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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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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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.

***

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.

***

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.

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“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!”

***

7 Tips to Stay Grounded While Planning Your Wedding (coffeewithemma.wordpress.com)
Jim Mullen: Plan the marriage, not the wedding (readingeagle.com)

The Well Runs Dry: 2013 365 Challenge #123

My mind is dry and dusty, like a disused Gold Mine (NZ)

Post 123. If only it was as easy as 123. I realised today that my word-well has run dry. I am teetering near the 100,000 word mark for the Two-Hundred Steps Home manuscript, and yet poor old Claire is only at hostel #26 out of 200 (well, I think it will be less than that overall, as some of the hostels are for private hire, but you get the point). I am a third of the way through the year and I still have around 150 hostels to go.

Actually, looking at it like that, there should be plenty to write about. Except this isn’t a travel journal. It’s meant to be a novel, with character growth and conflict and all that good stuff.

I’m learning, however, that it’s hard to write conflict in little chunks, particularly when attempting to make each ‘little chunk’ stand alone as a piece of writing. I’m not saying you could read a daily installment and get much enjoyment from it, without knowing the story. But you could miss a few installments and catch up. I guess it’s a bit like a soap opera, with lots of repetition to keep everyone on track.

I hate soap operas. I dislike a TV programme insisting I watch every day, or a few days a week. I find following the minutiae of people’s lives depressing. I didn’t use to. I watched Sunset Beach every day as a student, AND watched the five-hour omnibus at the weekend. But I was a student – life wasn’t really happening to me all that much, stuck day after day in the lower depths of a dusty library. Now, life happens. I don’t need to read about it or watch it on TV. I certainly find it difficult to write about it, twice, every day.

Just Keep Swimming

The diary/chatty/whatever-it-is segment of my daily posts is hard to make entertaining unless something great has happened or I chance to read a good book or interesting blog post. I’m spending so much time writing the blog I’m running out of things to write about! And poor old Claire is not getting the best of my writing skills at all. Editing every day has made my writing stilted and self-conscious.

Anyway, I don’t want to quit. I’m not a quitter, not easily. I’m just trying to figure out a different way.

This exercise was always meant to be a challenge, but also one that brought visitors to my blog and helped improve my craft. I can’t say that either aim has been a complete success! Maybe I’m not the writer I thought I was, or maybe I’m just better at locking myself in a cupboard and churning out first drafts in thirty days. Ah well, until another idea comes up I’ll do what I always do and just keep swimming, just keep swimming.

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“Over here, Jeff! Your ball’s in the grass.” Sky giggled and span round, making her skirt flare in the wind. As Jeff walked over to retrieve his missing golf ball she smiled shyly up at him, then ran forwards and hugged his leg.

“Blimey. Is she normally that forward with strange men?” Kim’s voice sounded disapproving and Claire raised an eyebrow.

“It’s not really forward when you’re six. She’s not flirting.”

“She so is!”

Claire laughed. “Are you jealous of a six-year-old, Kim? You know Jeff only has eyes for you.”

“Exactly,” she pouted. “He’s never flirted with anyone else before.”

“Kim, she’s six.” Claire stood with her hands on her hips, her head tilted to one side. Then both girls collapsed into giggles and linked arms happily.

“It’s great to see that Sky’s relaxed with Jeff. I wasn’t sure how she would be with strangers.” Claire remembered their meeting with Sky’s dad the day before. “And her life is pretty messy right now.”

Certainly Sky and Jeff had been giggling together like old friends since they’d started their game of crazy golf. It meant that she was able to relax for the first time since taking charge of her niece, and hang back with Kim. Hopefully she’ll spill the beans, with the other two out of the way.

They followed on behind as Sky tried to scoop her ball into a hole. It’s not really crazy golf, Claire thought. Where are the windmills and silly tunnels to put the ball through? She looked around at the pirates hanging from the rigging and the barrels of rum. Not that Sky seems to care. She is flirting with Jeff, little madam. Maybe that’s what you do when you’re six. I can’t say I remember. If I’d opened my eyes all wide and winsome like that at my Dad’s colleagues I’d have been sent to my room.

The sun shone down on the bright green fairway. If you call it that in crazy golf. Claire had no idea; it was her first foray into the world of the sport, crazy or otherwise. It had been Jeff’s suggestion and Sky had readily agreed, before asking the classic kid’s question, “What is Crazy Golf, Auntie Claire?”

Claire felt the weight of Kim’s arm through hers, and the wide gulf of space that seemed to separate them, despite the closeness. Maybe I am going to have to pry. After Jeff’s untimely entrance last night I don’t think she’s going to open up again. She searched her mind for a way to open the conversation without jumping to conclusions.

“How are rehearsals coming on? Do you have Puck memorised now?”

Kim nodded. “Yes, I think so. It’s been fun, and it beats some of the other roles I’ve done. At least I haven’t had to murder my way through a terrible Hull accent.

Claire thought about Kim’s last role, playing a Northern woman who worked at a fish factory and sang Tony Christie songs, and her eyes sparkled. “I thought your accent was quite good.”

“You have to say that because you’re my best friend. That woman from the paper said I was worse than Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins. That is an insult!”

“Ah well, maybe you won’t have to do accents again.”

