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!

_______________________________________________________________________________

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:

________________________________________________________________________________

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.

_______________________________________________________________________________

“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.

________________________________________________________________________________

“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.

________________________________________________________________________________

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!

________________________________________________________________________________

_______________________________________________________________________________

“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.

***

Boredom versus Bedlam: 2013 365 Challenge #128

My little darlings

Hubbie got back from his contract job this evening, shattered because he hadn’t had enough work to fill his day. Now I’ve been there, and there’s nothing more demoralising or exhausting than sitting at a desk trying to look busy, when you haven’t been in a company long enough to usefully fill your time. But still I can’t help but feel a teeny bit jealous. I know you always want what you can’t have, but I think I’d take boredom over bedlam. Well, maybe.

In comparison, today I’ve taken grumpy kids to the hairdresser and entertained one with the iPad while encouraging the other to sit still. I’ve visited play and stay and played cards and refereed between one child who wanted to stay and another who wanted to go. I’ve ferried kids to the park and divided my time between being ‘listening friend’ and ‘swing pusher, fight fixer, roundabout spinner and slide watcher.’ I’ve visited the dentist and tried to persuade two children to remove hands from mouth in exchange for a Nemo sticker. (One success, one fail). I’ve consoled a friend facing redundancy and another whose father went into a home on Sunday, both things that put my child-induced depression into perspective.

I’ve helped two kids make pizza pockets for tea and endured endless “That’s not how nursery do it” and “it’s too floppy” followed by distraught hysterics and a refusal to eat. I’ve stacked and unstacked the dishwasher, wiped up tomato sauce and fielded an hour of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang questions while also providing assistance with spelling apps on the iPad. I’ve swept sand and refilled watering cans fifty times and built castles to be stamped on.

Kids Creating bedlam

I’ve made tea for the play date visitor and blocked my ears to additional shouting and tears (and dealt with an hour of feeling like a terrible housewife because I choose to write novels rather than tidy and clean. You know, that loaded silence that tells you everything you need to know.)

I’ve kissed bruises, wiped faces and bums, smiled at soaked children and chided unofficial use of the hose. I’ve bought milk, walked and fed the dog, prepared dinner, sung bedtime songs and read stories, remembered to respond to a party invite and pick up a form from school. I’ve even done an online supermarket shop as we’ve run out of pretty much everything.

And even though I’m beat and ready for bed, and really want to lose myself in the book I’m reading, I’m about to sit for two hours and write about Claire. I’m not complaining – today was a good day, all in all. I’d take today over eight hours of sitting at a computer eeking out the meagre amount of work that has been provided. But even though I know it sucks and I hated it and would never go back, it’s hard not to be jealous at the idea of 8 hours of stationary, solitary, unencumbered boredom.

_______________________________________________________________________________

Machines beeped and whirred in the darkness. Claire lay on the narrow bed and stared at the lights, unable to sleep or even close her eyes. The regular sound of Ruth’s breathing filled the tiny room. It felt comforting. As long as she’s breathing, she’s still alive.

It didn’t matter what the doctors said: that Ruth was responding well to treatment, and would no doubt continue to respond well once they had established the extent to which the cancer had spread. That was her big sister, lying there on the bed. In a week she had aged a decade, her hair all gone, her skin almost translucent. What I wouldn’t give to hear her whinging about money or telling me off for letting Sky flirt with Jeff. Anything.

She hadn’t spoken to her sister since her arrival. Her mother had given her a brief and unexpected hug in the car park, where they had agreed to meet so that Sky’s sleeping form could be transferred to her Nana’s car. Claire remembered the emptiness in her mother’s eyes that belied the upbeat words she managed to form with trembling lips. Unable to say all she felt, Claire had nodded in agreement at the request to spend the night, and had kissed Sky farewell. Since then she had lain on the uncomfortable mattress and watched the rise and fall of Ruth’s heartbeat on the monitor.

Something moved in the dark and Claire was immediately on alert, adrenalin coursing through her arteries readying her for action. Ruth sighed gently and shifted position on the bed. The graph on the screen fluctuated then settled back into its steady rhythm, like the beating heart of a giant oak. Claire looked at the arms lying above the white sheet, with IV lines running out of each hand. More like a sickly sapling than a towering oak.

