OVER THE TOP.by David Lyons,coogUinnessmilk

 

OVER THE TOP.

 

I hear the curlew flying low over the misty bog on a late summer’s evening. The air is damp with dew and the shadows are black beneath the tall whitethorn hedges. A lone cow calls out for her calf in a field beyond view and then stops suddenly as her charge drains the pressure from her elder.

The magical sound of a flute played by a capless man in a collarless shirt and hanging braces as he sits on a three-legged stool and leans against a whitewashed wall, dances like angel dust across the final beams of evening sunlight. He is unaware that distant unknown ears are filled with the joy of his melody, nor does he care. There is a candle burning peacefully in the window now – a fresh white church candle, that sits in a cracked green jug that was once the prized milk carrier. An old sun-bleached page of a newspaper, whose sentiments have long been forgotten, sits tightly in the jug and holds the candle in place. Its pale flickering light welcomes me towards it like warm loving arms and the sight of it calms my breath, soothing my racing heart in that moment. Inside I know the turf fire is red and an old black iron kettle hangs on

 

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the crane waiting for me. I am waiting also, for that heavenly aroma of freshly baked soda bread that melts butter with a touch and the pot of stew I know will be simmering on the hot coals. Darkness is closing in fast on an evening that deserves more time. I straighten my cap and pull it down lower over my eyes as I look towards the far field where I know that fence still needs a fresh thorn bush. That ewe with the bare neck will find it for certain and eat Bridget Colleran’s greens once again. She will pretend she doesn’t mind of course, and is always very polite about the intrusion, but even a saint’s patience has its boundaries. Pat-the-boyo with a Guinness ringed mouth sat in O’Shea’s a couple of night ago said that a bath of rain was fast approaching, and everyone became quiet and listened with wide eyes. He was the one who inherited his grandmother from Boston’s antique barometer, and so was the foremost trusted authority on all changes in the weather. The ones who held their glass midway to their lips, were the ones with turf out facing the night sky, like me, and gave more heed to the warning.

A shell landed almost in my lap and pieces of shrapnel tore through my sleeve and allowed life’s blood to dye the cloth crimson. My thoughts suddenly switch to

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the grey streets of Staley Bridge, in that typical cold Manchester rain that falls heavily on my coaldust covered face. The taste of the wet coal on my lips is bitter and the black rivers that flow from my matted hair into my eyes blur my vision of the narrow-flagged path that always emitted the smell of urine and dog excrement like a poison to the sense. This is an untended and unloved back yard path worn by the dejected feet of weary hunched shouldered folk, lost in a world of poverty and despair, where only death promised the possibility of release. The weather-beaten timber door on the path side had many years previous benefited from of a left-over tin of Salford Bus red, borrowed without permission from their body shop. The door creaks as I push down hard on its rusty uncompromising latch and the bottom boards drag lines in the clay as it begrudgingly opens a few feet to allow me to pass through. My narrow red bricked cottage is at the end of a short area of tufts of abandoned grass and looks cold and unwelcoming. Over washed faded lace curtains hang too short on the windows and a pencil thin stream of mean grey smoke filters into the raindrops from a frost cracked chimney pot.

 

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Through the metal framed window, I can see my wife bathing our son in the old white Belfast sink. She doesn’t smile as she looks back at me through her sunken dark ringed eyes, and I don’t wave hello. Her idle brother’s bicycle’s lay lazily against the wet red brick near the back door, and I stand in the rain looking and tasting the coal in my mouth. It will be four for dinner again this evening.

It is only a matter of moments now to the trench whistle in Ypres. The sky is a mass of black cannon smoke that an eager breeze couldn’t blot out, as shells rain down their death at will. Every extra breath I take is a God’s send, and one that wasn’t expected. A river of cold sticky mud lies on the floor of the trench and freezes and numbs all feet and legs to the calf. My fingers hold the cold steel barrel of my rifle and the dried blood stains on the bayonet dull its shine. The strong aroma of death hangs in the air as though it were possible to grab it in handfuls and is only overpowered by regular intervention of chlorine gas. Some let tears fall onto worn over thumbed photos, as others take a little comfort from the last remnants of chocolate from Queen Victoria’s brass box. I sent mine

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home – not to Staley Bridge but to Mayo. Maybe thinking it was all they will ever have now to remember me by. That small brass box with its royal stamp is all that is left of me to give, all that can be clutched to a breast in remembrance.