Kim lowered her head and sighed. “Maybe I won’t get a chance to do acting again.”

“What do you mean?” Claire tried to sound casual, but her heart thumped loudly in her ears.

There was silence, filled with the sound of laughter as Jeff’s ball skipped over the hole and disappeared from view. Claire tried to keep her breathing even and resist the urge to fill the void with words. Eventually the stillness was broken by a tiny sob and Claire turned to see tears streaming down her friend’s face.

“Oh honey, what is it?”

“Jeff and I… we’re going to get married.”

Claire reeled at the unexpected response. Struggling to keep up, she pulled Kim over to sit on some rocks and offered her a tissue.

“Is that a reason to cry? Why now? I thought you were going to wait until you could afford a lavish do?”

Kim nodded and gulped down more tears, scrubbing at the ones already staining her cheeks. “We were. But now…” She looked up and away, avoiding Claire’s penetrating stare. “Now everything has changed.” Kim glanced back at her friend, then sunk her head into her hands.

“I’m pregnant.”

The words were muffled by her hands, but Claire was expecting them. Even so, having it said out loud made it too real. The words that sprang into her throat were the obvious ones – How? What happened? How could you be so careless? The kind of things her mother would say, and not at all helpful. She drew in a deep breath and tried to imagine what she would want to hear, if the situation was reversed. It was hard to think, knowing the situation would never have arisen for her, and seeing in her mind also how overjoyed Michael would have been if it had.

“What does Jeff think?”

Kim looked up, eyes awash, and smiled. “He’s thrilled. Look at him,” she jerked her chin over to where Jeff was teaching Sky how to putt. “He loves kids. And it’s not going to wreck his career or his body.”

“Ah.” As if the girls had suddenly become telepathic, Claire could hear the hours of wrangling debate that had already taken place – either in Kim’s head or with Jeff. Knowing she didn’t really believe it, Claire said what had to be said. “It won’t ruin either thing: plenty of women have babies every day. Actresses, models, long-distance runners. They go back to what they love doing afterwards. Or…”

She hesitated, not wanting to suggest what might be unthinkable. The telepathic bond held strong and Kim shook her head, red hair whipping round with the movement.

“I’m not getting rid of it. No way. It would destroy Jeff, and my mother would never speak to me again.”

Silence fell, punctuated only with happy chatter and bird song. Claire reached for Kim’s hand and squeezed it tight. There were a hundred things she wanted to say, to ask. She sensed that Kim’s head was full of the same questions and that they haunted her. Remembering what it was like to live with an argument in your head for any length of time, Claire forced herself to be silent and let that be enough.

***

If You Can’t Say Something Nice… 2013 365 Challenge #121

If you can’t say something nice…

I’m constantly amazed by both the supportiveness and meanness of the online parenting community. Today was a day when I posted on Twitter the kind of comment that really meant Tell me I’m okay, tell me it gets better.

Because yesterday was month-end, and I needed to format and upload the free ebook, I didn’t get to bed until midnight. Actually I haven’t for a while as there is no time to write during the day and the kids have been going to bed a bit later since the shift to summer time (generally it means they get up later so we take the trade.) Unfortunately Amber came in at 6am this morning so it felt too short a night to survive twelve hours of parenting.

A busy morning at play and stay, a screaming child who wouldn’t sit in the hairdresser chair and a boy who shrieked every time he lost sight of his Mummy meant I was in constant tears of exhaustion by mid-afternoon. Not an unusual occurrence these, days to be fair. So I turned to Twitter for support. And found it.

My comment on Twitter generated lovely responses including a link to a great blog post: To Parents of Small Children:

If you are a parent of small children, you know that there are moments of spectacular delight, and you can’t believe you get to be around these little people. But let me be the one who says the following things out loud:

You are not a terrible parent if you can’t figure out a way for your children to eat as healthy as your friend’s children do. She’s obviously using a bizarre and probably illegal form of hypnotism.

You are not a terrible parent if you yell at your kids sometimes. You have little dictators living in your house. If someone else talked to you like that, they’d be put in prison.

You are not a terrible parent if you can’t figure out how to calmly give them appropriate consequences in real time for every single act of terrorism that they so creatively devise.

You are not a terrible parent if you’d rather be at work.

You are not a terrible parent if you just can’t wait for them to go to bed.

You are not a terrible parent if the sound of their voices sometimes makes you want to drink and never stop.

I felt so much better after reading it – problem shared, problem halved and all that. Until I read the latest comment on the blog from a parent of teenagers who said they hated the post for its “sheer blind arrogant silliness”.

[Y]ou might also hate it when people tell you to you enjoy every minute, (everyone says it to everyone, WE ALL had it so don’t be so uptight and melodramatic ‘it doesn’t help’ poor you)

In the spirit of fairness they did say the post was sweet and they liked its honesty, but the comment left me feeling sick to the stomach.

Anyone is entirely entitled to their opinion and I’m sure I’m just as capable of being sanctimonious and smug. In fact I know sometimes I see parents of one baby who are tired and part of me wants to say, Wait until you have two. Or Wait until they’re walking or something equally discouraging. The point is I don’t say it. Well, hardly ever, and then only as a joke to people I know. (At least I think so. Apologies if I’ve ever made another parent feel bad.) Generally, if I’m honest about the trials of being a parent it is to encourage other parents not to suffer in silence, rather than to make them feel bad.