Claire awoke with a start, unaware that she had nodded off. Darkness wrapped around her, but sounds from the corridor suggested it was nearer daytime than night. Her mouth was dry and her back ached from sleeping on the pull-down bed. Blinking open heavy eyelids, crusted with salt, Claire pulled out her phone and stared at the luminous numbers until they made sense.

6am. The nurses must be starting their rounds. As if the thought was a summoning spell, the door swung open and a woman peered round into the room.

“Is she still asleep?” The brusque normality of the nurse’s voice made Claire shiver.

“Yes,” she responded, her voice a whisper. “Do I need to wake her?”

“No, we’re doing the medication rounds but if she’s asleep she doesn’t need pain relief. Call if she wants anything when she wakes.” The nurse nodded towards the button behind Ruth’s bed, then pulled her head back behind the door like a timid turtle and the room once more fell silent.

Claire willed her eyelids to close but they remained fixed wide, and she felt as if her eyes might disappear into her head completely. I wonder what time the restaurant opens. If I can’t sleep I may as well get a coffee.

With the stealth of a ninja, Claire crept from the bed and tip-toed past Ruth. Her hand was on the door when it moved swiftly inwards, trapping her between the wall and the bed.

“Ow!” Her exclamation resonated in the small space and was followed by a deep voice full of apology. The familiar sound rippled across Claire’s skin and two thoughts clambered through her brain: Great, that’s all I need, followed by, Thank god.

Claire pushed the visitor back out the room with the door, freeing herself from her trapped position, then went out into the corridor, closing Ruth’s room behind her. Inhaling deeply she looked up at the newcomer and forced her cheeks to raise a slight smile.

“Hello, Robert, long flight? I was just going for coffee if you’d care to join me.”

***

The importance of taking a happiness break (howdidiwinduphere.wordpress.com)

Croquet and Colouring: 2013 365 Challenge #127

Mastering the art of croquet

It’s Bank Holiday Monday here today and we’ve spent a lovely time catching up with family over in Cambridge. The sun shone down from a sparkling blue sky and it was shorts all round for the first time this year.

I love going to my father-in-law’s when all the family gathers. There are eyes aplenty to watch the children, who love to play with their smashing big cousin, and I get to catch up and natter with some grown-ups for a change. Good food, fine wine, great company and plenty of time to sit and read my on my iPad: I feel like I’ve had a holiday.

I intended to write my post while the kids were happily entertained, because I knew I’d be too tired when we got home. Unfortunately I downloaded the second in The Divide Trilogy – Back to the Divide – this morning and was too easily distracted from working by following Felix and Betony’s adventures again. I fear the cost of buying the iPad might be only the beginning of the expense!

Colouring with Aunty

I came across an interesting dilemma today when one of the books I wanted was only a pound cheaper for the kindle than for a paper copy. My heart still belongs to the paper book, but there’s no doubt it is much easier to read on the iPad with the children around (I can cuddle two children and sit, iPad on my knee, with just a wriggle needed to swipe the page over. Genius. If only I’d had one for all those boring months of breastfeeding at 2am!)

Still, an ebook is horribly intangible and I love to have a pretty row of paperbacks on the shelves reminding me of all the great stories recently read. Maybe I’ll just bookmark that one for future reading: there are plenty on my list!

As an aside, Two-Hundred Steps Home reached the 100,000 word mark with today’s post. If it ever becomes a novel it will need editing by half, but it still feels like a nice achievement.

________________________________________________________________________________

The road stretched relentlessly ahead of Claire, solid with Sunday evening traffic. To either side, fields as flat as glass met a distant horizon, with flocks of clouds filling the space in between. She tried not to let the lines of red lights make her impatient. There was one road home and the only thing to be gained by chaffing at the traffic was anger that had nowhere to go.

Sky slumped in the passenger seat, sleeping after her long day on the sunny beach. A tiny smile illuminated her face, giving her the look of a cherub. You sleep my little angel. Enjoy your happy dreams while you can.