The bucket of gin is passed out liberally and taken in quantities to sedate the senses but not for me. I want to see clearly until my time ticks out to the final alarm - maybe even have an edge in a place where no hope is the only constant and death the only prize. Clumps of clay the size of large sheep dogs batter the bodies of the pale faced creatures who lean against the walls of the trenches that are wet with blood and tears. Cries of pain and fear of dying men mix with gunshots and explosions to give Dante an extra circle to explore. This is hell and could death be any worse?

The dreaded sound of the trench whistle was awaited but when it comes it brings an unexpected confusion to me and to the drawn anxious faces of my friends, who unwillingly take part in this mass Russian Roulette, played out by shiny men in opposing camps, at Pless Castle in Silesia, and Montreuil. Shiny men who are brave each day with our lives and blood, as they

 

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exchanged dinner platitudes over their Chateau Margaux and their chosen gastronomic delights. Breaths become shallow, hearts pound like sledgehammers, and eyes open to their widest extremities. The ladders go up and the command “over the top” calls out in an authoritative tone, as though this were a normal command, the correct thing to do, and something not to be questioned. There is no reasoning now – no wondering why. Plenty of space left for inner regrets but no outward display of fear can save this moment from its appalling finale. I drag a foot with effort from the thick sticky mud that seemingly by instinct wants to keep me frozen to the spot. My soaking wet boot feels out for the first rung of the rough wooden ladder. I close the cold bolt on my rifle, and a bullet fills the chamber. Oozing bodies fall back over me as I climb, some dead, some not so lucky. I don’t remember the middle rungs, just the bottom and the top. I hold the top rung for as long as I dare knowing my next move could be my gateway to eternity. A commanding shout through a thick black moustache from below frees my tight grip and I am where they wanted me - over the top, in no man’s land. Lines of loose barbed wire, that I could have used to greater advantage in the gap in the far field hedge,

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stretch on forever in all direction, like it was hung by madmen from the dadaism movement. Lifeless bodies are suspended on its razor-sharp thorns as if asleep on a two-penny hangover in a back street London doss house. Men I broke cigarettes with and exchanged many a fond life’s memory, drop down around me like carcasses in khaki. Their faces now embedded in the blood-soaked mud, as life drains out from their wretched existences. I wait, hoping for the sound of the curlew, the smell of freshy baked soda bread and that pot of simmering stew in Mayo and a loving call, “Tom your food is ready”. Then I look at my wife through the kitchen window, bathing our son in the Belfast sink as the cold Manchester rain runs down the thin glass– this time we smile at each other for the last time.

About the author

 

David Lyons has two novels published to date, The Dream Voyagers (2015), and Land of Butterflies (2023). His book of eighteen short stories (82k words) titled“The Muse and Other Stories” is searching for a publisher, and he has just completed a new book titled The Hidden Village. 

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.

Satrurday sample: Stone Angrls by paul R.C. readman

 

Chapter One

 

The First of Nine

1971

 

The first painting in my urban Roofscapes series now stands on a mahogany easel in my drawing room. Heavy faded velvet curtains surround a stone-arched window through which pale sunlight floods, giving the room a shrine-like appearance. My agent Basil has been studying the painting for some time. He leans forward slightly with his broad back to me. I recline on a threadbare velvet sofa, swirling whisky around in a crystal glass.

I’m an artist. And, like all artists, I was born to create. Creativity flows through my blood and is in everything I see and do. The world is a series of lines that I must draw, and then reproduce in paint on raw hessian.

When I begin a painting, I place a new canvas on the paint-splattered easel and breathe in the smell of the paints, turps, and linseed oil. On closing my eyes, I allow my mind to clear and fall into a sickness.

It’s like misery, all consuming. The darkness envelops me, I feed on its strength, and it empowers me. I lift a paint-filled brush and mark the canvas. She appears. Her beauty wraps itself around me. Her smiling face haunts me almost as much as my father’s steely stares. Then, just as quickly, she leaves. Passion spent, my desire gone, my heart stills. Weak, I am unable to hold my brush. It falls onto my palette.

