Saturday Sample: Th basilwade Chronicles by Dawn knox,cola,

 

A Question of Timing

It was all about timing, Derek decided.

Although arguably, it could be said to be all about time. And that was a commodity that Derek had very little of.

That wasn’t quite true, of course, he had as much time as the next man but there was only a certain amount of it that he was willing to sacrifice in order to find a wife.

So, when he’d seen the advert for speed dating, he’d been rather excited although he’d been less enthusiastic when he realised it didn’t refer to dates that were concluded so rapidly he had time to catch the last bus home. It was disappointing to learn exactly what speed dating was but hardly surprising really. After all, how many women would settle for a packet of chips, a quick cuddle and if she was lucky, a kiss?

He knew exactly how many women wouldn’t settle for that.

From experience.

He’d always offered to pay their bus fare home. But some women were so unreasonable. Fancy expecting him to go with them! It just wasn’t logical for him to take a woman out, escort her back to her house and then find his way home. It got to be quite pricey too. And don’t get him started on the length of time the whole thing would take.

He turned the page of the newspaper and was about to forget the advert when he had second thoughts. What did he have to lose? After all, if it got too late, he could simply walk out and go home. All before the last bus.   

 

Derek arrived in the church hall half an hour early, as suggested by the information leaflet he’d received after registering. He ran his finger round the inside of his shirt collar. It was too tight, but by the time he’d realised it earlier this evening, there’d been no time to do anything about it. The top button was undone and his tie pushed up as high as his Adam’s Apple would allow. It would have to do.

He looked at his check list. Item one: Mingle and talk to people. Well, that was easier said than done. Women were either chatting in groups or not making eye contact with him.

Item two: Smile.

He smiled. After several minutes, women who’d failed to meet his gaze, now stepped sideways away from him.

Probably gone to the Ladies, he thought, probably nerves. It might be an idea to visit the Gents himself.

When he emerged, one of the women who’d previously avoided eye contact, now couldn’t take her eyes off him. He smiled at her. She was obviously checking him out although when her glance flicked up to his smiling face, her expression froze and immediately she looked down. She swallowed; her eyes closing and bulging open with the effort, then walked towards him.

You’ve still got it, Derek, old chap! He thought. She sidled up and as she leaned confidentially towards him, he noticed she was jabbing the air with her forefinger, pointing at his trouser zip.

“Wardrobe malfunction in the privates,” she whispered from behind her other hand, and glided away.

“Derek Carruthers,” he said holding out his hand, “and you are?”

“Lydia Allen.” Her eyes flicked down to check his flies.

He sat down quickly and under the table, he probed the zip to ensure it was still firmly in place.

“I hope you don’t mind me… You know… pointing out…” she stabbed the air with her finger which was aimed through the table at where she thought his crotch might be.

He squirmed

“Yes, oh yes, thank you. It could have been embarrassing.”

Silence.

Item three: Ask each partner about themselves.

“So, Lydia, tell me about yourself.”

“Well, there’s not much to tell really…”

“Okay, well I’ll tell you about me then.”

There was a lot to tell and it was important to get things in chronological order.

Lydia checked her watch, “One minute to go,” she said.

“Goodness, nine minutes went fast! And I’d only got up to when I won the interdepartmental darts tournament in 1998. Oh well.”

“Don’t forget your match card and pencil,” she said pushing them towards Derek, “Ten seconds, nine seconds…”

“Well, thank you very much,” said Derek holding out his hand, “and better luck with the next man.” He placed a cross next to her name and moved to the adjacent table.

 

“Derek Carruthers,” he said holding out his hand, “and you are?”

“Susie Patterson, pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise. Well, I hope you’re a bit more interesting than the last lady. She didn’t have much to say for herself. Dull as ditch water.”

“Really? Normally you can’t shut her up.”

“You know her?”

“Lydia’s my sister.”

 

“Derek Carruthers,” he said holding out his hand, “and you are?”

“Maisie Ferguson, it’s nice to meet you, Derek.”

“You too, Maisie. You’re not related to… her? Are you?” he asked nodding at Susie.

“No, who’s she?”

“Never mind. Well, tell me about yourself.”

“Um, where to start?”

“Let me guess what you do for a living.”

“O…okay.”

“Now, let me see. I bet you have a food-related job. Cook or something like that.”

“No. I work in a dry-cleaners. What made you think I worked with food?”

She looked alarmed, “Do I smell of food? Is that it?”

“No, not at all. I can smell something like tuna but I don’t think it’s you.”

“So?”

