Disney’s Brave Merida Makeover: 2013 365 Challenge #137

The image that went with the petition

I received a petition in my inbox last week, asking me to save Merida. For those who don’t know, Merida is the princess in Pixar’s Brave and the latest princess to be included in Disney’s official Princess Set (like some awful exclusive club!).

I haven’t seen the whole movie, but I’ve seen enough to know that Merida is awesome. She’s natural, with uncontrollable hair and normal features (no giant scary eyes for her). She’s a proper teenager who fights with her mum and thinks the world Is. Not. Fair. She wants to ride and shoot arrows and carve out her own future. She does not want to marry a prince. From the minute I learned of her existence I thought she was amazing and Pixar were brilliant for going even further than the great Rapunzel who, despite being a kick-ass Princess, still has unnatural features and the biggest eyes in the world.

So why did Merida need saving, and why did it warrant a petition? Normally the petitions I sign online are to do with Saving the NHS, or Saving Our Forests. Big causes. You wouldn’t think saving a cartoon princess – a bunch of colour pixels – would fall in the same category. But it does. Because this is what they wanted to do to Merida: They wanted to make her sexy and feminine in order to include her in the set of ‘official’ Disney Princesses. Her already fairly curvy figure was enhanced and her waist narrowed. They tamed her hair, made her dress off-the-shoulder and dropped the bow and arrow.

Twenty-First Century Princess

Okay, maybe I get the bit about losing the bow and arrow. My father used to make bows for us as kids, with real arrows carved from ash trees. The neighbours were not impressed and many an argument was had over the inappropriate nature of a toy that could take a child’s eye out. I thought they were overly protective until I had my own kids, and now I know I wouldn’t welcome a bow and arrow as a toy. Although it’s no worse than a plastic sword! And at least it was the girl wielding it – so one to right the sexist imbalance in children’s toys.

My daughter loves dressing up as a Disney Princess, although I haven’t let her watch Cinderella, Snow White or Beauty and the Beast, partly because she isn’t interested, and partly because the women are a bit pathetic. I love the way the newer princesses have gone. And I don’t mind about the merchandising. My daughter looks fab in a Snow White dress, with her modern accessories of a mobile phone and laptop. Just as my son looks rather fetching as Spiderman in heels. But really, Disney, why go to the effort of creating the best Disney Princess ever only to ruin her for the sake of making her fit?

My Modern Princess

As I researched this post, it seems the old Merida is back and it was never intended to be a permanent change, only for some merchandising. In some images the changes aren’t as extreme, and maybe it was a storm in a tea cup: it’s hard to get a straight answer with Disney staying quiet.

Maybe Disney bowed to pressure, maybe it was a cynical marketing ploy to generate publicity, maybe it was an innocent mistake. Who knows? In the end it doesn’t much matter. What is important is the level of outrage it created (although, reading some of the comments as I researched this post, it seems many people think us mothers are going nutty over nothing. Deep breath. Count to ten.)

Hopefully, eventually, big companies like Disney will learn that it is not cool to take their duty so lightly. Millions of little girls look to Disney princesses as role models and, finally with Merida, they have someone who lives up to that responsibility. Use it wisely, Disney, use it well.

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Below is the next installment in my novel Two-Hundred Steps Home: written in daily posts since 1st January as part of my 2013 365 Challenge. Read about the challenge here.You can catch up by downloading the free ebook volumes on the right hand side of the blog:

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“You have reached your destination.”

The satnav’s prim voice startled Claire out of her reverie. She looked out the window, not sure what to expect. She hadn’t studied the website for this hostel and so was arriving blind. Her heart pattered anxiously, remembering her arrival at Sheringham.

“Alright, Thurlby, let’s see what you have to offer. Please be nice.”

It seemed strange pulling up outside the hostel, alone in the Skoda. There had been too much time for thought, driving north with all the Sunday commuter traffic. There wasn’t even the novelty of new, as the area was close to where she had grown up. Signs for Burghley House and Rutland Water only reminded her of rare family trips out, sibling bickering and a desire to hide.

Claire climbed out of her car and gazed up at the building. Her soul soared like a Red Kite riding a thermal. Tall Georgian sash windows beamed from deep red brick as tree branches in early bud danced over her head. Two weeks of tension drained from her shoulders as she took in the idyllic surroundings.

I don’t know what surprises me more; that these places exist as hostels, where you can stay for a tenner a night, or that I never knew they existed before I started this assignment. It felt a betrayal to be glad of anything Carl had done to her, but at that moment she was conscious of a deep sense of gratitude that she could come and stay in a Georgian Manor. By myself, for free. I’ll take it. Even if it does mean I’ll have to cycle round Rutland Water and oo-ah at Burghley. Again.

Curled up on the sofa, once more immersed in the adventures of Katniss, Claire felt like something was missing. She glanced up at the empty room, and wondered where the strange sensation was coming from. Maybe I’m hungry. Dry cereal isn’t really dinner. That will teach me not to check whether it was a catering hostel or not. Her tummy gurgled in agreement, but still that didn’t seem to be it. She glanced round the room again, and then she knew. She missed Sky. How is that possible? This is the first time I’ve felt free in a fortnight. And it was good to be alone, without the endless worry and chatter. But still, the room seemed too silent, the night stretching out before her too long.

“Ah well,” she said, her voice echoing in the quiet. “It’ll wear off.”

***

Disney’s Brave Merida Sexy Makeover Sparks Angry Petition (Huffingtonpost.co.uk)
Disney Pulls Redesigned Princess Merida After Backlash (news.moviefone.com)
Film: Newswire: Disney quietly kills its gussied up version of Merida, the Brave princess (avclub.com)
Be Brave Little Merida! (littlemisswordy.wordpress.com)
Brave’s Princess Merida’s New Sexy Look Pulled by Disney (jedimouseketeer.com)
Disney Pulls Sexy Merida Makeover After Public Backlash (jezebel.com)

EBooks – A Retraction: 2013 365 Challenge #136

My long-awaited copy of The Humans

A while ago I wrote a post about how I would always choose the paper book over an e-reader (such as a tablet, nook or kindle). I was wrong. I bought an iPad two weeks ago and since then have read several books, more than I would have managed otherwise.

My long-awaited copy of The Humans has just arrived – a great big chunk of hardback – and I’m wondering why I didn’t buy the kindle edition. I just don’t know when I’m going to manage to read it. It’s too big to fit in my handbag, I can’t read it at bedtime because the bedside light is broken, and, well, it’s too beautiful to besmirch with toast crumbs and crayon.

We are going on holiday to Scotland next week and I know that The Humans will stay behind, even though I’m desperate to read it. It isn’t merely about packing room – although with two kids that’s pretty tight – it’s the fact that I won’t be able to read it discreetly while the kids are playing, or during the seven-hour trip in the car (for some reason I find I can read the iPad in the car, but not a paper book).

