but he was big to me: not only when I climbed onto his knee as a young child, but later as I grew up and took him for granted, my rock that would always be there. Now he is reduced to that tiny wooden box those men are wheeling in. No, stop: this is all wrong!

Glancing over my shoulder, I catch Duncan’s eye. Oh God, he must be thinking of the day of his wife’s funeral! Poor Duncan, and how very brave of him to come today  in spite of that. He gives me a faint flicker of a smile, and I try to smile back. What a dear person he is!

Max leads Mother slowly towards the chapel, and the rest of us follow, Sue and I tucking in behind them. I’ve given the sign for the organist to begin, and she plays some rather fine Bach, one of Dad’s favourites. She’s a very good musician.

“Oh I love this piece!” cries Jay, falling into step beside me. “I got a CD of it from Amazon last year.”

I have no idea what the woman is on about, or indeed what Brazil has got to do with anything, but I let it pass over my head.

As we shuffle into place in the front row, Mother erupts into a sudden burst of hysterical sobbing. The minister allows a decent interval before he begins proceedings.

Jay has slipped in next to me in the front row, which is meant to be reserved for close family only, but I guess it doesn’t matter. Mother stops sobbing abruptly and gives her a hard stare, but Jay just nods at her and smiles benignly.

As the minister begins to speak, Jay takes out the mysterious black thing from her pocket and points it at Dad’s coffin. She looks intently at it for a moment and then presses a button. I must ask her later what she’s up to, if there’s time.

After a while they put on one of Dad’s favourite records – a male voice choir from the Welsh valleys. He used to play it a lot – when he was fed up with life in London – or perhaps with Mother. He’d go upstairs on his own to a little room we called his cubbyhole and play them.

“Guide me, O thou great Jehovah…”

I’ve got a horrible feeling I’m going to cry. Not out loud like Mother, of course; I never do that. But tears are beginning to stream down my face.

“Feed me till I want no more…” Dad used to say that was what a line of rugby forwards shout when they pass the ball along. I think he was joking! He was deeply into rugby; he used to take me to Twickenham to watch Wales.

I’m not the only one crying; Jay is too, at least as much as I am, she must have known Dad really well then; so how come I don’t recognise her?

Even my brother Max is surreptitiously wiping away the odd tear from his eyes. He likes to pretend he’s big and hard, does Max.

Things are dragging on a bit now, and Mother is drumming her fingers on the front of the pew, not quietly. She’s looking pointedly at her watch, and she taps it to see if it is still going. Oh God this is so rude – I just hope the nice minister doesn’t notice.

He has and he’s looking straight at Mother. What are the chances of a big hole opening up in front of me and swallowing me up? Not great. I used to pray for that when I was a child and Mother was being particularly embarrassing in a shop or a bus queue, but God never saw fit to oblige.

Saved! The organist strikes up again, and at last it is time for the coffin to slide away behind the curtain.

Is that it, then? Goodbye, Dad!

We all stand up, and Max leads Mother down the aisle, followed by the rest of us. Duncan catches my eye and smiles.

My sister stumbles as she gets to the back and I grab her arm swiftly. “You OK, Sue?”

“Course I am – don’t fuss, Jennifer!” But I don’t like the way she’s clutching her bulge as though she thinks it’s going to escape.

Mother has insisted that everyone should come back to the house after this, and I jolly well hope a fair number of them do, because I have arranged catering for a moderately sized battalion or two and I don’t want it wasted.

We sort ourselves out into cars – Max with Mother of course – and I squeeze in with Sue and Drippy Tim. Jay isn’t with us any more – she’s cadged a lift off Duncan of all people. She’s got a young woman with her now, another person I don’t recognise – but oddly she reminds me a bit of Duncan: she has his huge brown eyes, dark floppy hair, although her prominent nose reminds me of Dad. She looks friendly. Jay goes off muttering something about her carbon footprint, whatever that is. I don’t suppose Duncan was even intending to come back to the house, but he’s got to now he’s agreed to bring them.

As I look properly at my sister, I can see she is quite exhausted, and when I press her she admits she hasn’t been sleeping well for some time.

