Night Time Economy by Penny Rogers, mug of cold coffee

 

Night Time Economy

 

I went to bed at 8.30. Mind you I didn’t get home until 7.45, it had been one of those nights. The birds were singing, no, shouting, as I staggered up the road and I remember saying something that was meant to be good morning to the bloke two doors up who was walking his dog.

            ‘Heavy night Jen?’ he asked.

            ‘The usual.’

            ‘Perhaps you ought to try…’ his words were a blur as I fumbled for my key.

The house was blessedly quiet: no loud shouts, no shrieks, no thump, thump, thump. There was a glass by the kitchen sink; I filled it and emptied it in one go, refilled it and took it upstairs. My head ached, but then so did my neck and my arms. What had I been doing? Why was there a bruise on my forearm that was rapidly spreading and turning darker even as I looked at it? My phone buzzed.

‘Hello Mum. Yes, I’m home. What did you hear on the radio? Yeah, I’m fine, I’ll call you later.’

Don’t get into bed I told myself, have a pee first and it might be an idea to clean your teeth, mouth feels like the floor of a bird cage. At last, soiled, crumpled clothes on the floor and a pillow under my head.

I woke up at about 1.30. The afternoon sun shone encouragingly through the curtains. Five hours and I’d start doing it all over again. In the shower a life without all this seemed quite attractive. Better hours, more money in the bank, less stress, less danger. But last night Jazi made it and Cal went to rehab.

Just time to put the washing machine on, do some baked beans on toast and drink coffee. Tomorrow I’ll try to go to the supermarket. And perhaps tonight won’t be so long. Maybe, just maybe I’ll leave early or at least before they make me go home. The bruise has stopped spreading up my arm and is turning that sort of purple colour that you sometimes see at sunset. I can discern the shape of a man’s thumb in the centre of it; I sipped another coffee and wondered, could I have handled it differently? Probably not, my head was already swimming by then.

Dressed and ready to go. Check hair, make up, bag (must get more tissues). Text Mum, tell her I’m fine and not to worry. I’ll see her asap. I have time to walk; the fresh air will do me good. Going in I meet Will. ‘Are you OK? I was worried about you. We seem to be getting more aggressive bastards, but they don’t always make the headlines like that one did.’

‘Thanks for asking, I’m fine.’

 He smiles at me. Together we follow the signs to accident and emergency

About the author

 

 

enny Rogers lives in Dorset in the south of England. She writes mostly short stories, flash fiction and poems and facilitates an informal writing group. She is a regular contributor to CaféLit. When she’s not writing Penny makes jams, pickles and preserves from home grown or foraged produce. 

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

Granny’s pick-up day by Sally A Locke,Strawberry milkshake

 

Granny’s pick-up day

‘I’m sorry you have to go and find their new school on their second day but I’ve got an important work meeting.’

‘That’s no problem at all.  I’m sure I’ll find it.  On the main road isn’t it?’

‘Yes.  I’ll send you driving and  parking instructions.’

‘Do I need to take snacks?’

‘Yes please.  And Max will get picked up for cricket?

Several hours later I arrive, about half an hour before pick-up time.  The instructions tell me where to park – tick – and to walk up the road to school and wait outside until the gate opens at 15.20.  OK, I’ve got this.  I can’t see any sign of a school building, just shops, trees, a park, houses, a pub.  Oh, I can see a Lollipop Lady, that must be it.  The school buildings are set back from the road so I can’t see them.  As I approach, I see the gate is already open.  But it’s only 3.00 – is my watch working?  My mobile can’t be wrong.  I rush in through the gates.  It’s pouring with rain, so I put up my hood and look a bit like a very old hooligan, dashing about looking for loose children.

‘Hey, come back,’ I hear behind me.  It’s the Lollipop lady. 

‘You here for pre-school or school?’

‘Mmm, school.’

‘They don’t come out yet.  It’s just pre-school. You got permission?  They don’t like just anybody turning up.  Could be a kidnapper.’

‘Yes, oh, sorry.  They know.’  I go back outside and stand with a couple of other grannies in the rain.  We all get even more soaked.

‘Seventeen years I’ve been working here, and if I’s going to rain, it’s always at coming out time, you can guarantee it,’ helpfully remarks the LL.  

By now, I can hardly see for water dripping off my head into my eyes. Then, suddenly the sun comes out as if to mock us all. 

‘That’s it.’ says LL, as the gates open again like magic and a hoard of parents, carers, grannies, and associated other child collectors rush in to the playground as though hot bread is for sale.

I walk to the left, as instructed and wait by the wall.  I see a huge crowd of ‘Reception’ pupils emerging from their classrooms with a couple of women, who must be their teachers.  It takes a while but I spot Max in the crowd, a little blonde boy, with his eyes down towards the ground.  I begin waving gently.  He doesn’t take any notice.  I try waving a bit harder.  Still no recognition.  What am I going to do?  By now, I am waving my arms frantically and shouting his name. 

One of the teachers sees my agony and touches Max on the shoulder.  ‘Is that woman in the blue mac your Granny?’ she asks.

No response.  He just runs out of the gate and stands next to me.

‘Hello Max, hello,’ I shout, bending down to his height and giving him a, clearly unwanted, hug.  ‘Did you have a nice day at school?

‘Yes.  Have you got any snacks?’

‘I have.  But let’s go and get Izzie first.  Can you show me the way?’

He takes over as Director – clearly his mother’s son- and after a few corners and plenty of people walking the narrow path the other way, we reach Izzie.  Thank goodness she recognizes me and gives me a hug.   She’s even willing to hold my hand as we exit the school.