So, in all fairness, I thought I ought to confess my conversion and explain the reasons I love my iPad for reading:

I can read while still cuddling both children (with the occasional wriggle to turn the page)
I never ever have to find my place because the kids have removed the bookmark or it has fallen out. I turn it on and there it is – hours of reading time saved.
I can take it everywhere and read a bit while I’m waiting for a website to load or when the kids are asleep
The kids don’t notice me reading so much and so are less likely to bring one of their own books over to read (I didn’t say this was about good parenting, did I?)
I’ve already read at least one free book I would never have heard of otherwise. And it was lovely – not earth shattering or award winning but a lovely thought-provoking story
I can show people the books I’ve written when I tell them I’m an author, instead of explaining they’re not available in print
I can finally read all the ebooks I’ve downloaded over the last year
I can read at nighttime without waking my husband.

The Humans Kindle Version

I also love the iPad too – for checking emails, taking pictures for the blog, entertaining the children (we’re busily downloading from bbc iplayer for the long trip north) – but that’s a different story!

I still find it hard to buy the kindle version when the paperback isn’t much more expensive. If I want to lend a book it has to be a hard copy. I continue to love borrowing books from the library and seeing books around me on the shelves. They are beautiful. But, here and now, the iPad rules! (Sorry)

And to prove how much I love my iPad, I’ve spashed some cash to buy the ebook version of The Humans. Problem solved. Matt Haig’s lovely book is coming to Scotland after all! Hurrah!

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Claire was conscious of nerves as she waited on the doorstep. Things had been strained between her and Ruth since the revelations about Chris and the ballet teacher. Even so, it hurt to be saying goodbye to her sister and her niece. The week in the hospital, reading on the bed next to Ruth, entertaining Sky in the canteen or taking her to the park, had been strangely restful.

The week was spent encased in a cocoon of waiting: Ruth had responded well to treatment and the days were merely marking time until the doctors said she was strong enough to return home. Claire had enjoyed helping Sky complete the remainder of her homework. They had even written a letter to Sky’s father, although Claire had felt a stab of guilt, knowing she wasn’t brave enough to tell her sister about it.

Claire stood waiting for her mother or Sky to open the door. Even though she had stayed with Sky at her house for the week, now Ruth was home it felt impolite simply to walk in.

In the back of her mind she remembered the last time she had waited in the same spot, when she had come to look after Sky, the day of the hospital tests. Blimey that was nearly two months ago. In some ways it felt like only days before. In others ways, a lifetime had passed. She had experienced so much, travelling with Josh and looking after Sky. That morning’s conversation with her father still echoed in her mind.

How little we really know our family. Look at what I’ve discovered in a few weeks, that I hadn’t realised in nearly three decades: My brother and his perfect wife aren’t so perfect, Ruth’s ex isn’t a bastard but actually a doting dad, my father is writing a novel – a thriller for goodness sake – and hiding it from his wife. He hates golf. And Mum spends her time keeping up with the Jones’s to forget she used to be her husband’s secretary. You couldn’t make it up. We’re living an episode of Days of Our Lives.

Hearing footsteps thundering down the corridor, Claire braced herself for a whirlwind of blonde hair and beads. At least Sky hasn’t changed.

Claire held her sister tightly, aware only now of how awful it would be to lose her. She knew, too, that when Ruth was better they would never be quite as close as they were at this moment. Even the betrayal of introducing Sky to her half-sister was forgotten.

“Stay well, sis. Be strong. If you need anything, call me.” Claire spoke deep into her sister’s shoulder, where her hair would once have been. All that tickled her neck was the floral scarf tied tightly round Ruth’s head. Words that couldn’t be said face to face could be whispered cheek to cheek.

“You have an amazing daughter. Thank you for letting me get to know her better.” She stood back, tears blurring her vision. “I promise I’ll call more often, and I’ll stop by when I head south again. It won’t take long to get through the hostels on the east coast I didn’t get to with Sky.”

Ruth squeezed Claire’s arms, then let them drop as she reached for a tissue. “Thank you for everything, sis. Sorry I got upset about the whole Chris thing. I know you were in an impossible situation. And, well, if the worst does happen.” She stopped, unable to say the unthinkable words.

Claire was glad they remained unspoken. In the whole week she had spent in the hospital with Ruth, they had never talked about what might happen. While Ruth was responding to treatment it seemed like tempting fate to discuss the future.

“Try and enjoy your travels. I know it isn’t what you wanted, but you seem…” Ruth searched for a word. “You’re more alive, since you started the trip. When you looked after Sky in February you looked tight and tired and, I don’t know, somehow bitter at life. Now, well actually now you still look tired.” She laughed. They both knew what looking after Sky was like. “But it’s different. It’s a lack of sleep because my niece was up all night tired.”

The words seemed to run out and Ruth let them trail away. Even though the doctors had sent her home, she still looked exhausted. Claire gave her another hug, then turned to where Sky was snuggled up with Nana in the armchair, her face wet and blotchy.

“Come here, Sky, give Auntie Claire a cuddle.”

The girl hesitated, them scrambled down and ran across the room, sobbing.

“Don’t go, Auntie Claire. Please.”

“I have to poppet. I’m not ready to be fired just yet, and my mean old boss won’t let me take any more holiday.”

Sky clung tightly to Claire’s neck, and she was conscious of a warm sensation deep in her heart. She no longer wanted to shake her off.

“I’ll be back soon. You take care of your Mummy, okay, and do what Nana tells you. I’ll call and find out what your teacher thought of your story.”

Pulling the thin arms away from her neck as gently as she could, Claire took Sky’s hand and led her back to sit with Nana. Then with a quick wave and no more words, she hurried from the room, swallowing down the lump stuck deep in her throat.

***

Liebster Blogging Award and the Very Inspiring Blogger Award

Thank you Rinelle for my Award

Way back in March I was nominated by Kelly at Free Little Words for the Very Inspiring Blogger award (my second nomination) and I confess I didn’t have capacity to accept the award, despite my best intentions. Since then I have also been nominated for the Liebster Blogging Award, by Rinelle Grey (gosh, that was a month ago too! How time flies). I haven’t received the Liebster Award before.

Therefore in today’s post I would like to thank Kelly for her nomination, and also thank Rinelle Grey for hers. I will respond only to the Liebster Award, as I would nominate the same blogs for both awards anyway!

What is the Liebster Blog Award?

The Liebster Blog Award is given to up and coming bloggers who have less than 200 followers. “Liebster” is German for “favorite”. The rules of this award say I need to give 11 random facts about me, answer 11 questions asked by the person who gave me the award, and nominate 11 bloggers with less than 200 subscribers.