Ah good – the caterers are already here and they’ve got everything set out – as promised. It all looks very clean and nice, with white tablecloths on trestle tables, some in the house and some in the garden, and there’s an appetising smell of sausages and coffee. Mother decides to stand by the front door greeting guests as they arrive, while I tell people where the loos are. I recognise nearly everyone; a few cousins down from Wales that I haven’t seen in a while, and a lot of Dad’s colleagues from the office. I’d better talk to them, and offer them some bridge rolls.

“What have you got here?” I turn round as Mother’s voice rings out in the hall. She is confronting a waitress who looks about fourteen, in a black and white uniform.

“Er… egg and cress, madam,” the child mutters. “I think.”

Mother lifts up the edge of one of the bridge rolls, and the plate wobbles in the girl’s hand. “Oh no, that won’t do. Won’t do at all. Egg, you say? All I can see is a thin scraping of something white… Pathetic. Where’s the smoked salmon?”

“I don’t know…” the poor girl stammers. “I don’t think there is any. Or maybe in the other room…”

Jay rushes up at once. “Oh come now, Mrs Griffiths! That’s not the way to speak to the young lady, is it?”

Mother stares at her.

“These people have all worked their butts off to provide a feast for you and your guests, and the least you can do is treat them with courtesy,” Jay says, with a reassuring smile at the waitress, which seems to include Mother. “I’ll have an egg and cress one – ooooh, my favourite! Thank you so much, dear; you’re doing a great job. Now come along with me, Mrs G, and we’ll see if there is any smoked salmon. I rather fancy there may be…”

Jay puts her arm around my poor, astonished mother’s shoulders and steers her firmly into the sitting room. There’s a look of what I can only call deep satisfaction on Jay’s face.

“Close your mouth, Jennifer – something might fly into it!” Duncan appears behind me, laughing, and I join in.

I think everyone’s got something to eat by now. What about the drinks? Is there enough sherry?

“Stop worrying, Jennifer!” Duncan is still beside me – actually he’s been a great help, directing people to the different tables in the garden, finding seats for the older visitors and fetching them drinks. He’s good with old ladies, I’ve discovered. “Everyone’s OK. Relax!”

There’s a sudden burst of laughter from the group next to us, and we turn to look. Sounds as if they are talking about this wretched moonwalk.

“When are they going to land, do you know?” someone says.

“Should be today – I can’t wait to see it!”

“No, nor me!”

“So dangerous – what if they miss?”

“Are they actually going to get out of their space craft and walk on the ground? I can’t imagine it!”

“Ah yes…” I notice Jay in the middle of this group. “That’s one small step for man, a giant leap for mankind.”

There is an astonished silence.

“Wow!”

“What did you say?”

“Hey, that’s rather good,” says Duncan. “Did you just make that up, Jay?”

She blushes and laughs. “No, no. I must have read it somewhere. In fact it ought to be one small step for a man, not man – to get the contrast with mankind – you see? But transmission is difficult, and anyway Neil Armstrong is overcome with awe, obviously.”

“Who’s Neil Armstrong?” someone asks.

I’ve no idea, either, but I think I’ve heard the name recently.

 

Mother has adjourned to the garden – how lucky we’ve been with the weather! She’s sitting on the bench, holding forth, and several guests relax on deckchairs around her. Dad’s roses are looking splendid, and are much admired. I love the smell of our garden in the summer. Max mowed the lawn yesterday, and it freshly mingles with the flowers.

You ought to be here showing the place off, Dad – why aren’t you?

“Your father was very proud of his garden, wasn’t he?” Duncan looks at me solemnly. “And it will live on, you know. Hang onto that, Jennifer.”

At the back of the garden, under the apple tree, the young woman who appeared with Jay is standing still and pointing something at the crowd. My brother Max is talking to her.

“Who is that, do you know, Duncan? She came in your car, didn’t she? I’ve never seen her before.”

“Nice young woman – she’s Jay’s daughter, apparently. She’s called Kate.”

“Look, she’s got one of those tiny things that Jay had – what on earth is it?”

“No idea. Let’s go and ask her.”

We make our way over, threading through the crowd.

“Kate has just been showing me,” Max says excitedly. “Look, it’s a camera!”

A camera? I don’t see how that would work. It’s far too small and flat, for one thing.

