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Take it Easy: 2013 365 Challenge #344

Throw the stick, please?

Throw the stick, please?

Today I decided not to rush. Lately I’ve been feeling like the white rabbit; running around with my watch in my hand, saying “I’m late I’m late I’m late.” It’s horrible. I feel on end all the time, trying to juggle a dozen things at once. The kids suffer, too. They hate being rushed.

The day I really lost it, the shouty day, is referred to by them as the Rushing Day. My boy says “Are we in a rush, Mummy?” and he means, Are you going to try and say goodbye to me at the door instead of taking an extra two minutes to escort me to the room?

I rush on the school run because of parking and because everyone else is frantic and because I drop the children in two different places within ten minutes. Today, though, I decided we’d just be late. I probably still said “Come on, we’re late”, a few times, because the children have no concept of time. But I took time to chat to the teacher, to try and help another mother with a clingy child who was also trying to drop at the door and run, (she has an excuse, though, as she goes to a proper job, not just home to play with words).

I wrote my daughter a star (a note on the board about something they’ve done at home that you’re proud of.) I let myself be ten minutes late for preschool. I took my son to the toilet on request even though I knew it was his way of making me stay longer. I had to leave, then, when he started crying, because I know delay prolongs the pain. But I left calmly, blowing him a kiss and a smile.

The White Rabbit at Disneyland Paris by Paul Beattie

The White Rabbit at Disneyland Paris by Paul Beattie

With tea and mince pie to hand, I penned my post leisurely, and ordered some Christmas gifts, trying not to feel guilty at taking half an hour off work to do so. I made pasta for lunch and emptied the dishwasher. I ignored the dirty floor and read my book. I wrote tomorrow’s installment, because I have my son on Tuesdays, and checked for comments on my guest post. Calmly.

As I write this, I am walking the dog with time to spare. Walking slowly in the sunshine instead of haring round in a state, knowing I have to get the kids in ten minutes. It feels great.

I’m not even sure I’ve achieved all that much less than I do on a normal day. I’ve made fewer of cups of tea because I’ve been less stressed. I’ve spent more time reading and less time on Facebook, which must be healthy. Of course it isn’t sustainable, because I live on my nerves. If I take things too easy, I get complacent. And that’s when it all goes to pot.

Still, it was nice to arrive with minutes to spare and be the first Mummy in to pick up my son. It was nice to take a leisurely walk to the school run and agree to take the children to the coffee shop for tea. Of course they whinged and moaned and I lost my tranquility within about ten minutes. Hey, I’m only human!

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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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The fireworks were over. It was the first display Claire had watched from down by the shore and her eyes and mind reeled from the spectacle. Standing beneath the waves of light, the endless showers of sparks, had been like standing inside the universe.

Conor had his arms around her as they faced the sea. When the penultimate lights had parachuted down to ignite on the water, she had gasped like a child, and Conor had chuckled and kissed her cheek.

Now, aside from the mingling tourists shuffling around them, all was still. They stood motionless for a long moment, neither wanting to break the spell. Then Claire straightened, and inhaled deeply.

“I have to get going in the morning.” Her voice didn’t sound like hers, and she cleared her throat. Aiming for a playful tone, she continued, “I have this report that needs finishing, you see. My boss wants it done in a few weeks and I don’t want to let him down.”

Conor tightened his arms around her, but didn’t speak. They simply existed; listening to the babbling crowds slowly making their way home.

The bay stretched before them, black as a cave without the lights of the fireworks sizzling on the water. A cavernous space pulling at Claire like an unknown future. She dropped her head back against Conor’s shoulder and sighed.

As if hearing her unspoken thoughts, Conor breathed in through his nose before saying softly. “You’re not coming to work for me, are you? When the report is done.” It was a statement and his tone sounded neutral, business-like. It made her stomach clench.

She waited for him to continue: to beg and plead, or reason, or demand. But he stood motionless, apart from one hand which stroked rhythmically at her arm as he held her tight.

“No,” she said eventually into the dark. “Probably not.”

As she said the words aloud, she knew they were the burden she’d been carrying for weeks. Even without the events of the last twenty-four hours, she knew she couldn’t work for Conor. Couldn’t come and live in the place he loved so much. She tried to frame a reason in her mind, one that could possibly contain sufficient explanation for her desertion.

“I need to do something for me. This isn’t my place. This isn’t my dream.”

“What is your dream?” There was a hint of longing in Conor’s voice, but no accusation. She stroked his hand in gratitude and then sighed again. The exhalation felt like a dessert wind, blowing from the depths of her soul, to wander lost on the sea breeze.

Her reply dropped into the darkness like a stone.

“I have no idea.”

*

“Do you have to go now? You could stay another night. There isn’t much to do today. We could go somewhere, have lunch.”

Claire did up her jeans and sat back on the bed, looking over to where Conor sat, naked, against the headboard. Outside the window, the sun was high in the sky. She had no idea what time it was, but her growling tummy said lunch was definitely an idea.

It felt wrong, running away like this. She didn’t know where the urge came from; she just knew she wanted to be on the road. Her time with Conor had been magical. They’d talked and made love into the early morning, falling asleep as the first rays of the sun painted the sky in stripes of peach and amber.

She reached down for her t-shirt and pulled it over her head, concealing the tears in her eyes. Swallowing against the hard knot in her throat, she stood up and walked round to his side of the bed. She sat on the mattress next to him and ran her fingers through his haystack hair and down his cheek, where stubble prickled like cut wheat.

“Today, tomorrow, does it make much difference? It’s easier this way.” Her words lacked conviction.

Conor reached up and cupped her face, pulling her down and kissing her hard. When they finally broke for air, his eyes were red.

“Of course it makes a difference. I’m not asking you to stay forever, just for lunch. You make it sound like we’ll never see each other again.”

It was on Claire’s lips to say, we won’t. Was that what she wanted? To avoid crossing the event horizon and getting sucked into a black hole she couldn’t escape from. Would it be so bad to live in this sleepy town and work for a man she cared for? Wasn’t that a dream, of sorts?