11 Random Facts about Me:

I’m a Libran, born in October, and I sit on the fence so much I have splinters
I always swore I was a paper-book person and couldn’t see the point of ereaders – until I bought an iPad. *Blushes*
I was born and live in the UK but I spent 12 months travelling, working and living in New Zealand. A little part of my heart is still in Dunedin.
I once learned British Sign Language, as part of a qualification I was trying to get. I love it now when my kids watch Something Special (a UK children’s programme that teaches sign language) although I remember virtually none of the signs myself anymore
I trained as a First Aider and discovered the sight of blood makes me sick
I love stargazer lilies but my husband hates them and they’re not allowed in the house. The lilies in my wedding bouquet had to be unscented
I once took the carburettor off my car and took it home in a bag for my stepdad to fix, before returning and putting it back on the car (it still worked). Now I have a husband for that kind of stuff!
I love plants and want a beautiful garden but I have the opposite of green fingers: plants come to our house to die.
I’m a rubbish cook.
I read Clarissa by Samuel Richardson as part of my English Masters – one of the longest novels in the English Language at nearly 1 million words. Two months of my life I’ll never get back! J
I wrote my English Masters dissertation on Marriage and Divorce in Eighteenth Century Novels – and handed it in the week before I got married!

Answers to Rinelle’s 11 questions:

What pets do you have?

We have one dog, called Kara. She’s a labradoodle, big on curly hair, crazy behaviour and eating cheese.

What’s your favourite food?

Biscuits. Chocolate Chip ones preferably.

Do you prefer sunrise or sunset?

I like both but since having kids I’ll stick with sunsets please. If they sleep past sunrise that’s a good day.

If someone gave you $1000, what shop would you hit first?

Kids’ toy shop. I love buying things for my children. Pre-kids it would have been books or nicknacks for the home.

Who is the most important person/people in your life?

My husband and children, no question.

What is your biggest personal achievement?

It’s a tie between being a Mummy and publishing a book on Amazon. Both things I thought I’d never do, certainly never do well, and yet here I am!

Do you have a goal for this year? If so, what is it?

Yes, I’m doing a daily blog challenge, writing a novel in daily instalments on my blog.

What’s your favourite computer game?

I don’t play games on the computer. I used to play Tetras and I liked platform games like Tomb Raider when I was younger. Now that ‘down time’ urge is taken up with Facebook and Twitter.

What sort of camera do you use?

Whatever’s to hand most of the time – my Nokia phone / the iPad mostly. My pride and joy is my SLR Canon 40D which I just paid £200 to have repaired after my youngest dropped it on the floor. Needless to say I don’t use it that often any more.

What’s your favourite YouTube video?

Charlie Bit Me (inexplicably funny) or Fenton the Dog (also funny, though I do wince because it’s the kind of thing my dog would do)

If you could meet anyone, living or dead, who would it be?

This is a really tough question because I often think it would be a terrible disappointment to meet our idols (living or dead) and find out they were nothing like we imagined. I think I’d like to meet the current Doctor Who (Matt Smith) as Doctor Who. He could whisk me off in the blue box, although I would make a terrible Companion because I’m a scaredy-cat!

In return, I nominate the following blogs:

I am meant to nominate blogs with fewer than 200 followers. That’s tricky because many of the great blogs I follow have followers in the thousands. So I’ve gone for the blogs I think probably do, and for the ones I really love that still have followers in the low hundreds, as this is effectively my Favourite Blogs award! There is no obligation to accept!

1 http://fancythatfancythis.com/

2 http://mummylovestowrite.com/

3 http://rinellegrey.com/ (I know she nominated me, but this should still be here!)

4 http://kenthinksaloud.wordpress.com/

5 http://blogaboutwriting.wordpress.com/

6 http://speakhappiness.wordpress.com/

7 http://findingmycreature.wordpress.com/

8 http://apprenticenevermaster.wordpress.com/

9 http://theclotheslineie.wordpress.com/

10 http://ascenicroute.wordpress.com/

11 http://rmbenson.wordpress.com/

These are all brilliant blogs, for various reasons and across loads of topics. They’re all worth a visit.

If you do choose to accept, here is what you need to do:

Post the award on your blogs
Thank the blogger(s) who gave you the award and link back to their site
Post 11 random facts about yourself
Answer 11 questions that the presenter of the award has asked
Nominate 11 new bloggers with fewer than 200 followers that you want to pass the award to
Ask your nominees 11 questions

Finally, my 11 questions for the nominees:

What can you see out your window as you respond to this?
What is a perfect Sunday?
What was the last book you read (or movie you watched) that stayed with you after the end?
Twitter or Facebook?
What did you want to be, when you were seven?
What was the last thing that made you laugh until you cried?
Where’s the furthest place you’ve been from home?
What did you eat for breakfast?
Are you a lark or an owl?
What song do you play to cheer you up?
(I’m going to steal this one from Matt Haig’s The Humans Twitter campaign): What advice would you give to a fellow human?

Cheeky Characters: 2013 365 Challenge #135

Dad playing the fool

Characters are like children: they are a part of you, and you steer and shape them, but much of the time they don’t do what they’re told.

I wrote two or three scenes together yesterday, as I’m desperately trying to get ahead in case we don’t have internet access on holiday. Writing one installment at a time keeps the characters mostly under control, as I put them in a situation with a clear purpose.

When I let the writing flow, though, they can sneak off and do their own thing. In a normal first draft that’s fine because if they end up changing too much it’s possible to go back and reintroduce the new character traits. Writing in daily installments, knowing the first four books are published and unchangeable, makes it much harder.

I have a new-found respect for authors like Charles Dickens, writing serious literature in serial form.

My lovely dad

Not only do I have to remember what the characters are like and what they’ve said and done – I also can’t really change it.

The person who has morphed in today’s installment is Claire’s Dad. He’s middle class through and through, and he’s taciturn, uptight, distant: but all of a sudden he started chatting away and I didn’t have the heart to stop him. I wonder if he’s channeling my memories of my Dad, after the pictures I used of him recently.

That’s always the danger. Stuff seeps into the subconscious. It’s why it’s not a good idea to read in the genre you’re writing as you pen a first draft. Too easy to plagiarise ideas and not even be aware of it.

I like the new version of Claire’s dad, though, and I think sometimes people can surprise you. So I’ll let him stay and hope readers are forgiving of a little shift from expectation. After all, the characters are in charge!

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When the door closed behind his son, Claire’s father seemed to relax and become smaller, shorter. It was as if he had maintained some act of standing tall in Robert’s presence that he didn’t need to continue in front of Claire.

“Cup of tea, Dad?”

Her father turned and smiled, a twinkle in his eye. “Yes, love. Now he’s gone maybe we can have a proper natter. Feels like having my old boss in the house, with him in his suit and tie. Doesn’t the boy ever relax?”