A sharp sound rang through the silence of the car. Claire looked at the phone on the dash and mused whether to answer it. With a quick glance in the mirrors to make sure there were no blue sirens or panda cars around, Claire reached for the phone and raised it to her ear.

“Hello, yes? I’m driving.”

“So you are coming back then? Your father said you’d be home by now.”

Claire bit back an angry retort. Challenging her mother at any time was an exercise in futility and for once she had reason enough to be curt, with her daughter in hospital.

“Sorry, Mum, I’m not the only person heading back from the coast. The traffic has been horrendous. We won’t be much longer. Sky’s asleep.” She hesitated, afraid to ask her next question. Gripping the wheel with her free hand, she inhaled, her nostrils filling with the scent of sand and sun cream. “How is Ruth?”

“Not good.” Her mother fell silent and Claire wondered if she wanted to know any more. She was about to hang up when her mother drew an audible breath and let it out in a long sigh. When she spoke again her voice was low, and gentler than Claire could ever remember hearing it.

“Oh, Claire, the doctors think the tumour must have spread before they caught it. They say the chemo will help, but they’re fighting the wrong battle. They need to understand how far it has spread and adjust her treatment.”

The words rang through Claire’s mind without making sense. Her mother sounded tired, beaten, but her words suggested hope. She wanted to ask more, but driving one handed in heavy traffic on the A47 was not the time.

“I’m sure she’ll be fine, Mum. Ruth’s a fighter and she’s in safe hands.”

There was silence, and Claire wondered if her Mother was drawing breath for a new sarcastic come back. When she did speak, her words were so unexpected Claire nearly drove into the tail-lights of the car in front.

“You’re the fighter, Claire. You’re the one who has gone out and taken on the world. Ruth, well, she’s not strong like you.”

Heat rushed to Claire’s face at the unexpected compliment. It rattled her more than her mother’s unaccustomed gentleness, more than Ruth’s illness. She felt wrong-footed by it, as if it was easier to know that her mother loathed her than to believe she really cared.

As if needing to restore the balance, Claire heard her mother cluck her tongue. “Goodness, look at the time. Are you going to be much longer? I need you to take over at the hospital so I can go home and feed your father. You know he’s incapable of boiling an egg for his supper.”

“What about Sky? I’m not taking her to see Ruth tonight. She’s exhausted and needs to be in bed.” She heard her mother chuckle and wondered what could possibly be funny.

“Listen to you. Thought you didn’t have a maternal bone in your body. I’ll take her back with me, we can tuck her up in her bed. I’ll bring her in with me in the morning.”

It took a moment for Claire to realise the implication of her words. So I’m spending the night at the hospital am I? I guess it makes a change from a hostel bed. Stifling a yawn, Claire focused on the sleeping face beside her, reminding her of what was important.

“Okay, Mum, see you soon.”

***

Pirates and Promotions: 2013 365 Challenge #126

Family Martin on the Barrel Train

I’d like to say I feel rested and refreshed, after having a day off from blogging (the last post was pre-scheduled to give me a breather) but having been out all day with the kids today I’m actually pooped! As a result today’s will be a short post.

It’s a bank holiday in the UK tomorrow, meaning I miss a nursery day (the day when I catch up with all things writing), so the next few posts might be a bit on the light side too.

We had a good day today at what the kids are calling New Farm (West Lodge Rural Centre), with Daddy this time. They held a Pirates and Princesses day for the bank holiday, so we walked the plank, had pirate faces painted and took part in a fancy dress competition (daughter did, anyway!). I thought she should have won a prize (of course!) and realised how glad I am that beauty pageants and all that aren’t big in this country. I’m such a competitive person, I’d be awful. My daughter was just fine that she didn’t win, but I felt hard done by because I thought she made a smashing pirate!

Pirate Daughter

My last free Dragon Wraiths promotion on kindle finished today. I did a 2-day promotion this time, rather than just one, and made it to #16 in the ‘coming of age’ ranking and #77 for Paranormal Romance. I don’t know if that will lead to sales, but it’s a nice feeling in any case.