“I’m going to transfer these pictures to my laptop and email them to everyone,” Kate explains.

“You’re going to what…?” Duncan asks.

“My big brother Joey wants to put them in his blog.”

His what?

She flicks a few buttons on it and the most amazing pictures appear on a little screen: there’s Mother sitting on the garden bench, and then – another button – we make out a picture of the whole of the back of our house, looking rather fine, framed by trees on either side. You should see this, Dad!

“I must take one of you two,” Kate declares. Obviously she means me and my brother, but no – she seems to be looking straight at Duncan and me. Us? No one has ever photographed us together before. He puts his arm around my waist, which is rather a pleasant sensation I have to say, and he smiles into the little gadget Kate is holding up. She steps back and clicks several times.

There is a sudden commotion behind us as Mother lets out a great moan. “Oh, what is going to become of me, without my wonderful Evan!” An auntie pats her shoulder sympathetically.

“At least you’ve got your children,” says someone on a deckchair. I think they are trying to be helpful.

“Oh but they have got their own lives – they won’t want to bother with little me!”

Little?

“My son is frightfully clever, you know. And ambitious, of course. And my daughter is having a baby in a few weeks – she is totally wrapped up in that. She and her husband, they both are. Can’t talk about anything else.”

Some sympathetic nodding goes on. “Only natural, isn’t it?” someone says.

“But at least there’s Jennifer. She does have a job, but she’s only a primary school teacher. She will be leaving her flat and coming back to live with me now that Evan is gone. I think that would be the best thing. It will save her money – she can hardly afford her flat, and you should see it – it’s tiny! She’ll be glad to give it up.”

Jay sits up. “Oh now come on, Mrs Griffiths – you don’t mean that, do you? Jennifer needs her independence just as much as Max and Susan do. She’s got her own plans for life…”

“But I wouldn’t interfere! I never interfere with any of my children…” says Mother, flustered.

That is a matter of opinion.

“Ah but you do, you know! Mrs G, you have never been shy of putting forward your own views on everyone else’s lives, have you?”

Mother considers this. “Well, I’m certainly not one of those wishy-washy English women who can never pass a judgment on anything!”

Jay laughs. “No, indeed you’re not!” She puts her hand lightly on Mother’s arm. “But you see, you don’t always allow other people to breathe. To think for themselves. You are convinced you know the best for people. You have to step back a bit. Try not to suck the life out of them.”

Mother glares at her, speechless for once. It’s not like Mother to take this lying down; what is going on?

“Look, it’ll be alright – believe me, Mrs Griffiths,” says Jay. “You have far more inner strength than you realise...”

 

People are starting to leave at last, and Duncan is fetching coats. But I haven’t seen my sister for some time, and Drippy Tim is looking for her anxiously.

“She went upstairs to the loo,” he tells me. “But that was ages ago.”

“Don’t worry, Tim – I’ll go and check,” I say.

I run into Jay at the top of the stairs.

“Ah, there you are, Jennifer – Susan needs to get to hospital. Now!”

“What? Why? She’s not due for six weeks…” I am confused.

She smiles. “They have their own ideas of when they are ready to come, these babies! Her waters have just broken. She needs to get there quite soon. Can you find Tim? Best if we call them a taxi. You can take care of their car, if they leave it here, can’t you?”

I’m struggling to take all of this in.

“Oh, and Jennifer…” she adds as I turn to go downstairs. “Don’t keep calling him Drippy Tim! He’s got hidden depths, I tell you. He’s not at all drippy – as you will surely find out!”

Look I know I’ve always thought of him as Drippy Tim, ever since my poor gullible sister married him, but I have never ever uttered that phrase out loud. I swear I haven’t. Is she reading my thoughts, or what?

After that, everything is confused. Non-Drippy Tim phones for a taxi and hands his car keys over to me. Mother has the situation explained to her and decides that it isn’t worth her while to panic because no one would take any notice. My sister comes downstairs, looking pale but somehow radiant at the same time: I’ve never seen her like this before. I am quite envious.

They’re off! We watch the taxi sweep down the road and turn the corner out of sight.