Because even if it’s true, even if it is harder with two, what’s the point in saying it? Why do humans feel the need to share their misery in such a way? I remember when I only had one child and was struggling and a friend of hubbie’s said It never gets easier. My daughter was six months old. I couldn’t give her back. And instead of bolstering myself on bad days with the thought that one day I might just feel like it was going to get better I had this doom-laden future stretching endlessly before me.

It was already hard surviving teething and breast feeding and sleepless nights. Suddenly I had to face twenty years of pain. And then, as if that wasn’t enough, someone said It doesn’t get any easier when they leave home. Oh come on, guys, enough already.

…don’t say nothing at all

Some days, the only reason I don’t drive my car into a river is the thought that I’d leave my kids without a mother, and any mother is better than none. Facing the idea that I’ll feel like that until I do finally crack and drive that route isn’t helpful. When you’re low, and you’re turning to friendly blog posts for support and empathy, you don’t need someone belittling your experience by saying “Why do all new parents think they invented the feelings that go with it.”

So, however tempting it is to give the honest answer when someone asks if it will get better – however noble or genuine the motivation – try to resist. This advice applies to me, too. Because now I think about it, I know I’ve done it. I’ve been that person wanting to warn about the horror (although hopefully never in as arrogant or spiteful a way as the commenter I’ve quoted). From now on I’m going to try and find something positive to say, without actually lying.

As Thumper’s father teaches Thumper in Bambi, “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say nothing at all.”

______________________________________________________________________________

“Kim, Jeff, over here!” Claire put down her book and strode to the door to embrace her friend. As she grinned up at Kim’s boyfriend, she marvelled – as she always did – at just how attractive he really was. “It’s great that you were able to get a room here for the weekend. Have you eaten? How was the journey?”

“Hey, Claire.” Kim pulled back and stared with concern at her face. “You look tired, I thought you were on holiday?”

With a glance back to where Sky was watching mutely from the sofa, Claire shrugged. “It’s not a holiday, you know that. Carl would have my hide if he knew Sky was travelling with me for two whole weeks.” Besides, you don’t look so great yourself. Claire wondered whether to comment on her friend’s pasty complexion, stark against the pillar-box red hair. An odd tension between her and Jeff stilled Claire’s tongue. I wonder if they had a fight?

Kim walked over and sat next to Sky, perched on the sofa. She smiled the uncomfortable grimace of a person who has little contact with small children. “Hello, you must be Sky.”

Claire shuddered at the patronising tone in her friend’s voice. She’s six, not six-months old. Did I used to talk that that? God, do I still talk to her like that?

Sky stared wide-eyed up at Kim, but didn’t speak. Claire could sense the questions building in the tiny chest. Auntie Claire, why is your friend’s hair red. Auntie Claire why is your friend talking to me like I’m a baby. Wanting to forestall the inevitable, she went over and snuggled next to her niece on the sofa.

“Sky, honey, I’d like you to meet Kim and Jeff. I’ve known Kim since I was younger than you. When we first met she had long blonde hair, like yours. I thought she was a princess.”

As she spoke the words, two decades slipped away in an instant. She turned to share the moment with Kim, and was surprised by the expression on her friend’s face. Her attention was fixed on Sky as if an alien had wandered into the room.

She looks scared. Or, no, speculative? Don’t tell me she and Jeff are planning to have kids. Claire felt a shiver raise the hairs on her arm. The idea of Kim having a baby felt like a betrayal. Through all the years they had known each other – or at least since they finished their A Levels and went to University – they had shared an antipathy to becoming parents.

Kim might not earn the same as me, but her career is equally if not more important to her. She and Jeff aren’t even getting married until they can afford it. No, it can’t be that. She raised her eyes to observe Jeff and was relieved to see nothing odd in his expression. He leant over the sofa and looked at the game Sky had been playing on the iPad.

“Ah, Angry Birds. My nephews love that. What level are you on?” He squeezed on the seat between Sky and Kim and opened himself to the eager words pouring forth in response to his question.

Soon Sky and Jeff were deep in conversation, discussing tactics and cheats for a game Claire barely understood. She felt Kim’s eyes on her and, when she looked up, saw the slight jerk of the head that said Let’s leave them to it.

“Shall we go and make tea, Kim? I’m sure you must be parched.” She half-expected Kim to suggest something stronger. Instead she stood up and nodded. “Yes, I’m dying for a cuppa and a gossip.” Linking arms with Claire, she led her from the room as if she couldn’t get away from Jeff and Sky fast enough.

***

Admitting how hard parenting is, and recentering on the positives (frompracticetoparenting.wordpress.com)
As a mom, trust your instincts | parenting advice | instinctive parenting | Babble (babble.com)

Lessons from The Wee Free Men: 2013 365 Challenge #119

Lessons to be Learned

I finished rereading The Wee Free Men by Terry Pratchett today and it was wonderful to realise it lost nothing on a second (possibly third) reading. In fact, since I’ve had a daughter of my own, I think the book has changed and grown in significance. It’s up there in the books I’d like my daughter to read as she comes into an awareness of herself.