“Well, you never see a skinny cook, do you?”

“I see.” Her shoulders sagged.

“Out of interest, what’s your opinion on just having a bag of chips for dinner?”

“I tend to keep away from chips,” she said, “they’re very fatty.”

“Don’t tell me you’re on a diet!”

“Well yes, as a matter of fact…”

“Oh, you don’t need to diet.”

“I don’t?” She smiled.

“Oh no. I always think once you’ve reached a critical weight, there’s no point dieting. You might as well just give up and enjoy it. Once you’re obese, it’s too hard to lose those inches, isn’t it? Mind you,” he said confidentially, “deciding when you’ve reached that weight is the crucial thing. I’d say I’ve got about another stone to go…” he grabbed the flab round his waist with both hands and jiggled it, “… and then I might as well give up being careful with what I eat. It’ll all be downhill from there but who cares eh? It’s compensation for getting old, isn’t it? I mean why make your life miserable in your autumn years? Scoff what you like and hang the fat, I say.”

“Derek Carruthers,” he said holding out his hand, “and you are?”

“Dottie Regan. Hi, how are you?”

“Well…”

“You don’t sound very sure, Derek.”

“Well, it’s just that all the women I’ve met so far seem very prickly. I’m beginning to wonder if I shouldn’t just give up. I haven’t ticked anyone on my match card yet and I’m nearly at the last table. I’m beginning to get desperate.”

“I see, well perhaps your expectations are too high. What exactly are you looking for in a lady friend?”

“Hmm, well I suppose someone who’s not the size of a Zeppelin like number five, and preferably a woman without a moustache like number seven. I don’t think it was totally inappropriate to enquire whether she was one of those transgender people. I mean I’m liberal and I really wouldn’t mind, but it’s important to know which bits of equipment she or he comes with. Don’t you think? It didn’t seem too much to ask. Number eight said I looked like a stalker and asked me to stop smiling at her. I ask you! That’s item two on the list! It says smile. So, I keep smiling…”

“Perhaps vary it a little,” said Dot, surveying him with her head on one side, “Such a fixed smile is actually rather creepy, if you want my opinion. Move your mouth about a bit.”

“Like this?”

“Hmm, perhaps not quite so mobile. Think more Cary Grant… and less guppy.”

Derek placed a large cross next to Dot’s name and stood up.

“Derek Carruthers,” he said holding out his hand, “and you are?”

“Mary Wilson.” She checked her watch and stood up, “Nice to meet you, Derek Carruthers, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to go. Sorry.”

“That’s fine,” he said, “I wasn’t going to tick you anyway. I’m not partial to ginger-haired women.”

“You’re not my type either. What a waste of time, eh? I didn’t find anyone,” said Mary.

“I’m not surprised.”

“What d’you mean you’re not surprised?”

Derek looked her up and down, “Well, you’re not exactly ̶ “

“Sorry, must dash,” she said putting her coat on, “I’d love to stay and chat but if I don’t hurry, I’ll miss the bus.”

“Wait for me,” said Derek, I’ll walk you to the bus stop.”

Find your copy here  

About the author

 

 Dawn’s first success was with a short horror story published in a charity anthology entitled Shrouded by Darkness in 2006. Several years later, she had a Young Adult book (Daf-fodil and the Thin Place) and a single author anthology of speculative fiction stories (Extraordinary), published as well as several historical romances, set mainly during and between the two world wars. She has written two plays about the First World War, one of which commemorated the beginning of the war and was first performed in England in 2014 and then in France and Germany. The other play commemorated the end of the war and was performed in England in 2018 and in Germany 2019. Using her World War One research, she has also writ-ten a book entitled The Great War – One Hundred Stories of One Hundred Words Honouring Those Who Lived and Died One Hundred Years Ago. - Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the author the other half goes to expenses e.g. Maintaining the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

Flat Tire Hissing by Steve Gerson,Whiskey Sour

Flat Tire Hissing

Every time he left home for work, driving his beat-up Toyota, 239,016 odometer miles, exhaust belching like Lucifer in Dante’s 8th circle of Hell, the corroded bumper barely hanging on with frayed duct tape, he felt like he was entering a black hole of no return.  His soul was sucked out and turned to ashes like a cigarette butt picked up off the street and smoked to a burnt nub.  

His windshield was cracked. It looked like the varicose veins of a diabetic. It looked like a labyrinth of roads designed by a dipsomaniac engineer. It looked like an alluvial stream scarred by sea churn detritus. It looked like his psyche.  