Conflicting desires tugged at her until she was ready to scream. Restraining herself against the urge to run, Claire stood slowly and watched Conor, trying to read his expression. He looked hurt, and then resigned, and then something else she couldn’t quite place. A steady resolve crept into his eyes.

Throwing back the covers, he stood and faced her. The sight of him without a stitch on did funny things to her insides, shaking her resolution. Judging by the playful smile on Conor’s lips, that had been his intention.

Claire laughed and ran her hand down his chest. “Tempting. Very tempting.”

As if he had proved his point, Conor turned and pulled on his jeans. Grabbing a clean t-shirt from a drawer, he turned back and grinned. “Just lunch. My treat. And then you can leave with my blessing. Provided you agree to let me come visit you occasionally. And after the report is finished? Well, we can just figure that out when we get there.”

Grateful for his understanding, Claire gave a swift nod and walked out the bedroom, before she ran out of reasons to leave.

***

 

A Domestic Ramble: 2013 365 Challenge #343

New Boots. Again.

New Boots. Again.

I am currently sat watching Robin Hood Prince of Thieves (with adverts, arrgghh. We never watch adverts, that’s what Sky Plus is for.) I’ve been searching my brain all evening for a blog topic, but it’s been such a busy day, my brain is asleep.

The day started with a thirty-minute tantrum from the eldest child, because I told her off for not sharing. Is this normal? I know I can be a tough parent and she craves my approval, so I do worry that I’ve broken her. Hubbie thinks it’s fairly standard fare for a nearly-five-year-old girl. Joy.

After everyone had calmed down and eaten breakfast, we went to the local woods to walk the dog and have a wintry picnic. It’s been a gorgeous day – warm for the time of year and sunny. The woods were quiet and the dog had a brilliant time chasing sticks for an hour. Unfortunately the trip also revealed that the kids needed new wellies. The son has only had his two months and they’re full of holes. The daughter’s feet just keep growing. What is it with kids and shoes?

So I heroically took the children to the shopping centre on the third weekend before Christmas to procure new boots. Arrgghh. The son, of course, chose the most expensive ones. After trying on five pairs in three other shops I had to admit defeat. I had hopes the daughter would settle for the half price ones but was wrong. Sigh. Of course we had to battle back through the crowds to find her best winter boots which had been left behind in one of the stores. This is why I do all my shopping online and in charity shops.

We got home with just enough daylight left to put up the outside Christmas lights and for the kids to burn off some steam in the playroom while I did the ironing. Definitely a divide-and-conquer day, with hubbie taking bath time while I cooked dinner. And low and behold it’s nearly Monday again. Where does the weekend go? At least it’s only two weeks until the shortest day. Something to look forward to. 🙂

P.S. On the way in on the school run this morning, I asked them what their favourite part of the weekend was, like I normally do – you know, to remind them we actually do fun things – and my daughter said her least favourite bit was Mummy being grumpy while shopping for wellies. And I thought I’d hidden it so well!

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

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Pain throbbed behind Claire’s eyes: a steady staccato beat of agony that increased in severity when she tried to raise her head. Slowly her other senses came into focus. Without analysing them, her brain sorted through the various inputs. The sound of steady breathing, close by. The scent of aftershave and sweat. The feel of tangled sheets against naked skin. Finally the pieces of the puzzle clicked together and Claire sat upright, before collapsing back onto the bed as the room span around her.

She groaned, and heard the rhythm of the gentle snores change as the form next to her shifted. Her body froze; every nerve zinging. The fog in her brain cleared instantly, like a gale had swept through and brushed the mist away.

With a snuffling sound, the breathing returned to its gentle rhythm. Claire exhaled and lay still, staring at the ceiling, trying to decide what to do. The events of the previous night were sketchy at best. She remembered the wheelbarrow and the dress, the wig and the blown kisses. A vague image of standing over a fan in the iconic Marilyn Monroe pose flashed into her head and she winced.

Slowly, as if building up to the final reveal, her brain skipped forward to the kiss outside the Black Swan. Then, speeding on fast forward, she remembered Conor’s whispered suggestion that they go back to his place. The taxi ride, more kissing, stumbling up to his top floor apartment.

The memories became blurred again at that point, whether from self-protection or alcohol she couldn’t say. Her position now, naked in Conor’s bed, told the rest of the story.

Bugger.

Don’t sleep with the boss. Wasn’t that a rule as old as time? Claire tried to feel bad about it, but found she couldn’t. Instead, despite the hammering in her brain and quivering in her limbs, she could tell a broad smile stretched her numb and tender lips. She put her fingers up to feel them.

I must look like I’ve had Botox. Please don’t let me have to face any of Conor’s colleagues today.

The thought reminded her of something else. It was the last day of the Carnival: Conor would have things to do. She probably had things to do, if she could but remember what they were. She looked over at the sleeping man beside her. His face lay in the shadows, with only a glint of light coming through the dark curtains. It looked peaceful, though. Too peaceful to wake him just yet.

Claire carefully rolled off the low bed and pulled on a t-shirt lying next to her on the floor. It smelled of him. With a smile she padded from the room to explore. It didn’t take long. The apartment was tiny: just a bedroom, kitchen diner and a bathroom the size of a small cupboard. The ceilings sloped above her head, making it feel more compact, despite the bright white walls and cupboards.

With a frown, Claire wondered why someone would choose to live in such a tiny apartment outside London. The quality of the finish suggested it wasn’t cheap lodgings. Why not have something a bit more homely, with room to breathe?

She walked over to the patio doors, up two steps, and on to a tiny balcony. As she stepped out, she gasped. The sun peeped over the horizon, it’s light reflected in the sea. Beneath her, the beach stretched out, with pristine sand glistening in the morning light. She could just make out someone walking a dog in the distance. There appeared to be a path leading down from the apartment to the beach. Over to the left she could see the barrow, where she had walked from Old Harry Rocks. It was stunning.