When I awake the virgin whiteness of the canvas is gone. In its place is a work of art in shades of grey, dull green, blue, and inky black – my trademark.

I’m jolted out of my thoughts by a comment from Basil.

“I do believe this painting is one of your finest so far, James,” he says as he straightens and offers me his empty glass.

“Help yourself to another, old boy.” I wonder what’s different this time as he normally helps himself to my whisky.

“Thanks. And less of the old boy,” Basil protests as he crosses to the drinks cabinet. In mid stride, he pauses to study a small collection of my mother’s watercolours. “Dear God, I do so love this room. I can’t make up my mind whether it’s the clash of styles, or its sense of history. To think, I didn’t know who you were when we first met. And here we are, surrounded by all this fame and fortune.” He holds out the bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue.

I shake my head, holding up the half-filled glass. He nods and fills his glass to the brim before dropping into father’s old chair next to the fireplace. I take a sip of my glass, allowing the layers of richness to separate, and close my eyes. I roll the smoky liquid around my mouth, pushing it through the small gap in my front teeth before swallowing the sandalwood taste. As I do so, my thoughts settle on how we met eight years ago.

 

In the summer of 1963 I bumped into Basil at the opening of a new art gallery in London. I was squatting with a bunch of beatnik artists in all that remained of a once handsome Edwardian four-storey terraced house. It had survived Hitler’s bombs enough for its spacious rooms to become studios. With no real income between the artists, they spent most of their days splattering paint over large canvases in the style of Jackson Pollock as they dreamt of fame and fortune while smoking themselves into oblivion. I steered clear of the drugs, busy rebranding myself, into a poor artist called Tommy Blackbird. I knew how dangerous fame was after witnessing the damage it had done to my mother. Though living with them had its rewards.

Joe, who ran the squat, believed we were the reincarnation of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. We all agreed to help each other. While they were happy to share everything from beds to food, paints, clothes, and even their girlfriends with me, I was being far more self-centred. Only one girl sparked my interest, the unobtainable girlfriend of Joe. I certainly appreciated Candela’s shapely form, a willowy blonde with dark green eyes.

Candela and her friends, Trudy and Dor, worked as picture hangers in the major galleries around the city. Most evenings they would supply us with a meal while keeping us in the loop about the latest art news from across the city, and sometimes from across the pond in New York, with information on art competitions, or galleries that were on the hunt for new and up and coming artists.

One evening over supper, Candela told us about a new gallery that was to have a celebrity launch party. While we sat feasting, we made plans to gatecrash.

A few days later, we arrived at the gallery to find the party in full swing. Posters covering the front windows proclaimed that the exhibition was for the art critic, Lawrence Alloway’s ‘Pop Art’ artist, David Hockney. In awe of the large white space with its pale grey carpet and loft-style gallery, I stood transfixed, wanting nothing more than to grab a paintbrush and start work. The fluorescent lighting seemed to bring the modern abstract paintings alive.

My conspirators seemed more focused on the gathering masses. Candela tugged on my arm. “Oh my God, Tommy, look who else is here!”

Over my shoulder, I saw Joe moving towards a group of new arrivals. Among them was a young up and coming singer, Mick Jagger, with his latest flame clinging to his arm, as well as celebrities from film and TV, all milling about, chatting with artists and agents. They stood before the large canvases, holding up their wine glasses, smiling into the cameras, pleased to have their pictures snapped in the trendiest, newest hotspot.

As the others wandered off to mingle with the famous, my attention returned to the paintings. Soon I was looking for a quiet corner so I could sketch down a few ideas. As I made a few notes on colours and positions of figures, I became aware of a couple talking.

“I can’t believe it. He’s here!” an excited woman said.

“You’re having me on. Where?” a pretty boy replied. “I’ve been here since it opened. He wasn’t here then. I went over the whole place and didn’t see him.”

“He’s upstairs in the main gallery. You know, where it says private.”

 “Oh well, that’s no good for the likes of us, dearie.”