Claire grinned, feeling like a collaborator. “He’s got a lot on his mind, I guess.”

“Yes, that stuck up cow of a wife is giving him a hard time, from what I can gather.”

“Dad!” Claire stared, open-mouthed, as her father shuffled into the lounge and settled in his favourite chair. She followed him in, perching on the sofa, all thought of making tea forgotten.

“Well, don’t tell me you like her? I don’t suppose you’ve visited once since the wedding: silly pretentious affair that it was.”

Claire wondered when aliens had come and kidnapped her father. He was the one always a stickler for formality. When he was working, chief financial officer of some major company or other, he’d seemed so stiff and unapproachable. She’d never seen this side to him, lounging in a comfy chair having a gossip.

In fact, I never see him at all normally. Last time I was home he was off playing golf all the time. She thought about his question. When had she last seen Francesca and the boys?

“I Skype now and then, on the boys’ birthdays. If I remember.”

“Ah, yes. Easy to put on a front on the phone. Even with that new-fangled thing that allows you to see the other person.” He shuddered, as if the future made him uncomfortable.

“The truth is in what Robert doesn’t say. Never talks about her, you know. Nor about the boys much. It’s all work, work, work. Well, I gave all that up. Glad to see the back of it, too.”

Claire raised her eyebrows. “I thought you hated leaving your job? Mum says you’re never here. I guessed you were busy with non-exec roles, that kind of thing.”

Her father’s face flushed, and he looked towards the door, as if expecting to see his wife enter at any moment. Then he turned back to Claire and his face was conspiratorial. “Don’t tell your mother, but I’m usually at the library.”

Claire felt like a clown that had just been splatted in the face by a custard pie. “The library? Why? Mum says you play golf, when you’re not working.”

“Golf? Whatever for? Stupid game. I go to the club sometimes, to catch up with the old boys. Really, though, what’s that thing Twain was meant to have said? ‘A good walk spoiled.’ No I’ve been doing research.”

Settling back into the sofa, Claire leaned on the arm so she could face her father. “Research for what?”

“I’m writing a book.” He beamed, like a child admitting they’d won first prize in a competition. “Your mother would think it was foolish, so I haven’t told her. She’s so busy keeping up with the Jones’s and doing her WI things. She would think it awfully common to be writing a book.” He frowned. “You won’t tell her, will you?”

Claire’s mind whirled with the flood of new information. She felt like she had never truly known her father. Either that or her first surmise was right, and aliens had kidnapped Gerald Carleton and replaced him with someone new.

“Of course I won’t tell Mum, if you don’t want me to. What’s the book about?” She expected him to say Business Finance, or Military Strategies in the Second World War.

“It’s a thriller. I’ve been having writing lessons. You know, one of those free Adult Learning courses they do at the college? They say everyone has a book in them. I think mine’s tending towards a Grisham.”

Laughter built in Claire’s chest for the first time in days. She threw her head back and the sound filled the empty magnolia room, rolling off the walls.

“Oh Dad, that’s brilliant. Can I read it?”

“It’s not finished yet.” He looked furtive. “You won’t tell your mother,” he repeated.

“Why not? It’s great that you’re doing something with your time, now you’re retired. Maybe Mum could proof-read it. She did used to be a secretary.”

That was how her parents had met. Her mother had been her father’s secretary, just to prove that clichés did happen in real life.

“Lord no, I couldn’t do that. She hates being reminded of the past. Between you and me, I think it makes her feel uncomfortable, as if she’s a fraud.” He gestured at the room. “Take this house. It’s got no warmth, but she’s so afraid of it turning into her Mother’s house, full of tat and mess and pictures. As if clutter somehow makes you working class.”

His words, said in a thoughtful tone, amazed Claire. Who knew the old man was so astute? It came as a surprise to think there were busy thoughts going on behind her father’s placid face. He’d always been in the background of her life, rarely getting involved in the day to day events. Now he seemed to come alive, three-dimensional and vivid before her.

“Anyway, girl, how about that tea? And then I suppose you best be getting on your way. You’ll be stuck awhile chatting at Ruth’s and you don’t want to drive to a new hostel in the dark.”

Almost numb to the shock of fresh revelations, Claire knew she shouldn’t be surprised that her father knew she was booked into a hostel for the night, and needed to drive by Ruth’s place to say her farewells. Carl had agreed to only the week’s holiday and, with Sky returning to school in the morning, her presence was no longer required.

“Okay, Dad. Coming right up.”

***

Fun Farm Animals: 2013 365 Challenge #134

Meeting Charlie the cockerel at a Kid’s Birthday Party

Aaron took a picture of him holding a cockerel into nursery today. It was taken at the birthday party he went to on Sunday and he’s very proud of it, though quick to tell you the bird’s talons hurt his arm.

It was a great party. The parents had booked this Ark thing, where a bunch of farmyard animals are brought in and penned in the garden for the children to stroke.

It was lovely for Aaron to get into the enclosure with the animals and have unlimited access instead of trying to reach them through a barrier, as he normally has to do at the Farm.

Meeting Esme and Pig

It was the kind of thing I would love to do as a business if I had the motivation, space, money, expertise. Letting children learn about animals and not be afraid of them. It’s hard to be afraid of a pygmy goat called Esme, in a red halter, standing on the back of a sleeping pig, then snuggling up against her to keep warm in the rain.

It was a good reminder of the intelligence of pigs, too, as the pig only woke to move under the gazebo out of the rain. It’s not hard to see why so many children’s books are written about farm animals. They have such a repertoire of personalities and a diverse range of looks and mannerisms but they all live together mostly harmoniously. They’re not trying to eat each other and only the horned ones (sheep and goats) seems to get grumpy and physical.

Giving the dog a cuddle

Seeing the dynamic between the bantam chickens that kept escaping into the flower bed, the friendly but hungry pony, the sleepy pig and snuggly goat, it was a children’s book waiting to be penned.

Picture books have fascinated me since I started reading a dozen or two a week to the kids. The difference between the awful and the great is hard to define and the opinion seems to differ between adult and child!

I’ve long wanted to have a go doing one, both the words and the illustrations. It’s on the list of projects!

If I do write a picture book about farm animals it might have to include the grumpy man in charge and his two brow-beaten, terrified-looking children. I will write them a happy ending. Something like in Farmer Duck! (One of mine and the kids’ favourite books).

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Claire folded her cleaned and ironed clothes and stuffed them deep into her rucksack, hoping her mother didn’t notice. I can’t believe Mum did all this for me. She hasn’t washed my stuff since I was about twelve. If the Boarding School didn’t do it, then I had to do it myself.