I thought Conor hated being out in nature, away from the steaming pile of humanity? That’s what he always says.

After a while she became aware of a breeze on her legs, and realised she was standing on the balcony in only a t-shirt. With a mortified blush, she turned and went in search of coffee.

The tiny kitchen yielded instant coffee and old milk that more closely resembled soft cheese. Claire eventually found some sugar, behind the tins of beans and packets of pasta. With a shrug she made two mugs of black coffee and heaped sugar into both. She left one by the kettle, and took the other back out to the balcony, making sure she was covered up.

The cup was almost empty by the time she heard footsteps. The scrape of the mug against the granite worktop was followed by the sense of someone coming up behind her.

“You’re up early. Thanks for the coffee.”

Conor came to stand  beside her on the balcony, without touching her. Claire looked at him, trying to analyse his mood. His hair stuck up at all angles, and he’d only stopped to pull on his trousers. His bare chest was more contoured and tanned than she would have suspected when it was hidden by a shirt and tie.

They stood in silence, sipping at the strong black liquid. Fire rippled across Claire’s skin and her head swirled with words. Eventually she chanced another glance at Conor, and the look in his eyes fanned the flames, burning a trail down her body. She became acutely aware of her lack of clothing.

“You’re still here.” He smiled as he stated the obvious.

“Yes.” She smiled tentatively back.

“That’s good.” He leaned over, as if he might kiss her, and she pulled away. His expression dropped like a chastised dog and Claire felt an urge to stroke his face and kiss away the hurt.

“I need a shower first. Please.”

Relief flooded Conor’s face and he nodded. “Of course. It’s not a very big one, I’m afraid.”

“That’s okay.” Claire drained the last of her coffee and walked back into the apartment. She could feel Conor’s eyes on her as she left. When she reached the door she stopped and turned. Forcing herself to speak before her head overruled her desire, Claire gave an arch smile and called back to Conor.

“Is it big enough for two?”

He grinned and jumped down the steps into the room.

***

iBook Madness: 2013 365 Challenge #342

This greeted me this morning. Lovely.

This greeted me this morning. Lovely.

I woke this morning to a message from Smashwords, saying that one of my Two-Hundred Steps Home volumes has been booted out of the Premium Catalogue because of a link to a competitor site, which is frowned upon.

I had already been alerted to the issue through a ticket opened by Apple, saying I had a link to Amazon in my book. I’d only reloaded the offending volume (which had previously been approved for Premium Distribution) because Barnes and Noble weren’t pulling through the front cover. As I may have mentioned in the past, formatting for Smashwords could drive you crazy!

I couldn’t find any Amazon links, so I went through and removed all the links except my blog, Facebook and Twitter ones. Considering that the whole purpose of writing THSH this year, to the detriment of my other projects (not to mention sleep and sanity) was to promote the blog and hopefully sell books, I figured that was fair. I offer the books for free, after all.

Then I got this message from Smashwords telling me the link that had Apple in a tizz was the writermummy blog link because my blog has links to my novels on Amazon. I mean, seriously? That would be like telling me to remove my twitter and facebook links because I occasionally promote my books through these channels. Paranoid, much? I wouldn’t mind if I’d actually sold a single book through Apple when my novels were available there. I don’t even get many free downloads from them.

Volumes 10 and 11 missing from Apple

Volumes 10 and 11 missing from Apple

Unfortunately Smashwords doesn’t offer the ability to have different versions for Premium Distribution and their own store. I can take my books out of iBook distribution, but I have at least one reader I know who downloads from there and it doesn’t seem fair for her not to have access to the final volume. But taking off my blog link is absurd. The books are intrinsically linked to the blog.

I read around the subject this morning, after writing a ranty message to Smashwords (a shame in itself because I’ve been a huge advocate up to now) and it seems there is no other way to get free books into Barnes & Noble (my biggest source of downloads) other than through Smashwords. I hate being cornered like that. To be fair, I don’t think many of those 2,800 B&N downloads have resulted in blog traffic (I wish!) but it isn’t the point.

I don’t understand the paranoia (particularly about a free book). Either you have a Kindle or a Nook or an iPad. You will buy your ebooks through the route your device dictates. No one is going to rush out and buy a kindle merely because my novels aren’t available through iBook.

Anyway, I don’t have the time to change anything now. If that means all my books end up not available through B&N or iBooks, then so be it. If anyone wants a copy and it isn’t available, then you can download the volumes in all formats directly from Smashwords (or I’ll email you a copy!). I have a long memory, though. I’ve already unpublished from Kobo because of their stunt earlier in the year. One day these retailers will realise that, without authors, they have nothing. I won’t be missed but maybe, just maybe, an author with sufficient clout will become annoyed with them. Or perhaps I’m naïve and big business does call all the shots. What a shame.

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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’s head whirled as she downed the drink on the table in front of her. She remembered now why she hated pub crawls. It wasn’t just getting drunk too quickly, and trying to move in a straight line when the world was spinning, it was the bloated tummy and the sloshing sensation as yet another quantity of liquid was consumed too fast.

She reeled and felt a steadying arm wrap round her shoulders. “Whoa, there. You don’t have to keep up, you know. The real race is over. This is just the lads from the office now: no need for bravado.” The voice whispering in her ear seemed hardwired to other, more intimate, parts of her body. She focussed on staying upright and turned to him with a bright smile.

“I’m fine, Conor. I’m a bit out of practice is all. Not much call for getting drunk on your own. No good reasons at any rate. It’s been a while.”

Conor gave her back a quick rub, then dropped his arm. He didn’t move away, however, and Claire found his presence at her side comforting. She looked around blearily, trying to see who was still with them. She recognised most of the faces, although they all looked a little worse for wear.

“I think maybe I should push the wheelbarrow on the next stint,” she said to Conor. “If I climb back in, I might fall asleep.”

“My poor Claire,” Conor said with a smile. “You have been a good sport.”

“Well, after you went to all that trouble to find me a cushion I could hardly refuse, could I? Just please tell me there’s no photographic evidence.”