“They’ll be OK, don’t worry, Jennifer!” Jay is standing by my side in the street. “And before the end of the day you’ll be the auntie of a fine…” She hesitates. “Let’s just say, a beautiful baby.”

Oh my goodness. I guess she’s right. I’m going to be an auntie!

“And as for Duncan…” Jay goes on.

“What about him?”

“Nothing… Just, I suppose you do realise he’s in love with you?”

I stare at her.

I don’t know what to say.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have said that,” Jay adds. “But I think you knew anyway, didn’t you, Jennifer?”

I take a deep breath.

“And now Kate and I must be off too,” says Jay briskly. “Where’s she got to?”

“Will I see you again?”

She looks at me silently for a moment. “I don’t know, Jennifer. Maybe. But probably not.”

Kate comes rushing up at that point. “Mum, are you sure we mustn’t tell them to bet on Obama?”

Who?

“No, we’ve been through all this, Kate. You know perfectly well it wouldn’t work!”

Kate shrugs her shoulders.

“Have you come a long way?” I ask them.

She smiles. “Yes, you could say that.”

On a sudden impulse I lean forwards and plant a kiss on her cheek.

She smiles and grips my shoulders. “Take care, Jennifer!”

*

“Oh, have they gone already? What a pity, I wanted to say goodbye…” Duncan has been busy tidying up the chairs in the back garden. “Interesting woman, that Jay. I’d like to have talked to her more. How did you say she’s related to you, exactly?”

“I’m not sure, to be honest. She felt very close, somehow. But I’ve never seen her before in my life, as far as I can remember.”

He looks at me. “Yes that’s exactly how I felt! She was very close, but I’ve no idea why.”

Then he smiles, and touches my arm lightly. “Jennifer… You’ve done incredibly well, today. You must have been dreading it.”

Now he’s reading my mind too, the way Jay’s been doing all day! Weird.

“Would you… I wonder, would you let me take you out for a meal? Soon?”

“Oh! Well yes… That would be nice. Thank you, Duncan.”

He gives me a great, big grin now, and takes my hand in his as we turn and walk back to the house.

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about the author

Leela Dutt is an outsider, brought up in Golders Green by an Indian father and a Danish mother. From grammar school she read history at Oxford and briefly became a teacher. Later she sold dress fabrics, wrote for a local paper and then set up and ran a database on housing research at Cardiff University before becoming a proof-reader and review writer for the Big Issue Cymru.

 She took a computing degree, beginning when her oldest child went to university herself, and recently Leela has set up the website attfieldduttbooks.co.uk

She’s married to the philosopher Robin Attfield and lives in Cardiff.  They are both Quakers, and have three children, seven grandchildren (of whom six survive) and one great-granddaughter.  Years ago they took their young family to live for a year in Nigeria, a formative experience for them both.  Since then they have travelled widely over the world - cheerfully, most of the time, as George Fox would hope.  Travel inspires much of Leela’s fiction, particularly her novel Only a Signal Shown in which the heroine travels to many places that Leela has visited, including her father’s ancient home in Kolkata which has been in the Dutt family for three centuries

 

 

 

 

Retirement is by Judith Skilleter

Retirement is….

Renee is recently retired and so far she is finding that it is the minutiae of the day, things that have been long neglected or ignored, that are occupying her newly arrived free time.

For example her bed is made every day. In the past it had been left unmade and the duvet dragged back at bedtime. Nowadays, the bed is made perfectly and if she used flat instead of fitted sheets the hospital corners would be as sharp as a pin. Pillows are plumped up and the bedside tables tidied and possibly dusted — all of which had been totally neglected when she was working.

In addition, after every meal the placemats are wiped down and put back in their boxes which are then put back in the dresser drawer. When she was working the placemats stayed on the table for weeks on end — and not very tidily, they were scatted about all higgledy-piggeldy and pulled under a hot plate when needed at mealtimes.  Of course with the placemats in boxes in the dresser, the table gets a wipe down every day and is covered with a tablecloth with a centrally placed bowl of fruit or a vase of flowers.

Then there is the dirty washing. These days Renee cannot abide dirty washing left for days in the washing basket. So dirty washing is moved daily from the washing basket to the washing machine where it sits behind a closed door for further dirty washing in subsequent days. This is more satisfying when all of the washing makes up a mixed wash but sometimes when a white or coloureds wash is required some items of washing have to be returned to the washing basket. Renee does not like this and worries until the washing basket can be emptied.