Looking round her old room, Claire shivered at an unexpected wave of nostalgia. It had felt like old times, with her and Robert both staying in their parents’ house for the weekend.

Claire had spent the first few days of Ruth’s hospital stay in her sister’s house, caring for Sky. Once the doctors had given the all clear for Ruth to return home, Claire had agreed to stay at her parents’ house to keep an eye on her brother and father, while their mother resumed her care of Sky and Ruth.

The idea of returning to her hostelling journey felt wrong. Promoting an outdoorsy lifestyle had been odd from the beginning, but now – with her sister fighting cancer – it felt utterly pointless.

Whatever you try and do in life, there is always something that can knock you flat. Look at Ruth: ever since she had Sky she’s been a health freak, eating broccoli and giving up the ciggies and wine. Fat lot of good it did her.

“Claire, I’m about to leave.”

Robert’s voice called up the stairs, echoing round the empty hallway. Another strange sensation twisted in Claire’s stomach. I’ve spent more time with Robert this past week than I have in a decade.

Not that there had been much chance to chat. Robert had locked himself in the dining room with his laptop, when he wasn’t visiting the hospital or speaking to the doctors. Claire had been glad of his presence for that reason alone, as he managed the intimidating people responsible for Ruth’s care much better than she felt she would have done.

An image of Josh floated into her mind. I wonder if he becomes super-scary when he dons a white coat? I can’t imagine it. Maybe doctors that care for children are more approachable.

She’d tried to talk to Robert over dinner the previous night, the first time they had eaten together all week. The nagging feeling that all wasn’t right between him and Francesca still haunted her, but – despite increasingly unsubtle questioning – Robert had refused to give anything away.

It had become a game, watching his face close up whenever the subject of marriage, family or children arose. He would either deflect the question back to Claire and her perpetually single and childless state, or he would frown and change the subject completely. Through it all their father sat silent, chewing his food and gazing at the salt pot.

Claire pulled the rucksack closed and propped it against the wall. Galloping down the stairs, she arrived just as Robert was about to call again.

“I have to go,” he said, his tone defensive despite Claire’s silence. “My flight is in a couple of hours and I have to get the hire car back to the airport.”

Biting back a retort, Claire smiled and gave her brother a brief hug. “I know. Give my love to Francesca and the boys. I really will come out for a visit.” She watched his face, trying to gauge his response. He merely nodded.

He probably knows there’s as much chance of me staying with them in Geneva as there is Mum and Dad taking up salsa. Maybe if they lived near a beach or something.

Robert shook hands with his father. “Say goodbye to Mum for me, and let me know if anything changes with Ruth.”

He raised a hand in farewell and gathered up his briefcase and wheeled bag. Claire watched him go, shirt and tie in place, clean shaven and spotless, and wondered what had happened to the brother she remembered from old. The one who came home with blood pouring from a grazed knee, or built rocket ships out of cereal boxes.

I wonder what his boys are like. Maybe I will go and visit. I do need to work at being a better Auntie. Besides, then I can suss the gossip for myself.

***

Calming Coffee Shops: 2013 365 Challenge #133

Starting the Day with a Latte, like Claire

I love sitting in coffee shops to write. They are relaxing places: there is no housework, or staring dog begging for a walk. Sometimes I don’t get much writing done though, because I’m too busy eavesdropping on other people’s conversations.

This carries on from yesterday’s post on ‘Stealing memories’. Is it bad to eavesdrop on other people’s discussions and then steal some of their dialogue or mannerisms, filing them away for later?

I’ve been known to transcribe a conversation almost verbatim, so I could get a feel for the rhythm of the dialogue. I feel like a spy!

This morning I am meant to be writing my Claire post, having not had the energy to go near it last night, after a weekend of Farm visits and Children’s Parties.

Oundle town centre

In fact I went to bed at 9.30pm aiming for a good night’s sleep to try and staunch the endless tears of tiredness, which would have worked well if Hubbie hadn’t come to bed at 1am, Amber crawled into bed with us at 3am then woke again at 4am! So, I need to write about Claire, but I’m too rung out and tired and easily distracted. I’ve come to a different coffee shop to my usual one, because I knew this one would be quiet and more conducive to writing. Unfortunately it’s too quiet and the chatter is harder to tune out.

Instead of working, therefore, I am listening.

Directly opposite me, as I sit on the leather sofa with my laptop on my knee, there are two women, one with a small child in a pushchair. The women are talking about artificial flavourings in food and how they teach children to expect strong-flavours and not appreciate real food.

The women are German. I’m interested to learn that children don’t go to school until six in Germany, and that their children had never before had baked beans or jacket potatoes (I hadn’t realised they were such British things). I love details like that.

At a table in the window sit a couple of ‘old boys’ who have been to the market and are enjoying a drink together watching the world go by. The distinctive blue carrier bags used by the veg stall cluster round their feet. ‘Old boys’ make me a bit sad because they remind me of my dad. He never really got to be ‘old’, as he died before he reached sixty.

Sometimes, though, I see men and want to adopt them. Like the man who has just cycled into town to do his shopping at the market and discovered he’s forgotten his wallet. I want to drive him home to collect it.

View from the coffee shop

I saw a man in a wheelchair at the Farm last week that made me think that’s what Dad would have looked like at eighty. He was having such a blast feeding the goats from his wheelchair, I felt a stab of nostalgia, although I wonder if I would have had the time and energy to push him round while caring for my young children. I did keep grinning at him, though. He probably thought I was nuts.

Outside the window the sun is casting shadows of dancing leaves against the pale yellow sandstone brick of the school buildings. Coffee shops can be such peaceful places. A little patch of calm and a microcosm of the world around, or certainly my tiny part in it. Part of me looks forward to the day when I can come to a coffee shop and just sit rather than busily typing away with my head down and my back to the world.

Right now, I’m trying not to listen to the German women talking about kids and food. I know my kids don’t have the best of diets – they spent the weekend eating rubbish for various reasons – but I’m just about okay with it. It doesn’t mean I don’t feel guilty listening to how hard other mothers try to get vegetables in their little ones! Sometimes eavesdropping isn’t a great idea. Let’s get on with Claire!

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Claire sensed trouble the moment she entered Ruth’s room. A whole day without Sky spilling the beans was apparently more than fate thought she deserved. Pushing aside the argument she’d just had with Julia, about booking a week’s holiday from work, Claire took a deep breath and entered the arena.

“There you are, Claire. Sky’s just been telling me all about her baby sister. Would you care to elaborate? At what point were you going to share this element of your expedition?”

Oh crap she’s gone all school teacher on me. Ruth’s school-ma’m manner usually irritated Claire but it was such a relief to see her sister back to her normal self she smiled. It was a mistake.

“You think it’s amusing, do you? Cavorting with my Ex and that…” She grasped for a PG-rated word. “That harpy.”