Conor raised his eyebrows and said nothing. Claire groaned. “Great. I guess that was inevitable. Maybe no one will remember who I am.”

Her boss let out a loud laugh. “Sorry, m’darling, not much chance of that. Your pouting and liberal blowing of kisses have been the highlight of the evening, although my personal favourite was your attempt at the iconic fanned skirt image in the pub before last.”

The groan was louder this time, and Claire dropped her head into her hands. “I thought I’d imagined it. Please tell me I didn’t really put their fan on the floor and stand above it? I didn’t even think I was that drunk.”

“You are and you did.” He grinned. “Kept your modesty quite well though. Until you fell over at least.”

Only the gentle affection in his voice stopped Claire from running out the room. In fact he’d been the perfect date: attentive, supportive and encouraging. There had been a hint of distance to begin with, but as the alcohol flowed and the eyes blurred that had dissipated. She felt the warmth of his body next to hers, through the thin fabric of her dress, and suddenly shivered.

“Are you cold? I can get your cardie, although it feels pretty warm in here. Would you like some fresh air?”

“I’m fine.” Something in his expression caught her attention. “Though yes, now you mention it, some fresh air might be a good idea.”

Conor grasped her elbow and led her from the room. She heard him tell their colleagues that she was going to be sick and their friendly laughter followed them out. It was on her lips to tell him she didn’t feel ill, when it occurred to her that he might be protecting her reputation, as the two of them left the pub together.

Ever the gentleman. Nothing like the man I took him for at my interview.

Claire shivered again as the cool night air brushed her skin. It wasn’t cold, although the oppressive heat of the day had eased with the setting of the sun. Despite the bustling noise of the pub spilling through the open doors and windows, it felt eerily quiet out in the night.

They were somewhere away from the High Street, having left the hubbub of the carnival behind. The race proper had finished much earlier and Conor had led his colleagues on a longer tour with the drinks on him, as a thank you for all their hard work. Above them, inky blackness stretched away, punctuated by thousands of pin-pricks of dazzling light. The sheer expanse of the sky made Claire dizzy, and she leant against the whitewashed stone wall for support.

“You’re not really going to be sick, are you?”

Claire shook her head, regretting it immediately. “No, I’m fine. You might need to push me back to the hostel in that wheelbarrow though; I can’t see me making it up the hill.” She looked around. “Not that I have any idea where I am.”

“We’re not that far away. We’re in the Muddy Duck. Swanage isn’t a big place.”

“I’m none the wiser. Besides, we’re in the Black Swan.” She gestured at the sign above their heads. “And you think I’m drunk!”

Conor leant back against the rail, propped up on his elbows, and smiled tolerantly. “Muddy Duck is what the locals call it. You know, a black swan is just a muddy duck? At least I think that’s where it comes from. I’m not really a local.”

“Don’t tell me, your kids’ kids would just about be accepted?”

“Not that bad, but you have the general idea.”

They stood together in silence, listening to the sounds of revelry from inside the building. People came and went through the door to Claire’s left, but they seemed to have a pocket of unbreakable stillness around them.

Claire felt tension build like an approaching storm. Suddenly all her senses were on overdrive: her ears picking up every sound, her nose taking in the scent of Conor’s aftershave and the stink of stale beer and cigarettes. Despite the gloom, she could see Conor as if he stood beneath a spotlight. He was watching her, his eyes and teeth shining in the darkness, competing with his brilliant white suit.

The silence took on texture. Conor pushed away from the railing, and the movement tightened the knot in Claire’s stomach and caused her heart to race uncontrollably, like the wheelbarrows had along the High Street earlier. Conor came to stand directly in front of her, looking down with a question in his eyes.

Claire raised her gaze to meet his. She flinched as his eyes narrowed slightly. He reached forwards and gently pulled off the wig, letting her hair tumble down around her face.

“That’s better.”

His eyes sought hers again, still asking the unanswered question. She didn’t need to search hard for a reply. It was a question she’d been waiting for. With a quivering smile, Claire gave a nod. At her response, the tension seeped out of Conor’s face, and he leant forwards slowly to brush his lips against hers.

Claire let herself sink into the kiss. Conor’s hands tangled into her hair, cupping her face and pulling her close. She wrapped her arms around him, running her hands over the contours of his back, feeling the lithe body beneath his costume. A gentle breeze blew up the street and across their skin, bringing with it the scent of night and the salty tang of the sea. Claire inhaled deeply and lost herself in the moment.

***

The Christmas Fairy: 2013 365 Challenge #341

My kitchen table is under there somewhere...

My kitchen table is under there somewhere…

I need a Christmas fairy. Not one on top of the tree, or even one who grants wishes. I don’t need a pretty dress, a pumpkin coach or a handsome prince. Some footmen might be nice, though. She can use the mice in the loft, and then they won’t eat through the Santa sacks, like they did last year, and nibble on the Christmas chocolate. (“Father Christmas,” we explained to my distraught daughter, “must have had nibblers on his sleigh.”)

What I need a fairy for is to be me, while I get on with the fun business of Christmas. For example, while I’m up from 5am tweaking photographs (one of my usual hair-brained Christmas things – photos make great gifts), the fairy could help find my kitchen table, ready for breakfast.

Or she could sit and supervise the children’s homework, because I’m all out of patience and actually had to go upstairs and scream into a pillow this morning because three hours’ sleep wasn’t enough to deal with the bickering. I also cried when I couldn’t get parked on the school run, because I had a red double-decker bus on my tail and I’m rubbish at reverse parking, but that’s not unusual.

The living room is not the relaxing zone it's meant to be

The living room is not the relaxing zone it’s meant to be

The fairy could waltz the children to school, singing silly songs, and wait patiently for ten minutes for them to go through their settling in routine. I’m managing it, but the smile is slipping.

Or I could send the fairy out when I get the call for another chore for hubbie. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind, and she could have the McD breakfast instead of me, to save my waistline. That would be a real plus.