If you don’t know Terry Pratchatt’s Discworld novels, they are based in a world that’s like a warped mirror of our own, with magic in place of science and technology. Witches hold a special place in the world: they are both central and outside life, revered and feared in equal measure. As their greatest witch – Granny Weatherwax – puts it, they guard the Edges between Dark and Light, Good and Evil, Life and Death. They have First Sight and Second Thoughts. They see what’s really there. Above all, they’re cool. I love them.

Granny Weatherwax is possibly one of the greatest characters ever invented. She gets inside your head and makes you question everything. (If you want to see Granny at her finest, read Carpe Jugulum.)

The Wee Free Men isn’t about Granny, it’s about Tiffany: a nine-year-old girl who lives on a farm on the Chalk, makes cheese and minds are younger brother. She also has First Sight and Second – even Third – Thoughts. And she has to rescue her brother from the Fairy Queen, even though she doesn’t like him very much. I won’t go into the story, just recommend you read it in words much better than mine.

My reason for writing about it here is to explain why I think it’s a must-read for any little girl (or boy possibly) coming to a sense of herself: It explores the voices that exist inside a person’s head, and the difficulty of understanding which of the many voices is Me.

Tiffany is the kind of girl who sits just outside life, watching. The Discworld Witches always are. And Terry Pratchett says That’s okay. In our society, the people in the kitchen at parties – the ones not drinking or joining in, the ones just observing – are a little bit wrong. They are considered aloof, boring, shy, weird, cold. I know because I am that person And all those labels have been applied to me. I’ve been ridiculed for not wanting to get drunk, for not letting go.

There has always been a little voice in my head that watches me and comments on my behaviour. It’s hard to get drunk and be silly when there’s a sober person in your head telling you what a pratt you’re making of yourself. As a result I don’t often drink and I’m rarely the one telling jokes. At my last place of work, and in many other situations in my life, that has meant almost complete exclusion. It’s not a nice place to be, feeling like a freak or someone who didn’t get the memo on how to have fun.

Growing up I read endlessly to live in my own world. I read Sweet Valley High and Lord of the Rings, Famous Five and Mills and Boon. Romance and action/adventure. For some reason ‘thinking’ books – what might be called literary books – didn’t come my way. I don’t know why, although I often feel the need to apologise for it, as if a ten-year-old can control the books they’re exposed to. So I read nothing that told me that having a cacophony of voices in my head was okay, was normal, whatever that is.

What The Wee Free Men explores is the notion that it’s okay to be different. That people who sit outside the group and watch – who listen to the voices in their heads – are the kind of people who speak up for things without a voice, who save the day, even if no one acknowledges it. They are strong people who won’t be beaten. I suspect my daughter may grow up to be a girl who watches, one who doesn’t follow the pack. I want her to know that’s okay. I think she’ll learn that from this book.

______________________________________________________________________________________

The car felt warm and comforting after the chill of Lavender Farm and the unexpected encounter. Claire looked across at Sky eating her ice cream; her face still showed red mottling from crying, but her eyes were calm. Kids are amazing. I’d still be crying now, if that wanker was my father. She could see her niece’s eyes were heavy and thought a sleep in the car would do her good.

Claire programmed in the SatNav and reached forwards to attach it to the windscreen. Movement in the rear-view mirror caught her eye: It was Chris. She tried to ignore his gestures, but his demeanour dragged her attention. He looked as if he was signalling for her to come out the car by herself. Intrigued – and not unwilling to go and give him a piece of her mind away from listening ears – Claire sat back in the seat and dramatically slapped her forehead.

“Sorry, Sky. I just remembered I left my mobile phone in the shop. Will you be alright here in the car for a moment, if I just run in and get it?”

Sky looked across with fear in her eyes and Claire’s stomach lurched. I really shouldn’t leave her alone, after the shock she’s had. I can hardly take her with me and use all the words I want to use though.

“How about if I lock the doors? I’ll be back before you finish your ice cream.”

After a moment, Sky nodded tentatively and pushed down the button on the door next to her. Sky reached over and locked the others, making sure she had the keys in her hand before she left the car.

It felt good to stalk over to the man who had broken her sister and niece’s hearts. Words of heat and wrath built like fire in her throat. She felt tempted to start shouting before she reached him, but he stood with his arms at his side and his head low. I want to look in his eyes and see that he’s hearing me. Besides, if I start screaming like a fishwife across the car park, Sky might hear.

She stopped three feet away from him, arms folded. Let him start. I want to hear what the bastard has to say to excuse his behaviour. Silence stretched and Claire ached to fill it with hot words. Somehow she knew the quiet was hurting Chris more, so she maintained eye contact and waited for him to speak.

“I had no choice.” His words fell between them, as if he’d pushed them out with effort.

“Bollocks. Everyone has a choice.”

“I…” He stopped and ran his hand through his hair. Claire noticed it was thinner than it used to be. “I wanted it to work. With Ruth. And Sky. And I loved them both, really. But Ruth –”

Suddenly Claire didn’t want to hear it. She’d only ever heard Ruth’s side of the story; honesty compelled her to confess that might have been skewed. Her body language must have given her away because Chris reached out a hand, before letting it drop once more to his side.