Great insult, Claire applauded internally. Sometimes she forgot how smart Ruth was and that she’d also studied the Arts. It was too easy to remember the big sister who mucked about and got into trouble.

“I wasn’t smiling at that, just glad to see you with some fight in you. And I don’t think she’s a harpy.”

Claire realised the idiocy of her words as she watched Ruth’s face lose any hint of ashen pallor and turn a dangerous hue of red. She struggled against years of habit and forced herself not to fight back. Instead she perched on the bed, prepared to be conciliating.

“Sorry.” She reached a hand towards Ruth, and dropped it again at the expression on her face. “All I meant was perhaps now isn’t the time to discuss the merits of the woman.”

Claire looked meaningfully over at Sky and almost laughed again at the mixture of shock and glee on the girl’s face. Her Mum and Auntie scrapping like school kids was high entertainment.

“The truth is I didn’t tell you because I knew this would be your reaction and I wanted to tell you when you were better. The meeting was accidental,” The first one at least, Claire thought guiltily, “And I gave Chris both barrels, I promise you. Then he produced the child. Sky should know her sister, particularly –” She stopped, unable to continue. Ruth’s face resumed the colour of milk and her eyes dilated in horror.

Claire felt sick. Oh God, that’s going to finish her off. The idea of Sky living with her Ex, the woman that betrayed her and their new baby is not something Ruth is strong enough to handle. Then another thought drifted into Claire’s mind. The kind of horrible thought that couldn’t be undone. Maybe this will give her what she needs to fight the illness. The knowledge that, if she dies, Sky will go to them.

Similar ideas appeared to fill her sister’s brain. Her face contorted as she processed too many unwelcome images. Pressing her lips into a tight line, Ruth glanced at her daughter then back to Claire.

“We can talk about it later.”

Claire had enough sense to recognise the finality in her sister’s voice and dropped the discussion. Sky didn’t.

“Does that mean I can see Daddy and the baby again, Mummy? Please. I won’t talk to the harpy.”

Claire stifled a snigger. She’s sharp that child. Either that or she’s vicious.

Cornered, Ruth just shrugged. “As long as I don’t have to bear witness.”

Claire wasn’t sure if that was a concession or a way of saying over my dead body. It was no longer a phrase to be thrown around lightly. Let’s hope it never comes to that.

***

Coffe Shop Secrets (adithyaentertainment.wordpress.com)
My Coffee Shop (cealiajane.wordpress.com)
C.a.l.m. (quenphil.wordpress.com)

Stealing Memories: 2013 365 Challenge #132

Dad in Mount Vernon receiving chemo

As a writer it is difficult to know how much to borrow from the people around you. I often have stabs of conscience regarding writing about the children on my blog, particularly as I use their names (I’m not a big fan of calling them child 1 / child 2 or anything).

I rarely share stuff about my husband or friends, particularly not names or specifics. But utilising stories, that’s different. I need other people’s lives and experiences. I have a great set of my own memories to draw upon – I’ve had a varied and not always easy life – but there are also many things I haven’t done that my friends have.

I have a doctor friend, two teacher friends, a nurse. They share titbits about their lives that I end up weaving into stories. Never the exact tale, certainly never exact people, but definitely flavours. And it does make me feel uncomfortable. How else to find stories though?

My Dad how I like to remember him

Right now I am borrowing my husband’s memories, combined with my own, to write Ruth’s story in Two-Hundred Steps Home. My father suffered from cancer and eventually lost his battle (not specifically with cancer, but associated complications). My relationship with my father was rocky, though, and I live more with the guilt of not doing enough, than with the memories of caring for him. If I’m honest I could have done more and been with him more, but he didn’t want to burden us with how bad it really was and it was too easy to take him at his word.

My husband lost his mother to a brain tumour, a year or two before I met him. They were very close and he felt the loss deeply. He has spoken of it many times and the memories of his last few months with her are raw and beautiful.

I haven’t recreated either scenario completely in Two-Hundred Steps Home (or in the Nanowrimo manuscript I wrote last November, that also features hospital scenes), but I do ask Hubbie about details to make my stories authentic. It feels wrong, though, to ask personal questions just for the sake of my writing. When does it stop being acceptable and become a bit icky? I suppose that’s one of the many unanswerable questions that comes with being a writer.

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“Mummy, Auntie Claire says she’ll pay for me to go to ballet again, can I go, can I, please?”

Sky’s rush of words made Claire’s tummy squirm. She looked up guiltily at Ruth, remembering her thoughts about why the ballet lessons had stopped. Don’t say anything spiteful about the ballet teacher, for goodness sake. Then Sky is bound to tell you she met up with her father and said ballet teacher’s baby.

The morning with Sky and Ruth had not been an easy one. Sky’s chatter, irritating at the best of times, came with the added burden of fear, worrying what titbit from her ten days with Claire she might toss out for Ruth’s entertainment. On top of that, Claire could see her sister was sagging under the weight of endless words, but didn’t want to let her daughter out of her sight.

Mouthing, “Sorry,” at Ruth, Claire fished in her handbag for the iPad. “Sky, poppet, would you like to play that word game I downloaded for you, so your Mummy can have a rest?”

Sky’s head spun quickly, her hair whipping Ruth across the face. She scrambled off the bed and climbed onto the pull-down mattress next to Claire. “Can I paint nails instead? Pleeeeease.”

Claire’s cheeks flushed red-hot in the stuffy room. Great, now Ruth’s going to blame me for letting Sky play silly computer games. This isn’t how it was supposed to go: I was meant to drop her back home and carry on with my assignment, not sit and listen to all my Auntie-Fails being revealed.

She studied Ruth’s face to see what level of censure it contained, and exhaled in relief at the sight of her closed eyes. Poor thing. I find Sky exhausting, and I’m not sick.

Silence spread through the room, punctuated only by the buzzing light and the whir of technology monitoring Ruth’s life-signs. Claire let her mind drift, wondering where Robert had disappeared to, and whether Carl had noticed yet that she hadn’t blogged a new hostel.

I’ll have to call in and book this week as holiday. I have no idea how long Ruth is going to be in here and it doesn’t seem right to dash off to whatever remote destination boasts the nearest hostel. Carl will just have to sod off.

Settling back against the wall, Claire shifted until she was vaguely comfortable, then she followed Ruth’s example and closed her eyes.

When Claire woke, Sky was no longer sat next to her on the bed. Heart hammering in panic, she flicked her gaze towards Ruth’s bed. Ruth was still sleeping, but her daughter wasn’t with her. Rising slowly, trying not to disturb her sister, Claire crept from the room and prayed her niece was out in the corridor.

Maybe she’s gone for a wee. Yes, that must be it. Claire trotted to the ladies and called out for Sky. When there was no answer, she went back to the nurses’ station and asked if they’d seen a blonde child.