Dishwashing has changed since Renee’s retirement. In those earlier working days the dishwasher was slowly, over a few days, filled with dirty plates and cups. Renee and Ted, her husband, had a big dishwasher and sometimes the washer was in use only once a week. 

Of course, after retirement, Renee hated the sight of dirty dishes piling up in the machine. She hated seeing the left-over food harden on the plate and so she started handwashing the dishes, the old fashioned way in the sink with washing up liquid and a sponge. The dishes are then dried and put away. As for the dishwasher itself it is cleaned thoroughly and the door firmly closed until the next time it is used, properly used. This is usually a big family gathering.

Their shopping routine changed. For some time they had had their weekly shop delivered and that was fine when both Renee and Ted were working. But when it was just Renee earning a crust and Ted had no interest at all in taking up the shopping responsibilities when he retired so the deliveries continued – until Renee retired. She found that she couldn’t wait for things to arrive if there was a particular recipe she wanted to try or if she ran out of cleaning products. Renee found that she was shopping more than she ever anticipated as well as having their regular delivery and their shopping bills went through the roof. So the deliveries stopped. 

Curtains are opened before bedtime and newspapers and magazines are tidied up at bedtime so the house is ready to welcome Renee and Ted at its very best the next morning.

Renee and Ted have a cleaning lady who has her routines, she knows what to do, and who has worked for them for years. Renee now makes sure the house is spic and span before Eileen arrives for her twice a week cleaning session. It is the same in the garden which Renee tidies up, leaving the heavy duty jobs to their gardener, resulting the gardener having to do less to earn his exorbitant charges.

Ted, her husband, is largely unaware of all this. 

Renee smiles and wishes him a good day when he disappears after breakfast to golf or to carpet bowls or to crown green bowls or to walking football. And we must not forget the darts league in the local pub every Thursday night and online chess two afternoons a week in the local library. Ted loves retirement and has done so since day one five years ago.

Birthday presents are now bought and wrapped well in advance of birthdays and are stacked neatly in the study. This is a new venture; for years the children and grandchildren have been given money - which sometime arrived after the actual birthday.

This way of life could not go on forever. 

After a few months, Renee was finding that she hated attending to the minutiae. Renee was finding the she resented having to spend so much time on things that really did not need to be done and she was jealous of the fun that Ted seemed to be having in the great outdoors.

Nine months after Renee’s final day at work, and after much thought and consideration, things were different. The table mats were in a mess on the dining table and remained so, the bed remained unmade and the dishwasher was once again in use, albeit only twice weekly. 

As for Renee, she volunteers at a local charity shop two mornings a week sorting out donations as well as working on the till. Two afternoons a week were spent at the local primary school helping the schoolchildren to improve their reading. This was Renee’s favourite job; she loved the youngsters and wished she has retired earlier so she could have spent more time with her grandchildren who were now too old to need babysitting or reading help.

She and Ted have a day out together every week. They might go out for a meal, they might go on a bus trip somewhere but the point was that they spent at least one day together. Ted was OK about this as he had worried about the increasingly regimented nature of their housekeeping tasks and didn’t like it one bit. He had felt he couldn’t relax with this new regime. If he moved he was immediately tidied up.

And together, one evening a week, Ted and Renee went to ballroom dancing classes. This was something they both loved because it was how they met all those years ago – at a dance hall. They did rock and roll and the twist in those earlier days but they found that the waltz and the fox trot and the polka were just as much fun, especially as their elderly bodies had lost the athleticism of years gone by.

As for the gardener and cleaner, the former was miffed that he was once again on tidying-up duties such as dead heading the roses and collecting dead leaves as well as the heavy stuff. He was once again earning his crust. The same applied to the cleaner who was delighted that things were back to normal as she had been afraid that she would be let go as her tasks continued to be reduced in number and taken over by her boss. 

Also shopping deliveries were restarted – there was so much going on in Renee’s life that there was no time for shopping.