“Don’t go. Hear me out, please. Maybe you can help Sky, a little. I saw the pain I caused her.”

“Then why did you reject her? Not stay in touch? Run off with her fucking ballet teacher.” It felt good to shout at this weak man standing before her. To swear with precision and relish and watch him flinch as the truth struck him like pellets of ice.

“Because I wanted to be a Dad more than anything!” The words came out in a rush. “And Ruth wouldn’t let me. Sky was her precious daughter. From the minute she was born it was her and Sky. There was no room for me. She wouldn’t let me do anything – feed her, bathe her – I was barely allowed to touch her. Then, when she started school, Ruth became paranoid something was going to happen to her. I don’t know what she thought would happen. She went almost crazy with it.”

He stopped. Whether because he had run out of words, or because he realised telling Claire her sister was crazy was not perhaps the best move, wasn’t clear.

“Then I met Bryony. She understood. She taught Sky, knew how clingy Ruth was. I asked her for advice, initially. Then we got talking and, well. You know the rest. We have a little girl of our own now, and she’s mine.”

“Sky’s still your daughter.” Claire didn’t know what else to say. She didn’t want to feel sympathy for this man. She didn’t want him to have a reason that made sense. She just wanted him to hurt and be sorry.

“Ruth didn’t want me to stay in touch. She said it would be better just the two of them. I send Sky birthday cards and Christmas cards but I don’t know if they get to her.” He inhaled deeply and wiped his hand across his face as if rubbing away the pain. “She’s looking well. I’m glad to see you taking her out in the world. Ruth keeps her too close. Sky doesn’t need me.”

Claire tried to think before speaking, to decide what to do, to interpret how she felt. Despite her best efforts, she could relate to what Chris had said. It wasn’t a stretch of the imagination to see Ruth in that role. Their own parents had been so distant and uncaring, it seemed highly plausible that Ruth wouldn’t want to let Sky out of her sight. She turned and looked back at the car, but couldn’t see inside.

“I have to go, Sky will wonder where I am. Try again, Chris. Try harder. Ruth…” She inhaled, then made a decision. “Ruth’s sick. Real sick. Sky might have need of you. Don’t make her an orphan if it comes to that.”

She watched as all the blood drained from Chris’s face, much as it had from Sky’s earlier, and felt a certain satisfaction. Digging into her purse, Claire retrieved a business card and held it out to Sky’s father. He looked into her eyes as if trying to understand her actions, then took the card and held it without looking at it.

“If you need to reach me, or want to speak to Sky – at least for the next week – you have my number. We’re staying in Hunstanton for the weekend.”

Before he could say anything, find an excuse or backtrack, Claire turned and strode back to the car, her heartbeat hammering loudly in her ears.

***

My Review Of Terry Pratchett’s “Wee Free Men”… (akrummenacker.wordpress.com)
Terry Pratchett – Wee Free Men (sffbookreview.wordpress.com)
And Then I Read: THE WEE FREE MEN by Terry Pratchett (kleinletters.com)
The Wee Free Men by Terry Pratchett (bookslifewine.wordpress.com)
Terry Pratchett’s Discworld Might Be The Highest Form of Literature on the Planet (tor.com)
Magrat: note spelling (vulpeslibris.wordpress.com)

“Ducks are NOT birds” 2013 365 Challenge #117

Feeding the Birds (not Ducks)

Today was one of those days when I feel I should be thinner.

I’ve never managed to shift the twenty pounds left over from having two kids in quick succession. To be fair I haven’t tried that hard. Life is stressful enough most days without forgoing cake.

Plus I have zero willpower.

The intention was to run off the calories on the new expensive treadmill we bought the month before hubbie was made redundant last October. Unfortunately, my persistent knee problem means I’ve been on it twice and now it gathers dust and torments me.

But mostly I’m okay with the Belly Flood as my husband calls my spare tyre when it spills over the top of my jeans (it’s an in-joke taken from our favourite kids show Ben and Holly’s Little Kingdom where they periodically have magic jelly floods and all yell Jelly Flood loudly.)

“Arrgghh! Jelly Flood! Nanny!”

However on days like today I feel I should be thinner. It seems the whole day has been a battle: Physically – taking two kids on foot across town to a shoe shop in driving rain – and mentally – being questioned, contradicted and refused on pretty much everything I said.

The highlight was trying not to get into a scrap with a belligerent 2-year-old who insisted vehemently that “ducks are NOT birds”.

That’s a no-win argument right there.

It went on for so much of the day (every time I inadvertently said Feed the Birds instead of Feed the Ducks) that I began to question whether ducks are in fact birds. You know, like gibbons aren’t monkeys and spiders aren’t insects and a Brontosaurus doesn’t exist at all. If someone yabbers at you for long enough, and you’re tired enough, and they cry enough, you’ll believe anything. By bedtime I felt like a victim of a new kind of psychological torture. I’d have agreed that ducks are mammals quite happily to make it stop.

I feel as exhausted as I used to after climbing Snowdon, so surely I must have burned an extra thousand calories today? That would be fair, right? If only…

__________________________________________________________________________________

“Sky, it’s time to go and get lunch sweetheart. Besides, I don’t have sun-cream and you’re so fair. I don’t want you getting burnt, it’ll make your mummy cross.”