“Yes, she went up to the canteen with the man that came in this morning. Mr Carleton? Is that Ms Carleton’s husband?”

Claire frowned, wondering if Chris had come to the hospital. How would he know? I can’t believe Ruth would have called him. Then the penny dropped. Mr Carleton. Robert, of course.

With a smile she shook her head at the nurse’s assumption. “No, that’s our brother. He flew in from Geneva this morning.” Another thought teased into her brain, scratching at her mind like a briar. Mr Carleton? Not Mr Carleton-Bise? Since when did he drop Francesca’s surname? I thought they loved that whole double-barrelled thing.

Claire’s mind whirled with conjecture as she walked the now-familiar route to the canteen. I wonder if everything is alright with him and Francesca. She recalled their conversation over coffee what seemed like days ago but in reality was only that morning. Now I think about it, he was acting a bit odd. It made the knots in her stomach tighten even more. Robert and Francesca had been together since she was a teenager. The idea that anything could shake their marriage gave her the shivers.

***

Finding the Words for Wonder: 2013 365 Challenge #131

Walking Kara across the fields

Walking the dog is my escape and at the moment it’s a glorious one. The fields are full of oil seed rape, which normally gives me horrific hay-fever but this year doesn’t seem to be affecting me (famous last words!).

The trees are laden with blossom, which the wind drives down across the ground like snow. The trees are newly decked in summer glory in a hundred shades of green. The sun throws shadows across the hard ground as the branches dance in the breeze. Across the sky flocks of clouds skip and frolic like new-born lambs.

It makes me want to be poetic, lyrical. To write beautiful prose extolling the virtues of the British summer countryside. I search my sleep-deprived brain for words more succinct than “Wow”. They’re hard to find, in the foggy space that has become my interior landscape.

Beautiful British Countryside

It reminds me of when I was a second-year university student and I pulled all-nighters (sometimes all-weekers) surviving on Diet Coke, Marlboro Lights and Frosties (a sugar-laden cereal for the non-British readers). I’d stumble into our communal kitchen in our dingy, dirty, run-down mid-terrace, and pump my more-awake housemates for better language:

“What’s another way to say ‘Stalin was pissed off?'” or “What’s that word, you know, the one that means the um, whatdoyacallit, Army, er took over the, um, took over from the people in charge.” (The answer is Coup, if you understood the question).

Why is it that language is the first thing that goes when you’re tired? My children always say, “Mummy you’re tired,” or “Mummy, you’re all full up,” when I get their names muddled up. The irony is my mind is often at its most creative when I’m exhausted. If only I could find the words to describe it all.

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“How’s Sky? I hoped she’d be here. I miss her like a lost limb.” Ruth’s quiet voice filled the room.

“She’ll be in shortly. I rang Mum when you woke up. She’s missed you, too.” Claire watched Ruth’s complexion turn from deathly white to just pale and felt her own pulse steady in relief.

“Sounds like you guys had too much fun for her to want her boring old Mummy. Every time I spoke to her you were off somewhere new.”

Claire didn’t miss the bitterness in her sister’s voice. “That’s because I had no idea what else to do with her. I’m not good with kids like you. And the endless chatter and questions, my goodness it could drive a person loopy!” Claire stopped, realising it sounded too much like she was criticising her niece. A quick glance at Ruth’s face reassured her,.

“I know, it can be a bit relentless, especially in the holidays. That’s the problem when there isn’t another parent to share the load. I don’t mind too much, though. She’s good company.”

Claire thought about Ruth bringing Sky up alone; the bond they must share. It also brought to mind Sky’s meeting with her father in Norfolk. When the hell am I going to break that news to Ruth? Something must have shown in her face because Ruth tried to sit up, a frown creasing her translucent skin.

“What is it?”

Claire hesitated, not feeling comfortable lying to her sister but unsure how to get past the question. Ruth held her gaze, her eyes sparkling bright against her ashen face. As the tension stretched between them, Claire became aware of the chemical smell in the room from Ruth’s chemo, overlaid by the scent of perfume. The overhead light buzzed at the edge of hearing, as irritating as a fly.

Ruth inhaled and Claire tensed, waiting for the repeated question. A sound tip-tapped at the edge of her hearing and she recognised the rhythm of running footsteps. She turned to the door just as the handle rattled. All tension drained from the room as Claire jumped like a teenager watching a Stephen King movie.

“Mummy, Mummy.” Sky called through the door, trying unsuccessfully to release the handle. Claire stood to open the door, but relaxed back on the bed as it swung inward and Sky came barrelling into the room. Claire’s mother stood in the doorway, dark circles visible beneath her eyes in the lurid hospital lighting.

Poor Mum, she must be exhausted. I’ve only had Sky for ten days and I’m beat. She’s been looking after Ruth and Sky for weeks.

“Come and sit down, Mum.” Claire patted the bed next to her. It was the only free space in the room.

“Thank you, but I’m going to head back home and make sure your father is okay. Has Robert arrived yet?”

“Yes, a few hours ago. I’m surprised you didn’t see him, he was out there talking to the doctors.” She jerked her chin at the corridor behind her mother.

Her mother shook her head and shrugged. “Robert will be off somewhere finding out all the details I’ve missed.” Her voice was a mixture of rancour and relief. Robert had that effect on people.

Claire looked over to where Ruth and Sky lay cuddled together on the bed. She wondered if she could risk leaving them for long enough to take a shower and find a fresh outfit in the car. Unusually her mother seemed to sense the dilemma. Catching Claire’s gaze, she smiled wearily.

“Go on. Get cleaned up. I’ll stay for a while and make sure Sky doesn’t wear Ruth out.”

A lump pushed up into Claire’s throat and she swallowed hard against it. Not trusting herself to speak she stood up and headed for the door, rubbing her mother’s arm as she walked past.

Striding down the long white hallway, looking for the exit, Claire felt like someone searching for the way out of a labyrinth.

***

“I’m Just…” 2013 365 Challenge #130

I’m Just Finishing my Lunch Mummy

One of the things I’ve discovered since spending many hours a week writing for a living (and since having children) is that I have lots of phrases and words that I say too often, without realising it.

I noticed it from the children first, when phrases like “that’s so random” started coming out of my daughter’s mouth.

I haven’t tallied it, that would be too depressing, but I imagine I say it a dozen times a day. That at least is quite cute coming from a four-year-old. There are other phrases, some repeatable, some not, that I’d rather my kids hadn’t learned.

Phrases crop up in my writing too. I’m considerably more aware of them since starting the daily blog, because I’m also editing every day. In the past editing happened in chunks, I would use ‘find/replace’ to remove evil, repetitive words, and they would disappear from my mind. Words like “Wow” and “Absolutely” spring to mind. I say them, I write them. Far too often.