I slipped the notebook into my jacket pocket as their excited laughter faded. Unable to locate Joe or Candela, I headed for the stairs to see if I could catch a glimpse of Hockney.

Of course, I wasn’t the only one. The place swarmed with his admirers. Well, who wouldn’t want to be around him? The guy had the Midas touch. That’s the trouble with fame. You become the property of the masses. Everyone wants a piece of the action.

While barging through the milling crowd on the stairs, I somehow locked arms with a tall guy dressed in a striped boating blazer with cream trousers. He deposited his red wine down the front of my white shirt.

“Jesus bloody Christ. I’m so sorry mate!” he yelled over the din.

“Hey, it’s all right. I thought I was blending in too well with the walls anyway.” I laughed.

For a moment, I thought he was on something as he stared blankly at me. Then his grey eyes widened, and he began to laugh.

“I’m Basil Hallward.” He offered me his hand.

As I took it, I became aware of his tightening grip, and he pulled me away from the steady conveyor belt of people that were pushing to get past and guided me to the corner where I had taken refuge earlier. I’m not sure at what point he mentioned he was an agent, or whether I told him I was an artist looking for representation. The next thing I remember clearly about that night was leaving the party early, after we exchanged contact details and he had made an appointment with me to view some of my work in his London office a week later.

As for Hockney, I never did meet him.

I left the launch party and made my way back to the squat, deciding it was the right time to leave Tommy Blackbird in London, and head home to Halghetree Rectory.

At the squat, I took the stairs two at a time, wanting to be gone before anyone else arrived back. I paused on the landing below mine when I became aware of someone crying. Joe’s studio door stood slightly ajar. I placed an eye to the gap. Suddenly transported back to my childhood, within the paint-splattered studio, I saw my mother amidst spilt paints and torn canvases. I shook my head in an effort to clear the awful image from my mind and struck the door, causing it to swing open. Mother turned with a bloodied knife in her hand.

I froze.

“Christ, Tommy! I thought it was Joe!” Candela shrieked, and mother vanished.

I tried to make sense of the torn paintings strewn across the room. It wasn’t blood covering them, but red paint.

“What the hell are you doing?” I shouted.

“What the fuck do you think?” she said, tossing the knife into the disarray. “I can’t take any more of his lies, so I’m leaving him a farewell surprise.”

She picked up a couple of bags and pushed past me.

“Where are you going?” I called after her.

She paused, her hand resting lightly on the bannister and looked up, her eyes red-rimmed. “As far away as possible,” she said with a shrug of her thin shoulders before continuing down the stairs.

“How are you getting there?” I ran after her.

“Train, bus, I don’t care. I just want to be gone before he gets back.”

“Wait! Give me a moment and I can take you. I have a car. I can drop you off anywhere you want or… Come with me. It’s up to you.”

As her green eyes locked with mine, I recognised the bitterness that burned within them. I inhaled deeply. The smell of paint, spilt turps, and linseed oil caused something inside me to snap. I knew whatever happened next; Candela had to come with me.

***

The squeaking springs in my father’s chair brought me back to the present. I open my eyes, my breath catching in my throat. It still shocks me to find someone sitting in it beside the fire. I try to squash the displeasure on seeing Basil relax as he surveys the room, glass in hand. I let my breath out slowly and wait for him to comment on my painting. It’s the only reason I have allowed him into my inner sanctum.

After doing a series of land and seascapes in my own unique style, Basil suggested I should try something urban. It amazes me that he should have suggested such a subject matter. The idea was not new to me. What I’m showing him was actually painted eight years ago. It’s why I’m more than a little intrigued to know his thoughts on my interpretation.

Within the painting, a semi-naked, grisaille-style woman posed in shades of grey, dull green, blue, and inky black in a bleak cityscape. Her arms tied behind her cause her to lean forward like a figurehead on a sailing ship, among the saintly statues and gargoyles on the side of a Gothic building. The rain plastered her hair to her head while four small metal clips held her eyelids open, causing blood to trickle down her cheeks.

Oh how I recall the power of the muse as she played with my emotions. Within every sweep of the brush, I built the paint up, layer upon layer to convey the symbolism and eroticism in the way the halter strap of the model’s body harness emphasised her breasts. I wanted the art connoisseurs to search for answers within each stroke as they do when discussing other great works of art.