His tires were bald, the treads worn out, worn down, weary.  The car's finish was as splotched as
over ripe fruit, rotten to inedible, ready for a dumpster.  

And here he was, driving to a job he despised working alongside people who despised him.  

"Have a great day," his mom said, as he slammed her front door, he an unwanted tenant in her home since his ex-wife had thrown him out like broken eggshells.  

"Black hole, here I come," he moaned quietly to himself, his voice a flat tire hissing.

About the author

 

 Steve Gerson writes poetry and flash about life's dissonance. He has published in many journals plus his 11 chapbooks: Once Planed Straight; Viral; And the Land Dreams Darkly; The 13th Floor; What Is Isn’t; There Is a Season; Have Not; Who Am I Today; Dystopia; Grim; and Through Shadows 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the author the other half goes to expenses e.g. Maintaining the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

The Bathing Machineby Sally Storr, homemade lemonade

The Bathing Machine

I’ve got a nasty skin complaint. It’s really embarrassing.  It’s red and itchy.  I’ve tried everything: camphor oil; infusion of rosemary, elder leaves; lavender.  Some of them soothe, but nothing works for long – the nasty rash keeps coming back.  Fortunately, it’s not really visible, because the long sleeves and high neck of my dress cover the worst patches, but sometimes the burning prickle is so bad I want to pull my own eyes out.  Mother says I’ve got to try sea bathing.  It’s all the fashion, so we’re booked to go to Wells-next-the Sea next Monday, as it’s a Bank Holiday.  It’ll be a lovely day out at the seaside, Mother says, and I’ll come back with no itchiness.  I can’t wait.

The train journey from Fakenham is long and bumpy. It’s full of perspiring, excited people with baskets full of picnics.  It’s so noisy I don’t even try to speak.  Once we arrive at Wells, we have to queue up and take a carriage alongside the harbour to the beach.  I can smell the saltiness of the sea.  It’s a wonderful bluey green, and keeps changing colour as the big and small waves play on top of it, white foam coating them, jostling and bustling in and out towards and away from the shore.  I feel a bit scared.  I’ve never been in the sea.  Mother reassures me it will be fine.  She pats my knee and tells me what’s in her basket for our lunch after the dip: some cold lamb, leftover from lunch yesterday, a veal and ham pie, pound cake and apples, with some homemade lemonade.  Just thinking about it makes my mouth water and my tummy rumble. 

‘Something to look forward to after your swim,’ says Mother. 

But I can’t swim. 

We queue again at the top of the beach for a token for one of the bathing machines. They look like little wooden huts with wheels on them. There’s a whole row of them, about fifty at the top of the beach, ready for use, and another twenty are already down in the water, the horses having pulled them in.  You can’t see behind the huts, but Mother tells me every lady is allocated a Bathing Machine.  When she’s dressed and ready to swim, an assistant, called a Dipper, helps you into the water and you can stay as long as you like.  I’m getting quite hot standing in the queue but it’s only a few minutes before we get to the front and pay our three pence.

‘Number Two, up the end there. You’ll find your bathing costume inside,’ says the cashier.  It’s hard walking in the muddy sand.  It’s quite windy and the waves are still coming and going at quite a rate.

‘It’s alright, my dear.  Just think how lovely you’ll feel after your dip,’ says Mother.  She waves goodbye and leaves me at the entrance to Number Two.

‘Aren’t you coming, Mother?’

Mother shakes her head vigorously. ‘We can’t afford for us both to go, my dear.’ 

The Bathing Machine is constructed from dark wooden panels. There’s a door to go in at one end, and a door to get into the water at the other end. There are no windows, just a little spy hole at eye height, where you can look out and check there’s nobody about. It’s sparsely furnished with a couple of stools, a long length mirror and a dresser, where there’s a pile of flannel navy garments. The Dipper doesn’t say much, but indicates I should sit on a stool.  Then she helps me take off all my layers of clothing.  I feel nice and cool for a moment sitting just in my chemise, before I put on my bathing costume.  I can’t believe how much I have to wear.  There are voluminous bloomers, a corset, a long, baggy gown with buttons down the front, long sleeves and a high neck, almost as much as I’ve just taken off.

‘You’ve got to be modest, young lady,’ says the Dipper.  ‘Your Bathing Machine will be a least one hundred yards from the men, just in case they see you.’

I gulp.  I’m already feeling over-heated and flustered.

‘No worries.  You’ll soon cool down once you get in.  I’m going to open the door for you to go down a few wooden steps into the water.  I’ll make sure you don’t fall over if a wave comes along.  Are you ready?’