I’m Just looking at these gnomes and flowers Mummy

If only speech was as easy to edit as a manuscript. If I could ‘find/replace’ in my head and remove all the annoying words from my speech. Because, then, I could stop my kids saying them.

The naughty words or bad phrases they pick up from me in my weaker moments are easily controlled because they come back rarely and then only to test me.

The harmless words, though, the ones that are simply annoying: they’re much harder to remove, from their mouths or mine.

At the moment the evil word is “Just”.

I suspect I say it a hundred times a day. Something like this:

Kids: “Mummy, sit with us!”

Mummy: “I’m just going to stack the dishwasher/make a cuppa/ put the dog out”

I’m sure “Just a minute” is a standard parenting phrase, however horrible. Only, now the tables are turned. It’s:

Mummy: “Time to go kids, put your shoes on.”

Kids: “I’m just finding my toy/ making my bed/ putting this irrelevant thing into this box.”

Knowing you started it makes it no less frustrating. More so in fact. Now every time I hear myself saying “Just”, I cringe and attempt to think of another word. I’m as self-conscious in my speech as I am becoming in my writing, through editing Claire every day. I just need to think of different words, then I just need to say them often enough that the kids just forget they ever heard the word just. Hmmm.

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Claire stood chewing a fingernail, watching the two men talking through the small pane of glass in the door. A knot behind her ribs throbbed in time with the ache in the back of her skull. I should probably drink something other than caffeine before my head caves in.

She could hear Ruth breathing softly behind her. The sound was no longer comforting. Her sister hadn’t woken once in the twelve hours and more since Claire had arrived at the hospital. She studied the faces of the doctor and her brother, trying to guess the gist of their conversation from their expressions.

Both looked serious but Claire knew that was Robert’s habitual expression, and tried not to let it twist the knot ever tighter in her tummy. The room closed in around her, hot and muggy. Claire had already tried the window but it didn’t open.

What do they think Ruth will do, try and shimmy down the drainpipe and run for freedom. Or maybe someone will climb up four stories and break in to steal the personal effects of a sick person. There must be easier methods of security.

A dry cough behind her caused Claire to spin round. Grasping the wall to steady herself as lack of sleep and too much caffeine made her head spin, Claire peered at the lump of sheets on the bed to see if Ruth was awake. There seemed no life and for a moment Claire felt her own heart stop. Don’t let her be dead, I couldn’t stand it. Not on my watch. Not ever.

With a push against the wall, Claire propelled herself towards the bed, slumping onto the pull down mattress before her knees betrayed her.

“Ruth? Can you hear me, sis?” And still the motionless silence dragged at the air, making it hard to breathe. Claire leaned closer, trying to see her sister’s face. It was turned into the pillow as if hiding from the brightness.

“Do you want me to turn out the light, Ruthie?” There was no response. Then Claire thought she could detect a flicker of movement, a flutter of eyelash. One eye flicked open, searched around, then closed again.

“Light’s fine.”

Claire exhaled loudly in relief.

“But, Claire…”

She waited, straining to hear the whisper of sound.

“If you’re going to lean so close after coffee, can you at least suck on a mint?””

Claire sat back in shock, heat flooding her face. Then she heard the dry coughing sound again and realised her sister was laughing. Feeling as high as helium, she began laughing too. She saw the doctor and Robert turn towards the sound, their matching frowns deepening. The sight only made Claire laugh harder.

***

Am I Sheep or Goat: 2013 365 Challenge #129

Feeding the Goats

We went back to Old Farm (Sacrewell Farm) today and it was lovely. I selected it because of suspected rain (there’s more to do indoors) and because I needed to be home mid afternoon for the shopping delivery.

The children have been hankering for New Farm (West Lodge) but I think that’s the novelty factor. I’m enjoying the familiarity of Sacrewell and the timely reminder that new isn’t necessarily better.

It’s too easy to let familiarity breed contempt or to need there to be a better and less better in everything. I think that’s preschooler behaviour rubbing off (or maybe they’re like that because of me). It’s like parenting, when one person’s way needs to be better than another’s: we can’t all just be different.

I filled out all the school forms this morning for daughter’s start in September and it was hard not to be swept up into the parental discussions and to be swayed by the opinions of others. I guess that’s only going to get harder the older the children get. Mostly I’m okay with my choices but when there are parents, teachers and other professionals telling me otherwise, how will I fare? Will I stick to my guns, as I did today bringing the children to Old Farm against protest, or will I be swayed by majority opinion, strong personalities or the will of others? Will I be a sheep or a goat? Hmmm might be time to learn some of my children’s stubbornness!

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“How are Francesca and the boys?”

Robert looked up from his coffee as if the question surprised him. “Fine. They’re fine.”

He looks uncomfortable? What’s that all about? “Did they come with you?”

“No.” The word shot out like a bullet. “No,” he said again, more softly. “Can’t take the boys out of school, you know.”

Claire tried to work out how old Jack and Alex were, and realised she had no idea. How can I not know the ages of my own nephews? I really am a rotten Auntie.

They sat in silence, sipping coffee and watching hospital staff stride in for their takeaway caffeine. A pocket of strained calm surrounded them and Claire was glad for her heavy eyes and foggy brain. There was no urge to fill the emptiness with conversation. Not that I’ve ever figured out what to say to Robert. You’d think by our age, a six-year gap between us would be irrelevant. Sometimes it feels like a hundred-year gap.

She looked at Robert, his uncrumpled shirt buttoned to the collar, despite the early hour and long journey. He looked like a nineteenth-century doctor, not a twenty-first century businessman. Whatever it is that he actually does over there in Geneva. I have no idea about that either.

“How is Ruth?”

Robert’s question startled her, and she spilt coffee across the table. Keeping her eyes focussed on mopping up the spreading liquid, Claire shrugged. “How much do you know?”

“Only what Mum told me on the phone, yesterday. That the cancer has spread and they need to change her treatment.” His matter-of-fact tone set Claire’s nerves on edge. She raised her head, about to expostulate, and saw the red tinge surrounding his eyes.

Dropping her head back to the table, away from the horrific image of her brother close to tears, Claire shrugged again. “You know as much as I do, then. I guess we’ll know more later, when the doctor has done his rounds.” In her mind she added, When you have spoken to the doctor. What were big brothers for, if not to deal with the authorities. Claire felt queasy at the idea of discussing her sister with the intimidating people bustling around the building. She waited, hoping Robert would pick up on her unspoken vibe.

“Right. I will speak to her doctors and discover what the situation is. Leave it to me.”

A week ago his assumption of control would have irritated her: Now she felt a rush of relief. For the first time in a very long time she was content to be treated as the baby of the family.

***