Basil clears his throat, jarring me out of my thoughts. I take another gulp of my drink and tried to clear my mind of Candela.

“Hmm,” he utters before taking another sip of his drink. “There’s something quite dark about your painting, James. Something unspoken.”

I smile, satisfied that he’s hooked. There’s a sparkle of delight in his grey eyes, though. It could be just his bank balance sparkling. You never can tell with Basil.

“James, my dear man, finally you’ve found your voice. Your last series of paintings was brilliant. And I must say they’ve made us a small fortune, but… this is outstanding!” Basil crosses to the painting again. The twitching muscles in his back as he scans the painting betray his excitement as he calculates the value of each brushstroke.

My agent has taken more than his fair share in extra commission on each sale he makes on my behalf. It doesn’t bother me. If he has his hand in the cookie jar, I hope for his sake he’s lined his nest well. One day soon the axe will fall, and he won’t know what has hit him.

With fame, if you have a big enough fortune, it allows you to get away with things ordinary folk cannot. Basil constantly reminds me he’s a friend, someone I can confide in.

Now that’s not something I find easy to do. We all have things we like to keep to ourselves. I know his vice, but he doesn’t know about mine yet. My alter ego, Tommy Blackbird, was too kind and didn’t know how to paint, while James enjoys playing among the shadows, painting in his unique style.

Basil reaches for the bottle again. “They say behind every great piece of art is a story. So, what’s yours? What’s your inspiration, James?”

I shrug. “I paint what I see.”

A puzzled look crosses his face. “Does it have a title? Is it painted from real life, or just your imagination?”

“It’s an idea I’ve been toying with for some time. I’ve called it Roofscapes, but it is really ‘a work in progress’.”

“Oh, so it's on-going. Part of a series like ‘Of Land and Sea?’”

“You could say that. I’m already working on the next one.”

“That’s great. I can’t wait to see it.”

I drain my glass, not telling him that I’ve already finished nine. 

Find your copy here 

Dreams of India Sky A glassbyPaula R.C.Readman of freshly squeezed apple juice

 

‘What was your Nana like?’ my granddaughter Sophia asked pointing to a photo of a tall, slender woman, with long hair smiling into the camera, as we flipped through an old photograph album. Nowadays, most people use their phones instead of albums. We were sitting in the summerhouse sipping freshly squeezed apple juice made from the fruits of trees my grandfather had planted many years ago.

‘When I was sixteen, my Nana caught me admiring myself in her wardrobe mirror while wearing her blue and gold kaftan dress—’ I began, as memories flooded back. I could almost hear her voice called to me over the years.

‘Gwendolyn, are you in my old wardrobe again?’

I adored the vintage clothes Nana kept there. When I was little, she would tell me the clothes once belonged to an Indian princess, and I believed her.

‘Goodness, at sixteen, you’ve nearly grown into that one. I was twenty when I bought it in India,’ Nana said, leaning against the door frame with a brightly coloured towel wrapped around her and another around her head. ‘Remember Gwendolyn, my friends will be here soon.’ Nana disappeared from view. ‘I’ll need to be ready before they arrive because we can’t be late,’ she called from her bedroom.

I slipped the dress and long, brightly- coloured glass-beaded necklace onto its hanger and returned it to the wardrobe. I dropped to my knees beside the guest bed, lifted the bedcovers, and dragged out a dusty box from beneath the bed. I remembered seeing the old red leather photograph album with an embossed Indian elephant on the cover that Nana kept there.

‘What are you doing now?’ Nana called, but before I could answer, the sound of her hair dryer starting u, silenced my words. Since discovering the album as a child during a school holiday, I’d wanted to ask Nana about the photographs, but she was always so busy.

‘Gwendolyn, come here,’ Nana called.

I pushed the box back under the bed, straightened the bedcovers, and closed the door behind me. On the landing, I found Nana outside her bedroom, dressed in tight-fitted trousers and a skin-tight polo neck top. On her head, she wore a hard hat that made her look as if she were about to scale Mount Everest.

With a cheeky grin, she asked, ‘What do you think? Do I look the part?’