I nod.  I wish I hadn’t come.  This is no treat.  No wonder Mother didn’t come with me.  I take a deep breath as the door swings open and I can see the water below.  It looks calm enough.  I step tentatively down the first stair. I’m up to my ankles in the sea. The water’s freezing.  I scream.

‘Here you go,’ shouts the Dipper as she pushes me down the remaining steps.  My head goes under and I’m drawn down into the icy turbulent water. In shock, I suck my breath in so quickly that my nose and mouth immediately fill with the strong, saline liquid.  I flail about with my arms and desperately try to find the sea bed with my feet, but just keep going under.  My clothes are so heavy they pull me back every time I come up and take a breath.  I’m going to die.  I’m going to die.  I’m all alone and nobody cares.  Mother must have wanted to kill me.  My eyes are full of stinging, salty water so I can’t even see where I am.  I can only feel the angry water tossing me about.  It’s all over.  I’m drowning. 

‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ The Dipper roughly pulls me up to standing by my arms and the water reaches up to my armpits. I can see the horizon.  The sky is still there. I’m alive.  My clothing is still tugging me down, but the woman is strong and she shoves my whole body back towards the Bathing Machine.  I burst into tears.  She steers me up the steps, back into the Bathing Machine.  I can’t stop crying, as she strips off my bathing costume and towels me roughly dry.

‘Don’t be such a baby,’ she shouts.  ‘You’d better not let your mother see you crying.’

I’m shaking as I leave the Bathing Machine.  What a horrible experience.  Never again.  I don’t even want my picnic.  But my skin has stopped itching. 

(1,070 words)

About the author 

 

Sally Storr recently retired from her work as a coach at The Open University. She has always been equally fascinated by human behaviour and by figures from literature. She’s been writing all her life but especially enjoys writing about quirky things that happen to ordinary people like herself. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the author the other half goes to expenses e.g. Maintaining the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

A visit from Samuel By Jane Spirit tea and ginger cake

 

No, it hasn’t been a good day, to be honest, Samuel. I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a bad time. You won’t mind me if I’m a bit quiet, will you? Yes, of course, you can stay. You’re always welcome here, you know that. Put the kettle on if you want a drink. Just help yourself.

Yes, OK, I’ll have a cup of tea too. Thanks for that. Just put it down here on the table. Whoops, let me make some space. There you go. Have a seat for a bit. Sorry I was a bit down just now. I know I shouldn’t let it get to me when one of the residents dies. It’s hardly unexpected after all. It’s hard to explain, but I guess it’s a bit like having children. You always want to keep them safe, and you try to see the good in them. Well, if not the good, at least some unique spark that marks them out. Getting old doesn’t change that, though it sometimes makes it harder to understand and maybe make the resident light up from time to time. It’s hard work, finding a way through their silences or listening patiently to them repeating a phrase endlessly. And even then, how well can you really get to know someone whose had nearly a lifetime of experience. Even so it always seems odd to come into what was their space and see just an empty bed, the chair they liked to sit in, and the few belongings ready for the family to collect already stashed on the bedside table. Sadness always catches me in my throat. Then I make myself carry on, for the others you see. They need getting up, washing, dressing, brushing and combing too so I just keep moving.

Great tea, thanks. Help yourself to some of that ginger cake auntie left if you want some. It’s in the kitchen; silver tin. Yes, you’re right, I should probably eat something. Maybe cut us both a piece? Thanks. And sorry for talking at you about my problems. I’ll be fine now and I’m sure my favourite nephew hasn’t popped by just to listen to me going on? I thought not. OK, of course you can look through my photos again if you want to. Over there on the bottom shelf. Yes, those big albums. Is that why you’ve popped by after school? Your mum mentioned you were thinking of taking photography at college. That will make two photographers in the family, she said. Made me smile. Only thing is, Samuel, I think your mum may have bigged me up a bit too much to you and your sister. I think it must be a little sister, big brother thing. You wait, Samuel, you’ll feel the same way when Sasha looks up to you just for being at college. You’re laughing now, but you’ll be amazed when it happens!