Renee thought about this change in her daily activities. She thought about the change in her attitude towards retirement. She realised that all this free time was not as scary as she once thought. If truth be told she was enjoying life in a way she had never done before. She loved the freedom to choose what she wanted to do instead of meeting the needs of a large organisation in whatever guise her employment demanded. Life was good.

Judith 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 45 years ago and is married with 4 grandchildren.

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The Pilgrim by Lynne Crook

The man arrived in the evening, trudging up the stone paved streets of Mont-Saint-Michel to l’Auberge.  He had entered the kitchen like the Pope, about to deliver a blessing. That night, they were overwhelmed with visitors, supplicants making the long journey to come and pray at the Abbey. 

A number of them turned their heads in recognition as he entered. The head chef at Maxim’s, he had collected many admirers across the city. Not so many years ago, his name had been the first to be spoken in hushed tones among the gastronomic elite. Now, however, the whispers were of new dishes outside of Paris. He had determined that these culinary follies would be laid bare to him.

The time had therefore come to seek an audience with the originator of the famous Omelette de la Mère Poulard. Here he duly was, but found himself placed second to the demands of the dining room. His desire made him impatient to study to learn her methods, straining for a view of the copper pan over the open fire. But he came too close, distracting Mère Poulard from the crucial, final flip of the omelette. The dish threatened to fall to the floor. She rounded on him. One more transgression, and he would be banished. 

He could not countenance this, being dismissed like a lazy sous-chef. He spent the rest of the evening on the lightest of tip-toes, observing from the shadows. This most sincere repentance seemed to placate the woman. The promise that he would cook with her had come like a benediction.

So, the next morning, as his fellow travellers wound their way up the hill to morning matins, he had made his own journey. While the church collection plate rang with coins, his tribute consisted of a dozen eggs. The sermons he listened to were as enigmatic as the epistles recited at the Abbey. The flick of the wrist had to be ‘just so’, but how ‘just so’? The eggs were to be fresh, but not too fresh. 

His questions now became supplications, an entreaty for knowledge beyond the common man.

"Do you only ever use the salted butter?"

The heat from the fire was too much for him, and his face was red with the exertion of beating the eggs to the exact level of sunny frothiness required. Mère Poulard remained inscrutable. It was twenty minutes before she instructed him to introduce the mixture to the pan. 

The copper pan bubbled as the eggs were poured into the golden fat. His heart lightened as they rose and browned. A large fork was brought in to aid in the turning manoeuvre. The world stilled as the omelette began to leave its resting place. Alas, this proved to be his undoing. The whole endeavour split and seemed to sigh as it collapsed. His pilgrimage ended with an omelette that offered only ashes to the mouth. 

Looking at the disappointment in his eyes, she showed some mercy. Face as inscrutable as the Madonna, Mère Poulard took a bite from the sad offering on the plate. After a short silence for the fallen, she said, ‘I think, perhaps, you were looking for a secret?’

He nodded, searching her face for meaning, as a cloistered monk would sift for meaning among the words of a holy text.

‘Ah, but there are only eggs.’

Lynne Crook is a writer of fiction inspired by history, folklore and the landscapes that surrounds her characters. Her work explores themes of belonging, tradition and the search for meaning in everyday life. She is currently writing a novel and short fiction, with a particular interest in place-based storytelling.

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Match Day by Diane Neilson, Can of Vimto

A real-life story based on my first experience of a rugby league game in September 1978

I had waited so long!

Years of watching my dad and uncle, nan and grandad disappear every Sunday afternoon—climbing into my grandad's old Triumph and driving down the road, scarves trailing from the rear windows, taunting me.

I used to stand miserably, with my chin on the window ledge, refusing to move until the car was out of sight, the last of the exhaust fumes carried away on the wind. Until my mum dragged me away with the luke-warm promise of an exciting afternoon; a trip to the park or a new comic from the shop. On any other day I'd have been thrilled, but not on match day. 

I had asked my dad loads of times if I could go with them, but the answer was always the same, 'It’s no place for kids, you can come when you're older'.

Well now I was older - eleven to be exact - and the new season was about to start. My dad had bought me a season ticket for my birthday in June and a bubbling excitement had taken hold immediately, growing like a grumbling volcano or a dam about to burst, until it was finally match-day and I couldn't keep still; hopping from one foot to the other and mithering the living daylights out of my dad until he threatened to leave me at home if I didn't pack it in. 