A helpful fairy might help locate my living room floor, or put food in the fridge, or make the photos look better when I pick them up from the supermarket (the 5am two-hour stint was worth nothing because they printed so dark they’re unusable. Start again!)

I wonder if I could convince friends and family to give Christmas gifts early? I don’t need slippers or perfume or jewellery, but a cooked meal would be marvelous. A school pick up superb. A quick vac of the house would be a result for everyone, because I can’t be the only one tired of standing on toys and picking stickers and dirt off my socks.

I want to be writing my blog, and inventing adventures for Claire (it’s just getting interesting!). I want to be buying and wrapping gifts, and writing Christmas cards. At a push I don’t mind walking the dog, but the housework isn’t on the agenda until January, and who knows what the house might look like by then. Does anyone know where I might find a Christmas Fairy? If so, send her my way, please. I’ll pay in chocolate. 🙂

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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 looked in the mirror and pulled a face.

I look ridiculous. Why did I let Conor talk me in to this?

She tugged at the wig, which had slipped sideways, and pouted her bright red lips. She swished her skirt and struck a pose. “Happy birthday, Mr President…” she sang off key and laughed.

Fine; I’ll be Marilyn, seeing as the theme is Hollywood, but if there’s karaoke I’m out.

With a sigh Claire turned from the mirror and pulled on her cardigan. Despite the warm temperature outside there was no way she was walking across town without some protection.

As she strode down the road in her sandals, with her heels in a bag over her shoulder, Claire’s mind wandered over the events of the week. They were mostly a blur of phone calls and running across town to fetch and carry. She’d stayed awake for the fireworks on Wednesday, but had watched them from the hostel bedroom, not wanting to stand on the beach by herself.

Conor was still the elusive Pimpernel. She caught sight of him from time to time, hurrying to a meeting or helping out at an event. She’d been wrapped up in her own tasks, liaising with the shops over their storefront competition and doing a dozen other menial tasks.

Just when she was starting to think Conor was avoiding her, instead of simply being busy, he’d called out of the blue and asked if she wanted to take part in the Wheelbarrow Race on Friday night. Once he had reassured her that it was a pub crawl rather than a sports day event, she had reluctantly agreed. Then he’d mentioned the need for fancy dress.

“You’re kidding. I don’t do dressing up,” had been her response. Conor had only laughed. “You do now,” he’d replied with a wicked chuckle.

“Are you ordering me, as your employee?” She’d put on a prim tone, wondering if the banter was a wise idea, given his attitude all week. He’d paused for a fraction of a second before saying in a softer voice, “Of course not. I thought it might be fun is all.”

She’d had to agree at that point.

More fool me.

Her walk through the residential streets drew amused glances from passers-by, as she took the route into town, and she regretted not waiting until she got to the pub before putting on the wig. A group of lads wolf whistled from the other side of the road and she toyed between ignoring them and telling them to get lost. Instead she turned, bent forwards, pouted, and blew them a kiss. They looked shocked and then laughed; their appreciative chuckles drifted along behind her as she continued walking.

I guess I’m going to have to try and get in the mood.

She gathered that all of Conor’s colleagues – my colleagues, she amended – would be taking part in the pub crawl. It seemed strange to be socialising with people she hardly knew, and she wondered what they made of the woman Conor had hired against the Board’s better judgement.

Her footsteps slowed as it dawned on her what the evening would entail. Pub crawls meant getting drunk. Did she really want to leave herself vulnerable amongst strangers? The last time she’d been on a work do and under the influence she had heard things about herself she’d rather not have done. It was an experience she didn’t choose to repeat.

But it was too late now. She could see the pub up ahead; identifying it as much by the group of oddly dressed people milling outside. And by the wheelbarrows.

Bastard. He said there were no real wheelbarrows. I am going to kill him.

“Claire, you’re here!”

Conor pushed through the crowd and came to meet her. “You look amazing,” he said as he approached. “This gentleman definitely prefers blondes.” His tone was light but it brought the blood to her cheeks.

He came to a standstill too close for comfort and Claire concentrated on his outfit. He was dressed as Elvis, complete with white suit and big hair. It looked good. The words of anger died on her lips at the warmth in his expression and she dropped her gaze to stare at the pavement between them.

“Are you okay? Have you changed your mind?” Conor’s soft tone held too much understanding for her liking. Deciding the only course was to brazen it out, she threw back her shoulders and looked him in the eye.

“No, not at all. Bring it on.”

“That’s my girl.” His smile was swift and genuine. He looked like he was about to say something else, when a voice hailed him from amidst the crowd.

“Come on, Conor, stop hogging the fit bird and bring her over.”

It was Conor’s turn to look embarrassed. “Sorry, Claire,” he murmured, “Some of the lads have had a head start.”

“It’s okay, it’s nothing I can’t handle.” Claire took off her cardigan and draped it over her bag. In full costume she felt better able to enter into the spirit of things. Still, in the back of her mind she knew it was going to be a long night.

***

Son and the Sailor’s Warning: 2013 365 Challenge #340

Red sky in the morning, sailor's warning

Red sky in the morning, sailor’s warning

We woke to a fiery red sky this morning. Spectacular colours to herald a stormy day (amazingly, one predicted by the forecast. It’s nice to have a heads up). My daughter came downstairs, went in to get her breakfast, didn’t bat an eyelid. My three-year-old son came down later and called me urgently from the hallway.

“Mummy, come, come see! The sky!”

He’s surprisingly in tune with nature, my son. I do try and make both my children aware of the beauties around them, calling their attention to birds, clouds, rainbows, pretty autumn leaves and so on.

My daughter doesn’t share my passion (although she shares my love of reading, so she’s forgiven!) but my son has picked up on it. Whether because he truly appreciates it, or because it makes me smile, I’m not sure. Who cares?