‘What are you up to, Nana?’ I laughed and hugged her. She giggled.

‘Oh no, Mum’s going to be cross with you again, is she?’ I said trying to sound like a stern adult, as the doorbell rang.

Nana kissed me on the cheek lightly before rushing downstairs to the front door, calling back over her shoulder. ‘You’ll find out later, Gwendolyn.’ Then, with a bang, Nana was gone.

 

Nana and Glived next door to us for as long as I can remember. Granddad was so different from Nana. He was up at first light and used to potter around the shared garden long before Nana was up. 

Most mornings, on opening my curtains, I saw Granddad busy in the vegetable plot. The early morning sunlight shone off the top of his head, giving him a saintly halo as he bent stiffly to weed between the carrots and the rows of beans. The garden seemed to offer Granddad sanctuary from Nana’s hustle and bustle as she rushed from one group meeting to the next.

My Nana wasn’t like everyone else’s grandmother, Sophia. She didn’t walk to the shops; she jogged. She never complained in the same way as Granddad did. ‘One must make your voice heard,’ was one of her sayings. Another was, ‘if you want change, make it happen— don’t just sit back and moan about things.’ My mum treated me as if I was still a child, unlike Nana. I remember one occasion, when my granddad had phoned Mum to say Nana was at the police station. Both, he and my father were unavailable to collect her, so it fell to Mum and me. 

‘Your Nana is nothing but trouble. As much as I love her,’ ‘She’s been a real embarrassment all the time I was growing up. It doesn’t look as though she’ll ever grow out of it, Gwendolyn! Why couldn’t I have had a normal mother like other people?’ Mum exclaimed, reversing off the drive at high speed.

‘Slow down! You don’t want to be arrested for dangerous driving, Mum!’ I shouted, hanging on to the door handle for dear life. According to my Nana, mum and granddad are too conventional, conforming to the ideals of what a grandfather and mother should be.

Mum always said if her father hadn’t been so level-headed, she would’ve grown up in a commune in the Wilds of Wales, living off wild food. From what I’ve seen on the internet, Wales is a beautiful place to have grown up in,  It wouldn’t have been a hardship for Granddad he loved being self-sufficient. Mum ran a sewing business repairing and altering people’s clothes, which fitted in perfectly with the ideology of a commune.

As I was coming downstairs, I heard the phone ringing. Mum sounded furious as she answered it, ‘Is she still alive? Oh, so she's just broken her ankle. No, don't tell me. What was she thinking? She’s too old to be pulling such stunts!’

You see  My grandmother has always been a bit of a fighter, not one to sit back and let life pass her by. As Mum swung the car into the hospital car park, we saw a local TV camera crew climbing into their van.

‘Wonder why they were here?’ Mum said, reaching for the bag on the back seat.

‘Maybe someone famous has arrived at the hospital,’ I suggested.

‘Maybe. Hopefully, I’ve thought of everything your Nana needs, but I’m not sure how long she’ll be staying in. I won’t be long. It’s so annoying of all days. Poor Dad.’

‘The game might have finished by the time you arrive, Mum,’ I said, closing the car door and took the bag from Mum and waved her goodbye.

At the reception desk, I asked for Mrs Soule’s room number. The receptionist laughed and said, ‘Oh, you must be our celebrity’s granddaughter.’

‘Celebrity,’ I chuckled as I went along the corridor to find Nana’s room. As I entered, Nana looked up from her book and smiled brightly at me.

‘Hello Gwendolyn. Where’s your Mum?’

‘Hi, Nana. Mum’s gone to pick Granddad up.’ Nana seemed to have aged as she sat in the chair with her leg up. To me Nana was an ageless free spirit.

‘Oh dear, I forgot all about Roger’s bowling match today. I bet they’ll both be cross with me this time. Never mind, it couldn’t be helped. It’s nice to see you. Howres things at school?’ Nana pushed strands of her fine, white hair back from her face.

‘Okay— Nana, would you like me to fix your hair up properly for you?’

‘Yes, please,’ she said. A bright smile returned, lifting the years away from her face. I reached into the bag Mum had given me, took out a hairbrush and grips, and began to brush her long hair up into a French pleat. I kissed the top of her head when I’d finished.