Sky looked up from the sandcastle moat and frowned. The castle was impressive, with at least a dozen towers, all surrounded by a deep furrow which Sky had tried to fill with water. The sea was too far away to begin with but now it seemed to be coming in fast.

Claire watched the waves lapping near to where they sat. “Besides, the tide is coming in.”

The bottom lip began to stick out and Claire braced herself for the tantrum that was about to erupt. She held up a placating hand and was about to launch into a flood of words to push back the torrent of tears when a siren ripped through the silence of the beach. Claire fell back onto the sand and Sky clapped her hands to her ears.

“What the bloody hell is that?” Claire looked around but couldn’t see anything to explain the noise. She swore some more, thankful that Sky’s ears were covered.

“Tis the tide alarm,” a voice called out from behind them. Claire turned to see a woman with several children in tow heading up towards the pine trees.

“I’m sorry?”

“Did ye nah see the signs in the car park? The tide comes in reet quick an if ya nah careful ya can get cut oof.”

Claire tried to decipher what the lady was saying. Her accent was heavy and northern; Claire couldn’t decide if it was Geordie or Scottish, although she knew better than to admit that to the woman. She gathered the alarm was to warn them of the incoming tide.

“Oh, okay, thank you.” She nodded at the woman and turned back to Sky, who had taken her hands away from her ears. “Time to go.”

When the bottom lip threatened to wobble, Claire shrugged and gestured at the other families leaving the beach. “It’s not up to me. I don’t want to have to swim back to the car.”

Sky laughed and looked as if she thought that would be fun. Searching her mind for ways to coax her niece back to the car, Claire remembered a place near the next hostel that she’d seen on the internet. “Would you like to go and see some animals?”

“What kind of animals?” Sky wasn’t budging but couldn’t hide the interest on her face.

“Um, wallabies? Alpacas?” She couldn’t remember what else. “Er, goats?”

Sky’s face lit up. “I like goats. We feed the goats at the Farm. Okay.” Standing up, she collected her bucket and spade, brushed the sand off her skirt, and headed up the beach. Claire watched her departure for a few moments, taken aback by the sudden change of speed. Sky turned as she reached the line of trees. “Aren’t you coming Auntie Claire? Race you back to the car!” And with that she disappeared.

“Aw, look at the wallabies, they’re so cute. Have you ever been to Australia, Auntie Claire? I want to go but Mummy says it’s too far.”

Claire’s brain ached with answering endless questions. I hoped coming here and feeding the animals might distract her for a bit. Wrong. With a sigh she tried to focus on the question. It raised unwanted memories of Josh and Fiona, who were possibly on a plane back to Australia at that very moment. “No I haven’t, although I’d like to go, some day.”

“Where have you been? Mummy says you’re always jetting off on holiday.”

Thank you, Ruth, for that gem. Claire thought about it and realised she hadn’t been anywhere Sky would have heard of or care about. I don’t think beach holidays in luxury resorts are what she means. She’d never had the travel bug before. Holidays were for relaxation and tanning opportunities. She decided it was time to change the subject.

“Look at that sheep’s horns, Sky, they’re all twisty.” She held her breath for a moment, convinced that such a ploy would never get past Sky’s knife-sharp mind. Her niece turned to observe the screw-horned sheep, then span to face Claire.

“Wow! He looks like he has helter-skelter’s coming out of his head!”

Claire exhaled.

***

The Wonder of Silence: 2013 365 Challenge #115

Puddles more fun than Paddling Pools

I used to be afraid of silence. All through my years at university I had to have music on to drown out the voices in my head. The ones telling me what an awful person I was. The ones reminding me of every stupid thing I had done or that I was fat, single, unloveable. Doomed to fail. They say the voice in your head comes from how your parents spoke to you as a child.

God help my kids.

Although, having said that, I am teaching them self awareness if nothing else so hopefully they’ll learn to challenge the inner voice. Eventually i learned to be at peace with the voices. I had an amazing flatmate at university who listened and soothed and told me I wasn’t bad or crazy, just normal. Eventually I believed her although faith in that view took a dip when my boyfriend snogged someone else in front of me, New Years Eve, final year.

I broke.

Dancing in Puddles

Thus began my first major bout of depression, although I’d had dark periods before. It wasn’t so much being single (looking back it was a lucky break as he was awful): It was losing my link to the future after graduation. That dark future that academic schooling doesn’t really prepare you for. Music became my crutch. Loud, positive music, like Bon Jovi or dark heavy music, Metallica being my favourite. (a bit of And Justice For All at full volume kept me awake through week long study sessions with virtually no sleep.)

I can’t tell you when silence became acceptable. I think when I became free of other people: when I lived alone and learned I was worth something even with no friends, or A grades and awards to define me. I earned good money and was valued at work. I remained single for a long time. Eventually work broke me and I had my worse bout of depression.

The world ended for a while.

Silence once more became my enemy. I was worthless, useless, trapped. That time SSRIs came to my aid. I quit my job, flat, town, friends, Guide Unit and flew half way round the world. I drove a rusty car in the huge silences of New Zealand, climbed mountains and found a semblance of inner peace.