He often goes outside and, when he sees blue sky, says in a sing-song voice, “It’s a lovely sunny day, Mummy.” It warms my heart. So to see him hanging out the window, letting in the arctic air, admiring the dazzling display of nature across the fields, made me very proud. It also makes him yet more like a reincarnation of my father (a blessing and a curse!) My dad loved nature and I got my appreciation from him. His photo albums (like mine!) are full of snaps of sunsets, flowers and blurry distant birds. The camera never does nature justice but it doesn’t stop us trying.

Watching the Colourful Sunrise

Watching the Colourful Sunrise

When I miss my dad, I look at my son and know he isn’t very far away. My boy shares more than his grandpa’s name (my son’s middle name): he looks like him, laughs like him, has his temper and his sweetness of nature. Such a shame they never met. My father never met any of his grandchildren, but he lives on in them.

It reminds me of the lines in the Mike and the Mechanics song (in itself ironic as my father was both a Mike and a mechanic), In the Living Years: “I wasn’t there that morning when my father passed away” through to “I think I caught his spirit … in my baby’s new born tears.”

Makes me cry every. single. time.

Incidentally, I looked into the saying “Red sky at night, sailors’ (or shepherds’) delight, red sky in the morning, sailors’ warning,” and there is some truth to it. With a howling gale blowing us down the road on the school run – freezing hands and noses and swirling autumn winds round in endless eddies – it was certainly true today. I wouldn’t have wanted to be out in a boat!

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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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“Okay, Claire, I need you to call all the marching bands, confirm their running order and remind them we start an hour earlier this year. Then I want you to speak to the Fireworks people, make sure they know the signal to commence their display. After that, can you head down to Sandpit Field and help with the set up.”

Claire scribbled notes on the paper she’d borrowed from the secretary, when she’d realised what kind of meeting it was going to be. Looking round the table at the other volunteers, Claire’s heart sank. This wasn’t really her thing. She tried to catch Conor’s eye, to at least get a smile from him, but he had his head bent over his master list. When he looked up, it was to tell the next person round the table what their tasks were.

I’ve been in Swanage for forty-eight hours and Conor hasn’t so much as said hello and welcome.

It was obvious that he was busy with the Carnival, but Claire found herself searching her memory to try and discover if she had done or said something to incur his displeasure. Even the busiest person had time to smile.

A voice in the back of Claire’s mind reminded her that world war three could have broken out, when she had been face with an imminent deadline, and she would have shrugged it off as irrelevant. She was taking it all too personally. For once she hoped her watching voice was right.

*

Claire slumped, exhausted, onto the grass and hoped she had done enough. Two days of endless phone calls, of questions she couldn’t answer and complaints she didn’t understand, of running round town, climbing the stupid hill to the hostel, and grabbing sandwiches on the run, and she’d finally made it through her list of tasks.

She hadn’t seen Conor since the meeting on Friday and they’d only spoken on the phone to exchange information, like a verbal relay race. The actual start of the Carnival the day before had passed in a blur. She’d missed the firework display, after crashing on her bunk to close her eyes for a moment and waking up four hours later. Conor hadn’t asked why she wasn’t there.

I thought he was meant to like me? If you really like someone surely even work doesn’t get in the way of good manners?

Around her, the chatter of thousands of happy people rose like a swarm of flies. Somehow she hadn’t noticed the people filtering into town, until every verge and patch of beach was covered with them.  It was strange to see the quiet town full of colour and life; like seeing a familiar landscape under three feet of water. She wished they would go away.

Up ahead the sound of drumming drifted on the sea breeze. The chatter of the crowd dropped in anticipation and heads turned to catch their first glimpse of the parade. The rhythmic sound came nearer and there was something stirring about it. Realising she’d never actually watched a parade before, Claire rubbed the sleep from her eyes and sat forward, camera at the ready. At least if she got some snaps for the blog it wouldn’t be a completely wasted trip.

Claire had to blink her eyes again as the first marching band came into view. Striding through the crowd were two dozen Spidermen with full head coverings, some drumming on the traditional white military drums, others lined up behind playing brass instruments. The crowd chuckled and Claire joined in, appreciating the spectacle.

For the next few hours the show rolled in front of her like the toy TV she’d had as a child that turned with a dial and played plinky music. There were girls in blue with pompoms and girls in red throwing batons; there were cars and bikes and floats; there were carnival girls with costumes to rival Brazil, all feathers and fans and structure, towering over their heads.

The Carnival Queens walked by in red and salmon pink, beaming and waving at the crowd. Musketeers and movie makers, and all manner of fancy dress costumes sashayed past, all to the sound of music; military drums and Latin beats, Rock and Roll, Pop and the unmistakeable Caribbean kettle drums.

Claire found herself clapping and cheering and swaying her shoulders with the crowd. For two hours she forgot that her head hurt and her feet throbbed and her heart ached most of all.

Mid-afternoon, just as the last of the parade members were straggling past, the Red Arrows flew overhead with a roar that silenced the rising hubbub. Mesmerised, Claire watched their plumes of smoke in red, white and blue, as the red jets crossed in the sky in breath-taking formations, with the steely grey sea stretched out beneath them.

The sun had disappeared behind a veil of cloud, easing the heat and glare. Claire watched the end of the display without blinking, her brain whirling with the sensory input of the last few hours. And this was only the second day. There were still so many more events happening over the rest of the week.

Okay, so maybe Conor has had his hands full organising all this.

The thought rose like a bubble inside her, lifting some of the gloom that had been weighing her down. Determined to help him with his impossible task and not to mind his distraction, Claire pushed herself away from the grass bank, stretched cramped muscles, and went off in search of her boss.

***

When Not to Chat to Strangers: 2013 365 Challenge #338

Controlled crying worked for one

Controlled crying worked for one

I had one of those discussion today that made me review my parenting decisions over the last four years and I almost came away not feeling awful. I say almost. I haven’t come that far!

Even as the conversation continued, and I realised I was trying to defend my choices against people who thought I was a soft parent, I wondered why I was bothering.

I mean, does it matter if two people I see once a week at gymnastics think I was a bad/easy/ lazy/hippie parent because I wouldn’t continue with controlled crying for my second child? Because I try and cajole (threaten/bribe) them into eating their dinner, rather than following the eat it or starve approach? Does it matter that I still get up in the night to them, and neither child showed any inkling to sleep through at 11 months, never mind 11 weeks?