We’re visiting family tomorrow, so hopefully I might get five minutes to finish reading my current book – Reckless Rescue by Rinelle Grey. I’m really enjoying it, although it wouldn’t be my normal read. As far as I can tell in an ebook (this is my first full-length novel read on the iPad rather than in paper form) I’m only a few pages from the end. But as it’s 8.15pm already and hubbie, dog and I haven’t eaten yet, I’ll just about have time to cook dinner and write my Claire installment before I collapse with exhaustion!

Today’s one of those days when I wish I hadn’t played the Takeaway Pizza card on Tuesday (we only have one a week!). Actually, they probably don’t deliver on Sunday anyway… Chicken stir-fry it is then. I wonder if I can convince hubbie to do it…

________________________________________________________________________________

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:

________________________________________________________________________________

The sky went dark. Claire looked up, surprised, wondering if the shock had affected her vision. A tiny cloud masked the sun, temporarily plunging the beach into shadow.

“Claire, are you okay, you look dreadful. Who was on the phone?”

“Dad. My sister… He said Ruth’s back in hospital and we have to go home.” She drew in a shuddering breath and ran her hands through her hair. “What am I going to tell Sky? Look at her, that’s the happiest I’ve ever seen her.”

Both girls watched as Sky tipped water into the moat round her sandcastle, flicking some up at Jeff and giggling as he threw seaweed at her.

“Tell her Ruth misses her and wants to give her a cuddle.”

Claire looked gratefully at her best friend, knowing she would have blundered in with the truth. That’s why Kim will make a brilliant parent and I wouldn’t. She picked up the phone to see if her Dad was still connected. He wasn’t and she called him back.

“Sorry, Dad, phone got cut off. Tell Mum we’ll be home in three hours depending on traffic.”

Her father assured her he would and wished her a safe journey. Even that many extra words surprised Claire and, for the first time, she wondered how her parents felt about Ruth’s illness. For all their distance they had still brought Ruth into the world. It must be terrible to consider that she might leave it before they did. No parent should ever have to bury their child. Another good reason not to have any.

“Sky, sweetie, can you come here for a moment?”

The little girl looked up, her cheeks flushed from sun and excitement. Claire’s stomach tightened. Life is too cruel.

Sky ran up the beach and threw her arms around Claire. “I love you, Auntie Claire. Don’t say it’s time to go, please. I’m having so much fun.” She pouted. Claire thought of all the times that pout had irritated her, and wished she could take them all back.

She’s just a child. We make them grow up so fast. She’s got nearly a century of life ahead of her to do as she’s told, feel the pressure of the world on her. Why couldn’t I let her have more fun now? Before this. She shook off the thought and pulled an approximation of a smile onto her face.

“Grandpa just called, poppet. Your Mummy really misses you and wondered if you would like to go home for a cuddle.”

Sky’s face froze as the words settled and she decided how to react to them. Claire could almost see the thoughts competing for primacy: Sky’s desire to stay and play with Jeff versus her need to give her Mummy a hug. Claire’s breath caught in her throat as she waited to see what Sky’s response would be.

“Why don’t we meet up with you guys next weekend, Sky? You could show me and Jeff around one of the places you like to go to.” Kim’s voice cut through Sky’s internal deliberations.

Like a gust of sea breeze blowing away a cloud, Sky’s face cleared and she clapped her hands. “The Farm, we could go to the Farm.” Then she smiled at Claire. “Yes please, I want to go home and see Mummy. You’ll stay for a while, won’t you Auntie Claire?”

Claire thought about her sister in hospital and Sky going home to an empty house. “Of course I will, darling. As long as you need.”

Sky settled into Claire’s lap and wrapped her arms around her neck. Claire nuzzled into the soft blonde hair and let it hide her tears.

***

The Importance of Being Mean: 2013 365 Challenge #125

Mean Mummy put me in a basket

I read a comment today on a blog post by the talented Matt Haig that made me realise something significant about my writing. The post itself was about Matt having thin skin and how that can be good for a writer but not for a published author. Understanding feelings and hurt and pain are what raise the okay storyteller to the breath-taking master of craft, but it comes at a cost.