Fishing for Fir-cones

The demons still have house room. Doubt, Guilt and Inadequacy are long-time flatmates of mine. But I don’t have to drown them out with electric guitars and drums anymore. I do love music. Singing to an uplifting song rarely fails to improve my mood, not that I get much chance. Apparently Mummies aren’t allowed to sing.

What gets the demons raging now is quite often the opposite of silence. 12-hour days of endless yabbering, questioning, squabbling, laughing, crying, shrieking, coughing, sighing and singing leave my nerves jangling and my equilibrium battered. For some reason it fuels the rage until a shout builds up that I can’t always hold in. That’s followed by more crying and some sorries all round before a precious moment of calm.

I hope when both my darlings are at school, and I get some silence every day, Rage will join the other unwelcome emotions crowding my house and I’ll chuck it in the attic with the rest.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

The sun pressed down as Claire and Sky walked into the centre of Walsingham. White and wood-striped buildings huddled round, making Claire feel like she’d been transported to Tudor Britain. There’s something about arriving by steam train – even a toy one –that makes it feel as if we’ve travelled back in time. She remembered a book she’d read once, about a time travelling woman who found herself stranded amidst the bubonic plague. Somehow this place feels closer to the time of the Black Death than Eyam.

Their reason for coming to the Shrine echoed in her mind. I don’t want to think about death, not when Sky is here to pray for her Mummy. She turned her face to the sun and let its promise of summer days warm through the chill in her bones.

Peace descended like a blanket of mist as they meandered through the grounds of the Shrine. Trees and shrubs showed off their spring colours; bright greens mingled with the pink and white of early blossom. Their footsteps slowed as even Sky lost the need to run and skip. Bird song filled the space between the trees. A few other visitors drifted past like grazing deer, and the courtyard of buildings blocked out the sounds of the village beyond the walls.

Silence wrapped around them: not the absence of noise, but the absence of humanity’s intrusion. Tight knots began to unravel in Claire’s mind and a tension she had been previously unaware of flowed free like a river bursting its banks.

Sky remained quiet as she walked with Claire along the path leading to the main building. As if made obvious by its absence, Claire became aware that her world had become saturated with the little girl’s chatter. When I think how lonely I was when I first started this journey, and now I can’t wait to be alone with my own thoughts.

The lack of constant questions and observations allowed Claire to hear her own inner voices. To begin with they clamoured to fill the space, as if Sky’s conversation had kept them mute for too long. With strong words from Claire, the garrulous voices fell silent.

Time enough later for angst and self-doubt and plans for the future to be aired and discussed. Right now I’d like to enjoy my silence while it lasts, please.

A new voice piped up with the last word. You do realise talking to the voices in your head like they’re a pack of unruly children might not be entirely normal? Schizophrenics are usually the only ones who acknowledge the different people in their heads. Claire shrugged away the unwelcome suggestion and turned her attention to her surroundings.

Sky walked with her head high, holding the map they had been given of the complex. For once, Claire was happy to follow on behind and let her niece take charge. This is more her area than mine, if she’s a Believer.

The girl led them unerringly to the Chapel where she wanted to light a candle for her mother. At least there isn’t a service on. I’m not sure I could sit through Mass. The irreverent thought floated into her mind before Claire could banish it. Come on Claire, hold on to the peace. Belief in a more meaningful existence than designer labels and Starbucks lattes wouldn’t do you any harm.

Trying to be present in the moment, rather than trapped in her chattering mind, Claire looked around the chapel. It really was tranquil. Tall windows let in rainbow-hued sunshine, illuminating the details of the architecture. She felt eyes watching her and turned to see Sky standing by the rows of candles, a lit candle in her hand. Claire felt her heart lurch at the sight of Sky’s face, a mixture of grown-up seriousness and childish hope.

Crossing the stone floor, Claire moved to her side and gave the girl’s shoulders a squeeze. After a tiny hesitation she also picked up a candle and lit it. Trying to think about Ruth was harder than stilling the voices in her head. Ruth who had been in her life longer than the voices; who had helped her, dressed her, tormented and teased her. Ruth who – whatever else she might be – was her only sister.

How does it work, lighting a candle for someone? I can’t pray, I wouldn’t know where to start. She decided instead to fill her mind with all the positive pictures of Ruth she could find, focussing on everything that made her sister unique. With tears pricking her eyes she followed Sky’s lead and placed the candle on the stand. Then she reached for her hand and gripped it tightly.

“Everything will be okay, Sky. It will.”

She felt the hand squeeze hers in reply, as Sky remained staring at the flickering flames. Then, almost too quiet to hear, even in the heavy silence of the chapel, Sky’s voice whispered like the breath of a candle.

“I miss my Mummy.”

Claire felt the shudder through her hand as the little shoulders began to shake with sobs. Gathering her close, she led her niece to a seat. “It’s okay, darling. We’ll call her from the coffee shop. She’ll be missing you too.”

Holding Sky tight, Claire looked over her shoulder at the image above the candles. If you’re listening, Mary, we could use your grace about now. Don’t let this little girl lose both her parents. You let her Daddy run off with a ballet teacher. It would be cruel to take her mother too. Have mercy.

Goosebumps raised along her arms as a breeze swept through the room, setting the sea of flames dancing.