Aside from the eating thing, these are decisions I made that no longer have any relevance. Yes, I tried controlled crying with my son. I took advice from anyone and everyone, including the sleep specialist from the clinic. I sat outside his room sobbing while he cried himself hoarse and then threw up. I persisted until he got to the point where he was crying hysterically before he even got into bed, and then I stopped. I tried again a few months later, and again stopped. For the first two years of his life he was either breastfed to sleep or held onto my hand (for thirty minutes to an hour). And now? He sleeps fine. He’s better than my daughter in some ways. Except when he’s ill, and then he goes back to needing constant reassurance. But we survived (just).

My sleeping son, day one

My sleeping son, during our long hospital stay

Same goes for the small age gap. I agreed with them that there probably was a negative impact on both children, that I didn’t get to give them both undivided attention and all that. But they’re great friends, which is what we hoped would happen, and I’m not the kind of parent that does undivided attention well anyway. Besides, I get to do that for the next two years, and they’re much more interesting at three and four than they were as babies (If harder work.)

Still, the forty minute conversation left me with a vague sense of disquiet that has build over the day, until I actually feel quite teary. I don’t know why. I think it’s the lack of empathy; seeing in their eyes (or thinking I see, which is maybe not the same thing) judgement and disapproval. Or knowing that if I’d had the conversation two years ago it would have broken me, as so many similar conversations did.

Not all children are the same, even siblings, and what works brilliantly for your child isn’t going to work for someone else’s. When will we get that as parents? (Because of course I still get a bit judgy about some parenting things I see!)

All grown up and sleeping now!

All grown up and sleeping now!

Whatever the cause, when added to a discussion I sparked off on Facebook about Christmas gifts for the children (from Santa or from the parents?), with one friend saying it should be about more than gifts (which I agree with, but makes me feel guilty, cos I love buying presents) it all makes me want to crawl into a corner and rock.

Yet my kids sat and ate Mediterranean egg fried rice for dinner (one of Mummy’s concoctions), and they’re setting up snakes and ladders in the lounge (which will be fine as long as my daughter wins). They will mostly go to bed on time with acceptable levels of fuss. They’ll get up ridiculously early, but they’ll get themselves dressed and play in their rooms more or less until their ‘suns’ are up. I’ll only get out of bed two or three times between 5am and 7am.

They’re good kids which means, somehow, I must be a good parent. So why do those conversations always leave me feeling full of doubt and self recrimination? About stuff that’s water so far under the bridge it’s out to sea by now. As if life isn’t hard enough? Sigh. Never mind. Each time it will get easier, I’ll defend my case better and not get emotionally involved. Or I’ll learn not to chat to strangers! 🙂

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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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The motorway stretched endlessly ahead of her, and Claire’s mind wandered over the events of the night before. Despite the temptation to grill her sister about the mysterious Mark, for once she had held her tongue. It was entirely possible that her sister was unaware of a nascent attraction and teasing her about it now might break it completely.

It had been an interesting twenty-four hours with her family. It felt like everyone had changed so much in such a short time. Well, maybe not her mum. But her dad was no longer the distant, reserved, businessman she remembered from childhood. As if retirement had freed him from a role he wore with reluctance, he’d become more approachable; more human. She had left him and Jack chatting about their favourite authors.

Claire glanced over at the passenger seat, where a proof copy of her dad’s book sat on top of her handbag. It felt odd to think her father had written it.

Then there was Ruth. No longer the needy, miserable, sister she’d been only months before, she now carried herself with a quiet confidence and a security that she said knew her place in the world and was content. Although she felt less able to relate to the new Ruth, Claire was glad she’d found a path she was happy with.

And what about me? Have I changed? What do they see, when they see me? I don’t feel any different, but I suppose a few months ago I wouldn’t have been driving to the middle of nowhere in a rusty car with anything other than horror.

The trill of the phone cut through her thoughts. Claire glanced down to see who was calling. No name came on the screen, but the number looked familiar. Thinking it might be Conor, she grabbed the handset.

“Hello?”

“Claire, hi, it’s Kim.”

“Kim! How great to hear from you. Listen, I’m driving at the moment, and this clapped out old car doesn’t have anything as posh as hands-free. Can I call you back in,” she looked out the window and saw a sign for a service station in ten miles, “say, twenty minutes? I’m due a stop.”

“Sure, no problem. I’ll go and make myself a cup of tea.”

Claire hung up the phone and tried to work out why Kim had sounded strange. And then she realised what was different. She’d sounded happy.

*

“So, what’s the gos?” Claire cradled the phone to her ear, and sipped at the hot latte in her other hand.

“Are you safe to talk now?”

“Yes, I’m at the services, coffee at the ready.”

“Good.” Kim fell silent, and Claire wondered if she’d imagined the happiness in her voice earlier. As the silence stretched out, Claire tried to think of something harmless to say.

“How are you?” She didn’t want to say more than that, but it was enough.

“You mean, am I still nuts? No, the doctor thinks I’m making good progress. I’m hoping to go back home soon. Jeff’s still busy, so they want me to stay with Mum until they’re sure I’m safe to be by myself, but I feel okay.”

“You sound great.” Claire smiled, aware of a real sense of relief to hear her friend on the road to recovery.

“Helena is coming home.” Kim blurted the words out and it took Claire a moment to process them.

“Your sister? I thought she’d put down roots in Hong Kong? She didn’t even come home for your wedding.”

“Yes, well, I don’t think it’s entirely her idea.” Kim’s voice bubbled with suppressed mirth. “I shouldn’t laugh, but it’s so out of character for Helena.” She giggled.

“What happened?” Claire tried to remember what Kim’s sister was like. She was older than Kim, and was the driven, business orientated one, full of ambition.

“We don’t know.” Kim laughed. “But it’s got to be pretty bad. I’ve got bets on her having slept with a client. Mum’s saying nothing, but I think she’s worried that she’s up the duff.”