‘That feels much better now; I’ll be back to my old self in no time at all,’ She smiled up at me,

‘What happened this time, Nana?’ I asked, turning to hang up her dressing gown.

‘I suppose your Mum’s cross with me again?’ Nana whispered.

‘You know she worries about you.’ I turned back just as Nana pulled the old photo album from the bag I brought in. ‘I thought you might like to look at it with me.’

My Nana lifted her head slowly, wiping at her eyes. I pretended not to notice and brightly said, ‘We’re learning all about the 1960s at school, Nana. I thought the photographs might help you to remember what it was like.'

‘How could I forget the best years of my life, dear child? I was young then, wild, and free.’ She gave a childish giggle.

I pulled the chair closer to hers as she moved her leg slightly; the pain marked her face briefly before vanishing. Nana turned to the first page of the album and pointed to a snapshot. A long-limbed girl with blonde hair falling to her narrow waist sat cross-legged beside a log fire, looking up into the camera lens, and making the peace sign. Nana took the picture out of the book and turned it over. ‘India Sky,' she read, a soft smile touching her lips.

‘Oh, was the picture taken in India?’ I asked.

Nana laughed. ‘No, that’s what I called myself in the ’60s. It sounded so much better than Doris, doesn’t it?’ 

‘Such a lovely name. I wondered what name I would have chosen, if I had lived then.’ I said.

‘It was known as the summer of love.’ Nana’s face lit up as the memories flooded back. ‘We all went off to find ourselves. That's why we changed our names— to escape the confines of society. By naming ourselves, we freed ourselves from whom our parents wanted us to be. We were the new generation with their new ideas and dreams.’

‘Did you find yourselves, Nana?’

‘In a way, I suppose. It shaped the people we became and changed the way we raised our children. Until then, we did everything our parents wanted us to do. Most girls, I knew only dreamt about getting married and having children straight after school, but not me. I wanted to see the world before I settled down.’

 ‘So how old were you when you left home then, Nana?’

‘Twenty-two isn’t that young to you, but in my day it was. I packed a bag, with a small amount of money I'd saved and joined my friends. We travelled to India on the bus. It seemed like fun at the time— All that freedom and Shangri-la— but like all dreams, once it becomes reality some of the sparkle is lost. There were times when I wished I had listened to my mother.’

Nana turned to the next page. Among these snapshots, an old London bus appeared decorated in a kaleidoscope of colours. An array of psychedelic patterns covered it, even the windows. In front of the bus stood a group of twenty young people, but it was hard to tell the men from the women as they all wore brightly coloured clothes, necklaces of glass beads and flowers in their long hair. I pointed to a girl who stood next to a man with a goatee-type beard, holding a guitar, ‘Is that you, Nana?’

‘Yes it is. Don’t I look young?’

‘Who’s the man you're with?’

‘He was the driver and a poet—’ Nana’s voice trailed off and a far away look appeared in her eyes. ‘He wrote so many beautiful songs. As we drove across the different countries, he would recite his poetry to us.’

‘Wow, that’s sounds lovely, Nana.’

‘It was a wonderful experience, Gwendolyn. It also opened our eyes to what poverty was, too. Living on the bus, we had to be careful about our money, as we needed to buy fuel as well as food to feed all of us. We learnt about healthy living and a different way of looking at the world. I’m sure you don’t want to hear about all my travels to find myself,’ she said, and closed the album.

‘No, please go on.’ I begged. 

‘Your Mum wasn’t ever interested.’

‘I’m not like Mum, Nana.’

She reopened the album to a series of snapshots. In the first, the poet wore white jeans and an unbuttoned white shirt that fluttered around his body like angel wings. The photo captured him leaping into the air, on a wide beach of white sand with his long, dark hair streaming out behind him frozen for all of eternity. The next one was a portrait of him. His smouldering dark eyes stared out at us.

‘His name was Byron,’ Nana said, with a sigh, tracing the outline of his lips with her fingertips. ‘We knew we couldn’t run away forever and would talk about what we hoped to achieve when we returned home.