***

Sitting With Silence (lifehealingcenter.wordpress.com)

Using Life’s What Ifs: 2013 365 Challenge #113

My Three Darlings

Writing out some of the background for my new novel today I realised I was inadvertently writing a ‘what if’ about my own life, or one tiny aspect of my life.

I think sometimes that’s what writers do. They use their words, their imaginations to explore different lives they might have lived. Mine is a little thing that might have been huge.

I was late for my period this month: second month in a row. Now, we’re careful. We have two beautiful children and I’m in my late thirties. My first child was born at 37 weeks, the second at 35 weeks. My pediatrician friend said that trend to premature babies could easily continue.

I love my Big Sister

So, even if we wanted more children (which we don’t – only when I get occasionally broody) the risks are far too high. And I KNEW I wasn’t pregnant. I’m more likely to be menopausal, as early menopause runs in the family. But, still, you start putting two and two together and making five. I was tired, grumpy, teary and, above all, late.

The protagonist in Baby Blues & Wedding Shoes gets pregnant against the odds. These things happen. I worried.I read up about menopause at 2am on my phone. And, being me, I re-planned my future with a third child in it. I needed to be prepared, just in case. I worked out the age gap, when the third would start school. I decided it would be nice for Aaron to have a play mate when Amber starts school in September. I tried to decide whether I’d prefer a boy or a girl. I’m a writer: I wove stories.

Drove hubbie nuts.

Then I decided I ought to actually get a test and part of me was actually a bit excited (damn you, breeding hormones). I didn’t need the test, as it turned out. As if just buying it was enough, I knew before I got home that it was no longer required. In a tiny way I felt as if I’d lost a baby, even though no baby existed. Because I had made the scary future so plausible.

I wasn’t going to talk about it on the blog – it seems to come under the ‘too much information’ category. Until I started writing out my character list for the new book this morning:

George: 11. Two siblings, Ben (14) and Susie (16). George suspects he wasn’t planned. His sister tells him their mother used to say ‘I’ve only got two hands’ or ‘one of each, job done’. George feels unwanted and an outsider. Susie is academic, Ben is musical. They’re close. George likes football and computer games and being lazy.

My Little Bean

I realised, half way through writing it, that George is my imaginary third child. The things I worried about at 2am were all there: that any other children born into our family would feel left out because my two are so close in age; that Amber would remember me saying ‘one of each, job done’; that a third child would feel alienated, like my Uncle and my Mum – both the last of three kids.

The loss of my imaginary child, that hurt for a day, doesn’t hurt so much now. When I see the kids needing another play mate I do wish I had started my family earlier, so more children was a possibility. But now I can write them in to existence instead. So much cheaper and no need for cots, bottles, stretch marks, swollen ankles and endless dirty nappies. Hurrah.

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Rain hammered at the window as if it, too, wanted to come in and watch TV. Claire reached for the remote and turned up the volume; the dulcet tones of Rapunzel drowning out the drumming beat. She looked around the abandoned lounge, thankful that they were the only occupants.

Next to her, head propped up on one hand, Sky gazed at the TV as though it were entirely responsible for the rotten weather preventing their trip to the beach. She sighed and the noise cut through thrumming rain and Disney’s finest. Claire smiled at the grown up sound. I wonder if she’s learned that from me or Ruth?

“Do you want to watch something else?” Claire had suggested Tangled because she thought she could work with it on in the background. Lack of attention had left her blog drifting with diminishing views and comments and she knew some serious effort was required to breathe life back into it.

The last thing I need right now is Carl on a crusade to have me do another challenge. The Doctor’s Note isn’t going to hold out much longer. I don’t think surviving the school holidays without committing murder is the kind of thing Coca Cola or the YHA would want associated with their brands, however much it must be a reality for millions of parents.

Another sigh cut through her thoughts and she put down the iPad, searching for patience and a smile. Hitching it in place she turned to Sky and said in as lively a voice as she could muster after a night of bad dreams and no sleep, “What shall we do then? Coffee and cake? More homework? We could go exploring: There are lots of places other than the beach to visit.”

“But I wanted to go to the beach!” Out came the bottom lip. Claire pushed away the irritation and searched her mind for alternatives.

“I think there’s a games room here, shall we go and have a look?”

A glimmer of interest flicked across Sky’s face. I’ll take it. Claire got up and held out her hand. After a beat of hesitation, Sky took it and let herself be led from the room.

“I win, I win!” Sky hopped around gleefully as she connected four yellow discs in a row, once more cutting off her Auntie from her own straight run. Claire smiled at the elation, feeling only slightly guilty at her own cheating. Surely it’s only bad when you cheat to win? Cheating to lose – to make a child smile – that’s normal, right?

Her idle brain ran on with the idea. I wonder if I should win now and then, just so she gets used to losing? Surely losing has to happen at some point in a child’s life? Somewhere in her mind she remembered Ruth telling her about the trials of children’s parties, where everyone had to win at pass the parcel or musical statues. I don’t remember it being like that when we were growing up? Losing, crying about it, getting over it, was all part of being a kid. She looked over at Sky’s beaming grin and compared it with what she knew the alternative would be if she beat her niece. Maybe that particular lesson can wait.

“Well done, Sky. Two out of three?”

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