I related to much of the post in terms of the thin skin, the depression, feeling awe at how amazing the world really is. But it was one of the comments below the post that really resonated.

Suzanne Korb

I think you just switched on a lightbulb in my head. I have a thin skin – but I pretend to be thick-skinned. That prevents me from putting more feeling into my writing. I think I protect the words I write, I defend my characters and keep them from feeling anguish and fear and pain. No wonder my writing isn’t always working

I’m terrible at writing conflict. If I love a character the last thing I want to do his hurt him or her. I don’t even like reading books where awful things happen to good people. But conflict, disaster, overcoming adversity, these are all essential elements in good story and believable character growth.

You did What to your characters??

When I edited Dragon Wraiths the first time I realised Leah escaped disaster time and again through a series of lucky coincidences or through her own skill. The car in the flood, the unexpected dragon sentry, they were easily evaded or survived with no harm done. I love Leah, and Luke, and I want them to be happy. As I want my kids to be happy. But just as you have to be Mean Mom occasionally you have to be a mean author too.

I have to confess I didn’t make Leah’s life too much harder. She’d had a tough childhood already and deserved a break. And life is also full of near misses and lucky escapes. But I do know my inability to make characters suffer is going to have to change for my writing to go to the next level (oh that’s a horrible phrase but you know what I mean). Maybe what I have to do is make my characters more annoying to me, like my kids can be, and then mean will just happen without effort.

________________________________________________________________________________

“Have you booked a date for the wedding? I’m guessing it will have to be soon, not that you’re showing.” Claire leaned back in the sand and looked over at her friend.

Kim laughed, patting her flat stomach. “I am: I just breathe in! I have to hope the baby doesn’t get too big before the show’s finished. Our Director will have a fit. We’ll be a laughing stock if the audience notices Puck is pregnant.”

“That doesn’t seem right: Aren’t there rules about discrimination these days? Surely he or she will be applauded for their political correctness.”

“There isn’t much political correctness in the acting world, my dear. I’ll be considered too old for many roles in a year or two. I’m lucky I’m petite and slim, it hides my age. Not that I’ll be slim for long.” She frowned and stared down the beach, where Jeff and Sky were engaged in a sandcastle competition. Sky was cheating, flattening Jeff’s castles every time he went to collect water or shells.

“You make it sound like we’re ancient.” Claire shielded her eyes from the afternoon sun. “Actually I feel pretty ancient, although at least Sky hasn’t had nightmares for a day or two. I think I actually got six hours sleep last night.”

“Is it really so bad?” Kim’s voice suggested she didn’t really want to know the answer. “Being a parent, I mean.”

“I’m the wrong person to ask. What do I know about parenting?” Claire gave a dry laugh, picturing some of Sky’s more spectacular tantrums.

“Well, you know more than me.”

“I thought you attended antenatal classes or something?” Sky tried to remember what pregnant women in the office had wittered on about in the past. She mostly tuned out their chatter, but some of it had obviously gone in.

“Oh yes, there are classes, but they seem to be about getting through labour and keeping the kid alive for the first few months. What about after that? There don’t seem to be any lessons on how to deal with it when they flirt with your friend’s boyfriend…”

Claire drew breath but Kim jumped in, “I’m joking! Seriously, though. Who teaches you about discipline and what games to play, how to deal with bullying or if your child is the bully.”

Claire could see Kim getting emotional but wasn’t sure what to say. “I guess you just figure it out. Or you ask your friends, or your Mum.” She thought about trying to have that conversation with her mother, and whether she would choose to raise children the way she was raised. “Maybe not the last one. I think we all want a different childhood to the one we had.”

“Not me, I had a great childhood. It was when I had to grow up it got hard.” The girls laughed.

“Well, let me ask you, how did you learn to be an actress?”

“I went to drama school.”

“So maybe kids learn all they need to know at school. And there are books and the internet. There are all sorts of parenting blogs following mine since I started writing about travelling with Sky. You’ll be fine. Concentrate on the wedding instead. Are you going to have a big white frock?”

“I might need it to hide the bump!”