I couldn't stop, so I spent the next couple of hours throwing a ball round in the street to burn off the energy of my anticipation. 

Who could blame me? It was the first home match of the season, and ahead lay the wonderful promise of Sunday road-trips, and maybe a thrilling Wembley encounter and eventual silverware. I always assumed we would win (still do), and only three days previous we had beat Huddersfield away in the first game of the season, proving me right - in my eyes at least. 

I had seen matches on TV, of course, but somehow I knew it would be so much better in real life. I couldn't wait to be part of the Sunday gang and had mapped out every second so many times: piling into the car, decked out in hats and scarves; the billowing roar of the crowd; the highs and lows—riding a wave of emotion as the game progressed; a can of Vimto and a Pimblett's pie at half-time, followed by the KitKat in my pocket. 

I could even imagine the inevitable debate on the way home as my dad and grandad gave the game a thorough post-mortem.  My dad parked half a mile away (‘for a quick getaway later’, he said) and as we approached the ground on foot I could sense the tension in the air.

We queued up at the home end, my dad gripping the collar of my jacket, until it was finally our turn to pass through the turnstile. Once inside, the noise doubled. 

The crowd were singing their anthems and goading the opposition fans with well-practised chants. Someone was banging rhythmically on the corrugated iron fencing at the back of the stand, and a relentless indecipherable chatter assaulted my ears: the banter of men, chatter of women, laughter of giddy boys and girls weaving between their parents’ legs playing tag, smaller kids on their dad's shoulders, and over it all, a stream of names being read out over the tannoy. 

Every so often there would be a loud cheer as one of our star players was named, and then a long hollow booing at the names of the opposition. Me and my dad squeezed into a space behind one of the rattling wooden barriers and I jiggled around, perching on my dad’s steel-capped boots, until I could see a patch of green turf between the people in front and the goal posts rising like giant H's above a sea of red and white.

A deafening roar crashed like a wave as the players emerged from the tunnel, and I was suddenly overwhelmed by the smell of wintergreen mingled with freshly cut grass and warm beer. My eyes stung and my stomach rolled, while the chanting of soon-to-be familiar names rang in my ears followed by a sudden, shrill whistle - they were off.

Unless you have been to a rugby match it's hard to imagine the brutality. As the whistle pierced the early autumn air, twenty-six pairs of boots thundered across the emerald field towards each other, whilst thousands roared with pure delight. For eighty minutes, bodies collided like crashing waves as shoulder met shoulder, the crowd gasping then roaring after each crushing hit. Mud and sweat became a second skin and ragged breaths were taken between tackles, a storm of bodies with steaming nostrils and burning muscles, their boots carving up the hallowed turf in a relentless tide of collisions.

Amid the battle, moments of sheer elegance: the full back sliced through the line like a blade through silk, skipping beyond the last line of defence to score beneath the posts. In response, the opposition scrum-half accelerated like lightening, leaving defenders clutching at shadows. At half time it was five all.

With only minutes remaining, the deciding try unfolded like a masterpiece. The crowd held its breath and time seemed to stand still as our star player took control; In a game of force, he answered with finesse as the ball became an extension of his hands, his feet gracefully painting a path across the field, the roar of the crowd rising as the white line welcomed him home. Agony and ecstasy experienced simultaneously, the home crowd erupting into joyous raptures as the visitors held their heads in their hands in disbelief. 

The home crowd spilled onto the pitch as the full-time siren sounded, players and supporters celebrating as one, as the defeated opposition melted away down the tunnel.

We were giants. Triumphant. Unbeatable, for now, and the short journey home was everything I thought it would be as we celebrated a battle hard won; as though we had fought it ourselves.

It would not always feel like this. There would be losses to balance the wins; highs and lows are part of the ebb and flow of sport, after all. But for now, I was elated: part of the story and part of a community—the start of a love affair that would last my whole life and create memories to cherish forever. I was hooked.

Diane is a new writer and her aim is to entertain and inform. She lives in the UK and likes experiments with a range of genres including poetry and short stories. She has released five books, and has had several short stories published by Cafelit.

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