Hey, what do you think of the playground pictures in my portfolio? I had a lot to learn when I took those of course; like how to take a decent picture ha-ha! I’m glad I’ve made you smile now too. Can you find yourself in any of them? Yes, look, there you are in the kiddies’ play area near the flats. You know I still like those old black and white prints a lot. Stark and simple with the geometric lines of the climbing frame towering over you and your friends. Now look at you, taller than me and doing so well. Sorry to be the boring uncle, amazed that you’re almost grown up. Look, I don’t want to put you off, Samuel, but don’t get carried away with it will you? I’m never going to make it as a photographer, you know. I do okay out of the weddings if I can get them, but look at me, I’m still working at the care home. I’m never going to be famous like I wanted to be when I was your age. Even so, I can’t lie to you. There is something exciting about finding you’ve taken a decent picture. When you look at it and maybe let yourself believe that for once you got it almost right. I’d like to have had more of that, Samuel, made a habit of it, even a lifetime of it; standing back to witness the world with an eye to what my next picture would reveal.

Can I show you another photograph now, if you’ve got time? It’s tucked at the far end of the top shelf. Yes, that’s it. I’d like you to see it. Just between you and me, I haven’t said too much to your mum about it, in case she goes boasting to everyone about me being in it. I’m still a bit shy I suppose.

Oh yes, the photographer who took it won lots of prizes. You can tell he knows just how to set up a picture, can’t you? He sent me that copy as a thank you for being included in that picture when he came to take some portraits in the care home. This one made his next exhibition. Not that many people at work were interested and I don’t think management were thrilled with how it showed the place. The rooms have had a makeover since then; out with the comforting chintzy wallpaper and in with clean emulsions and luminous feature walls.

Yes, that’s right, it was taken on the floor I still work on. It was George’s room at the time. And you see that out of focus hand top left, just above George’s head? Well, that’s mine bringing the comb towards George’s head to tidy his hair a little. I think my blurry hand is only in it to give an impression of some action, as a contrast to George. He’s the centre of attention; an old man sitting upright on a simple wooden chair with the floral-patterned wall behind him. His eyes are almost closed, do you see? That’s nothing the photographer asked him to do. It was just what he did when I tidied his hair. It was as if he was shielding his eyes from the stray hairs that might fall loose. Or maybe he was remembering the gentle rhythm of his mother combing his hair now that it was light and soft as a baby’s again. Or perhaps he was dreaming for a moment of some long-ago lover who had teased their fingers through his once abundant locks. He seemed to like being groomed in any case. And he always welcomed my helping him to get into the clothes we chose together from his mahogany wardrobe, which was over there, out of shot. That day he was wearing his favourite combination; grey tailored trousers and a gold-coloured jumper embossed with diamond shapes. Both were a little too large for him. George would be adjusting the trouser belt and pushing up the jumper cuffs repeatedly all day as if reassuring himself through their touch. I could only suppose he had shrunk a little in his old age, though the clothes themselves were smart and seemed almost new.

A year or so later, I visited the exhibition and read the caption placed alongside the life-size photo-portrait of George. That’s when I found out that George had shared his life with another man for sixty years. He had feared that his partner, ailing with dementia, would not be treated well if the relationship had been declared, and so he had nursed him alone at home rather than risk being separated from him by officialdom. When his partner died, he’d moved into our care home.

 

I stood for a long time absorbing the blown-up image of him alone on its white wall, wondering whether he had never felt able to mention the love of his life to me for fear that he too might be rejected, even ousted from his safe space. I wished that I had succeeded in gaining George’s trust enough to truly know him. And I listened to all the things people were saying about him sitting calmly there in the picture. Some even commented on the presence of my blurred hand as I edged the comb towards his thin white hair. The image seemed to commemorate his dignity; compliant in the morning ritual of hair combing whilst dressed for comfort in his deceased partner’s clothes. Even so, the picture alone would never be able to tell his whole story without the words being displayed next to it, filling his silence. And my blurred hand seemed to me to carry the same inadequacy. How could the fleeting presence it represented begin to tell my unspoken story; relieved as I was to be employed, but knowing I would never be bold enough to pursue my dreams openly? 

Don’t worry about me when you get home though, Samuel. I’m content with my life, I really am. Tomorrow I will get back to it. I’ll try to keep the residents as happy as they can be, to delve into their stories, to share in what memories I can glean from their conversation. I see that as no small achievement. And I still get to take photographs from time to time of smiling people in their wedding clothes, touching hands, happy in their moment. I capture images for them of the joy that life can bring, if only for a day. That is quite something too, Samuel. Yes, as your mother would say, it is all worth celebrating. Think about it as you’re heading home; could an ordinary life still be one you should aspire to?

about the author

Jane lives in Woodbridge, Suffolk UK. With the encouragement of the local creative writing class she has been writing stories over the past few years, some of which have appeared on Café Lit. Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the author the other half goes to expenses e.g. Maintaining the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.