‘I’ve parked up the road,’ I say.  ‘It’s not far’.

Actually, it’s very far.  Everyone else has a nearer parking spot because they are familiar with the school.

‘Are we walking home?’ asks Max.  Eventually we reach my car and they get in and put on their belts like true professionals, without guidance.  I think it must be the lure of the paper bags stuffed with snacks that makes them behave so well.  I don’t hear a peep out of them all the way home as they are busy chomping through sausage rolls, crisps and cookies, as though their lives depended on it.  They emerge from the car and only leave a few crumbs behind.

‘Do you know how to open the front door, Granny?’ asks Izzie.  Before I can answer, she’s got the key in the lock and we’ re in.

‘Have you been tidying up?’ asks Max.  A strange comment from a five -year-old boy, but I’ll take it.

‘No.  Let’s find your top and your cricket bag shall we?  Need to rush as your lift will be here soon.’  We all scoot round looking for the pale blue cricket shirt.

‘No, can’t find it,’ announces Max as he changes into a red ‘Messi’ football shirt.  Needs must.  His lift arrives.

‘Peep,peep.’ It’s my phone sending a text: ‘All OK?  Has Max gone to cricket?’

Before I can respond there’s a second text: ‘Yes, I can see that he did.  Got a camera on the front door.’  What is this, a Granny spycam?

Izzie and I decide to go and have a milkshake in the café while Max is out and before Mummy and Daddy get home.  We have a lovely Granny-grand-daughter bonding stroll through the village.

‘What did you learn at school today?’ I ask.

Izzie pauses.

‘All sorts.  English, Maths, oh and we learned about penises and vaginas.  You mustn’t laugh.’

 I wasn’t going to laugh.  I might have gasped in astonishment at her loud voice, but certainly wasn’t laughing.

‘You don’t laugh when you talk about your hand so it’s the same with these body parts,’ she adds in explanation.  Just then we spot one of her little friends stroking a cat on the pavement, so the conversation is, fortunately, curtailed.

We have a lovely drink in the café and then go home to find all the family waiting for us.

‘How did it go?’ asks Mummy.

‘Very well thank you.’  I respond. 

‘Oh good.  You’ll be able to do it again soon then?’

I’m shattered.  Not too soon, I think.

About the author 

 

 

lly 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. the author the oher half goes to expense se.g. 

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

A Simple Operation by Jenny Palmer, bottle of flavoured water

 

- times,’ the receptionist said. ‘First, for the field test and OCT scan, then to see a consultant who will decide if you need the procedure and, if so, a third time.  And you won’t be able to drive for the last two visits as we’ll need to put drops in.’  

‘No, I hadn’t realised that,’ I said. ‘But I’ve already had a field test and a scan at my optician’s. Do I really have to have another one?’

‘I’m sorry but that’s just the way it is,’ she said. ‘So shall I book you in then?’

‘I guess so,’ I said meekly, my heart sinking at the thought of all those bus journeys I’d have to plan. It would be like planning a military operation.

The benefits of living in a beautiful area in the countryside cannot be overstated but one of the drawbacks is the lack of rural bus services. To save on the number of services and maximise the number of passengers, buses have doubled up lately and now take a slow and winding path through adjoining towns and villages, picking up people at every available stop. First, I would need to hike for a mile uphill to the bus stop at the crossroads where I would take one bus into town and then wait for a connection to my final destination.

Finding an online bus timetable proved impossible, since I didn’t have all the necessary apps. Luckily, I had amassed enough timetables from walking expeditions over the course of the year.  Technically speaking, I could have driven for that first appointment, as it didn’t entail eye drops, but going by bus would be a good way of testing out the route. The journey would take two hours in each direction, so I took along a packed lunch in case there were no cafes on the way. Might as well make a day of it, I thought.

My journey soon turned into a trip down memory lane. I found myself recalling people and places from my past.  In those days, the industrial North was in decline, and I couldn’t wait to get away and see the world. Any trip back up North only confirmed these feelings. I saw it as depressing. It would no place in my future. As far as I was concerned, people were dowdy and downtrodden. If truth be told, I wasn’t looking forward to setting foot in the town again. There was nothing there but charity shops, people said. 

 I must have looked lost when I got off the bus at the bus station, because a couple of people rushed towards me offering help.

‘I know just where you want to go,’ one elderly man said, glancing at the appointment letter I was clutching. ‘It’s for your eyes, isn’t it?’

He pointed out the building which housed the health clinic, giving me precise directions as to how to get there and where exactly to cross the road.

I was half an hour early for my appointment and was surprised to find the waiting room empty. Usually in hospitals these days you are faced with a room full of disgruntled people, but I was the only one there. I didn’t even have time to start on my sandwich before I was called in. The nurse kept telling me how well I was doing, as I was spotting the green lights in the field test. I took it as a compliment even though I knew it had nothing to do with ability. 

   All this meant I was able to catch the earlier bus back. On the way home, even though the bus followed the same winding path, I was seeing things in a new light. It had all been so quick and easy. The people were so helpful. The staff were so cheerful. The front gardens we passed were full of flowers.  One down, two to go! I thought. I know it sounds crazy but during the course of that journey home, I felt as if I was falling back in love with the North. 

About the author

Jenny Palmer writes short stories, poetry, memoir and family history. Her collections 'Keepsake and Other Stories,' 2018, and 'Butterflies and Other Stories,' 2024, were published by Bridge House, and are on Amazon. 'Witches, Quakers and Nonconformists,' 2022, is sold at the Pendle Heritage Centre, Barrowford.. 

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