‘You look so happy together.’ I said turning to the next page. A series of photographs showed India Sky and Byron arm in arm in front of the Taj Mahal and down by the banks of the Ganges. Women, dressed in colourful saris, washing clothes in the background. There were pictures of the temple at Khajuraho, with its highly decorated shrines.

‘We were very happy together until we came back to England and then Byron wasn’t Byron anymore.’

'So when did you meet granddad? I asked.

‘Doris, my darling, I couldn’t go on being Byron forever, but you have always been my India Sky.’ I turned and there in the doorway stood Granddad with Mum.

I stared. Granddad was the barefoot poet Byron on the beach. I felt my cheeks colour.

Granddad laughed, ‘Yes, I know I had hair then.’ He ran his hand over his smooth head as he sat next to Nana.

‘Mum was always telling me, you were the serious one.’ I said.

‘I was young once, you know, but there comes a time when you have to take on responsibilities— like the birth of a child, your mum.’

‘You think I lived too much in the past, Roger,’ Nana snapped. ‘Some crazy notion about hanging on to my youth when all I wanted was to stay healthy. I loved Byron and all he stood for, his ideals and freedom, but when we came home, you changed. What happened to the wonderful dreams we had? We were going to change the world and make it a better place. You even stopped writing your amazing poetry too. You became dull, Roger.’

‘Mum!’ My mum retorted, ‘After all the things Dad has done for us. He has worked hard all his life to give you the freedom to follow your dreams. Don’t you think you’re being a little selfish?’

‘Am I? I don’t see why being a grown up means you have to lose sight of your dreams.’

‘Come on, Mum. Your life with Dad wasn’t so bad, was it?’

‘No, it wasn’t.' Nana took hold of Granddad’s hand and smiled at him. ‘You gave me a beautiful home, the car, and the wonderful garden. You did all the things we were supposed to do when we grow up,  We had Lucy and now our granddaughter Gwendolyn, but Roger, don’t you remember Byron and India were going to change the world? Instead, it changed us.’

‘Oh Mum, when have you ever conformed? Dad and you have always been aging hippies. Gwendolyn, you won’t believe the protest marches your grandparents took me on— from saving whales to saving the rainforest.’ Mum slipped her arms around Nana’s neck and hugged her.

‘Where has it got us?’ Nana protested. ‘We still need to fight for what we believe in, and to make others listen.’

‘I know, Mum. At your age you need to begin to slow down a bit.’ Mum said.

‘Lucy,’ Granddad said smiling, ‘That’s like a red rag to a bull. Don’t you think I’ve tried telling her? She still has the spirit of the sixties child in her, my India Sky. I love her even more for it. So what was your protest about today, love?’

Nana smiled innocently, ‘The rights of pensioners.’

Granddad kissed the end of her nose, and they both laughed. The years rolled away, and they were Byron and India Sky again.

‘What were you thinking, abseiling at your age down an office block? Is it going to further your cause, Mum?’

‘At least I’ve brought my point to the local papers and media attention; it’ll be on the television later this evening too.’ Nana said smugly.

‘So the camera crew were here for you?’ Mum and I said together.

‘Yes, they filmed my little mishap this morning and then rushed me in here.’ Nana explained what a wonderful time she had coming down the side of the building, but the landing was rubbish, and that’s when she broke her ankle.

‘That’s my girl, my India Sky,’ Granddad said as he sat proudly beaming, with his arm around Nana’s waist.

After the doctor checked Nana’s ankle, he told us she needed to rest it but he would allow her home. I reached into my jacket pocket, pulled out a beaded necklace, and slipped it over Nana’s head. ‘It’s time we took you home, India Sky.’ I said proudly.

‘Are Byron and India Sky happy together in heaven now,’ Sophia asked as I finished my story.

‘Yes, they are. After Nana came home from the hospital, Byron began writing poetry for his India Sky again. I managed to get them published, along with some of the photos in a beautiful book for their wedding anniversary. Next time you visit, we’ll read Byron’s poetry together.’    

about the author 

   

Paula R. C. Readman is a prolific writer and has penned six books and over a hundred short stories. She lives in an Essex village with her husband, Russell. Blog: https://colourswordspaper.blog or just Google Paula R C Readman, and something’s bound to pop up. 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.