They settled into the sand and swapped ideas about food and music. Claire felt herself relaxing, as the sun warmed her skin and Sky’s laughter floated on the sea breeze. The phone rang and she considered ignoring it. It’s probably Michael. Now’s not the time to talk to him, with my head full of babies and weddings. The ringing stopped then immediately began again. Damn it, just go away, I’m trying to relax.

People began looking around to see who wasn’t answering their phone. She reached in her bag and put the phone to her ear, unable to see the caller name in the bright sunshine.

“Hello.”

“Claire, it’s Dad.”

She sat up, her skin suddenly cold and her stomach churning. Her father never called.

“Your mother told me to ring. She’s at the hospital. You need to come home love, you and Sky. Ruth’s had a turn for the worse.” His voice shook and that, more than his words, cut through and left her shaking. Claire dropped the phone, her mouth dry and her mind blank.

***

I Love a Wedding: 2013 365 Challenge #124

Gemstone Bay, Coromandel, so nice I came twice

Today I get to live one of those other lives I’ve talked about through my Claire book. Well, I lay the seed anyway.

Writing really is a great way to experience a different life: you know, the one you could have had if you’d been in possession of all the facts earlier on. Although how boring would that be? Like taking my husband to New Zealand on our honeymoon and then driving him nutty by constantly saying I did this here, or We can do that, or Let’s go see this great beach I know.

Life’s adventures need to come without a map.

Our unconventional wedding

However, since reading about YHA hostels, and how you can hire the whole building for many of them, I thought – what a missed trick. We should have done that for our wedding. There are some amazing buildings in the YHA stable and we could have easily filled the largest of them with hubbie’s friends. It probably would have been cheaper and the party could have continued all weekend.

I also wouldn’t have had a phone call the week before saying, “Your bride has been booked into my bride’s Bridal Suite.” which is not what you want to hear after six months of detailed planning.

So now I have a wedding to look forward to. I haven’t been to a wedding in ages, and if I’ve been getting a bit bored with Claire’s journey? Well, how much fun is there to be had at a hostel-based wedding? Hee hee.

________________________________________________________________________________

“How many weeks gone are you?”

Kim and Claire sat watching as Sky and Jeff fought over the last hole. No words had been spoken since Kim’s revelation, but Claire wanted to reassure her friend that she had her full support.

“Sixteen.”

Claire did a quick mental calculation. Four months, already? The baby will be due in September. She shivered. Trying to hide her unease, Claire smiled at Kim. “You’re not showing. When did you find out?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“And you didn’t tell me?” Claire could hear the hurt in her voice.

“How could I? We always said we would build up our careers before we had kids. If we ever had them at all.” Something in her voice suggested maybe she hadn’t been as clear on the latter point as Claire. “Besides,” she continued, her voice low, “I needed to decide what I was going to do before I told anyone.”

Claire thought about her friend going through that decision process alone. Not alone. With Jeff.

“How did Jeff take that?” Following on from what Kim had said earlier, she imagined him pressuring Kim to keep the baby.

“He said he would support me, either way. It wasn’t planned. We always said we would get married first and see where we were then. But now…”

Something else her friend had said came back to Claire. “But now you’re getting married and having a baby.” She hadn’t meant to sound accusatory, but she felt Kim flinch away from her words. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that how it sounded. My brain is still catching up.”

There was a pause, then Kim sighed again. “That’s okay. It’s taking a while for me to catch up and I’ve had longer to think about it. Yes, we’re going to get married. Jeff’s family are quite traditional and, though his mother hasn’t said anything, I know they’d be happier if the baby wasn’t born out of wedlock.”

Claire tried to imagine what her parents would think about it and realised she had no idea. Probably they would think the same and force her to have some hideously formal event at the Country Club.

“When’s the wedding? Will you have a big do?”

“We can’t afford it. Jeff’s wages are more than mine, but only just. Actually, your blog has given us an idea. We thought we might see if we could hire one of the smaller hostels and invite all our friends for the weekend. Ask them to pay for their room instead of bringing a gift. What do you think?”

“I think it sounds brilliant. There are some gorgeous buildings,” she gave Kim a cheeky grin, “and I can write about it for my blog!”

***