Silence fell again, and Claire wondered if Kim was dwelling on her own lost baby.

“Be bloody typical if she is.” Kim’s voice had lost some of its humour. “Maybe I could convince her to give it to me and Jeff.”

Claire winced and took a gulp of coffee, cursing as she scalded her mouth. Her brain hummed with useless words and she pictured Kim sinking back into the dark place.

“Whatever the cause, it’s brilliant that she’s coming home under a cloud. It’ll take the heat off me as the useless one. Anyway, I wondered if you’re around? She’ll be home next week; it’d be great if we could all catch up.”

With a frown, Claire tried to read beneath Kim’s request. She hardly knew Helena. There was a four-year age gap, from what she could remember, and Helena had been a shadowy figure at school, one who refused to associate with her younger sister.

“I’m in Cornwall, or I will be soon.” She heard Kim’s intake of breath, and quickly added, “But I’m sure I could shoot up to yours one weekend. After the Carnival though. Conor would kill me if I wasn’t around for that. I can do early August.”

Kim agreed somewhat reluctantly and Claire felt a pang of guilt for bursting her happy bubble. She wondered why Kim needed moral support to face her sister, and filed it away under things to worry about.

***

Zoning Out: 2013 365 Challenge #337

My angel tree-topper

My angel tree-topper

A couple of hours ago I wrote on Twitter, “Ah. That time of day when I search my brain for a blog topic, when I just want to pour a glass of wine and watch crap TV. Ideas for a post?”

My friend Pat replied, “That! Sometimes all you need is wine and crap tv… even authors need to zone out!” So, that’s the basis of today’s post: me zoning out and having a ramble!

It’s been a hectic week, what with the impromptu Christmas fair preparation (pringle pots, tombola, badge making), family lunch and month end book completion. The children were fairly nonplussed with the pringle pots, but the tombola was a hit.

I’ve had a spiking headache for two days, and only now realised it’s not just stress but also caffeine withdrawal (I don’t get as much time to drink tea at the weekend, especially in someone else’s house). I’m on my third cup of the evening and am starting to feel better!

At 6am this morning I moaned to hubbie that I needed to split myself into six clones to vaguely get through my to-do list in the five hours between child drop off and pick up. Shopping, cleaning, ironing, writing, Christmas shopping and dog walking. Instead I did an hour on each thing, and managed to get through most of it, although it has resulted in me feeling as if Jekyll and Hyde have invited around a few buddies and they’re all having a party in my brain.

Daughter's amazing craft

Daughter’s amazing craft

I am notorious for making life more complicated for myself, though. An hour of my precious day was spent trying to find the perfect angel for the top of the tree, and an Elf for the shelf.

All the angels in the shops are overly stylized realistic pretty ones in ceramic and gauze. I wanted something closer to a cardboard cone skirt with a ping-pong ball face, like we had when I was younger. So, while the kids did craft after tea, I made one out of exactly that: a little rag doll of my daughter’s, some craft foam, gold card and pipe cleaners.

The Elf on the Shelf thing is typical me: I first heard about it on Facebook yesterday, from an American cousin, instantly thought my kids would love it, but couldn’t afford to buy the compete ‘kit’ so thought I’d just find something vaguely elf-like in the shops and use that. Big mistake, big, huge. Six shops later I gave the idea up and decided next year will be fine to introduce it!

My husband’s chosen way to zone out this evening is to watch his new guilty pleasure, Made in Chelsea. He’s just said loudly, “She’s so two-faced!” Haha. Not my cup of tea, but watching him watching the show is quite entertaining. Unfortunately it’s strangely compelling viewing, so I’m struggling to put together coherent sentences. I think this is probably the lot for tonight. Crap TV is sorted, now to find the wine…

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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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“I heard you were back.” Ruth said with a smile, as she opened the door. She looked past Claire, as if expecting to see someone behind her. “Where are my gorgeous nephews?”

Claire laughed. “Mum’s been on the phone then? I had to leave Jack and Alex with her. I’ve got to get back to Cornwall this evening.”

“You’re insane. What’s that, twelve hours of driving in one day? Why don’t you stop here the night and leave first thing? There’s no point trying to find a hostel in the dark.”

Claire followed her sister down the corridor into the kitchen, marvelling at the change in her since she’d last visited. Even the house felt different: brighter, somehow, and with a positive vibe Claire couldn’t quite put her finger on.

“No Sky?” She said, rather than answer her sister’s question. It was tempting to stay the night, but she needed to think about it. For some reason she was keen to put as many miles between her and her family as possible.

“No, it’s the last day of term today, and Chris has taken her on holiday for a week.”

“Blimey, how do you feel about that?”

“It’s fine. I know Chris and Bryony will look after her, and she really does love spending time with her baby sister. Besides, I’m going away myself this weekend.” She saw Claire’s raised eyebrow, and flushed. “With the church! We’re going to Oxford to see the Baptist Missionary Society library collection at the university.”

Claire’s eyes opened wide, but she didn’t comment. What did she know about what religious people did for kicks? It sounded worse than a four-hour lecture on contracts, but then Ruth might feel the same about surfing or walking the coastal path. It took all sorts.

“I’m going to service tonight, why don’t you come?” Ruth threw a sly glance over her shoulder at her sister, as she reached into the cupboard for the sugar. “You can make sure I haven’t got mixed up in some cult.”

“I don’t think that!” Claire heard the high squeak in her voice and winced. Gratefully accepting the tea from Ruth, she sought for a change of subject. “What did Mum say on the phone? She must have called you before I’d driven down the street.”

“Before you’d left the house, pretty much. She’s not happy with you. What did you say to her? She wittered on about ungrateful children and being shocked at how rude you’ve become. It was quite a rant, actually.” For a moment it was the old Ruth, and Claire smiled warmly at her. Then her sister pursed her lips. “You probably shouldn’t fight with Mum, though. It’s not very dutiful.”

Claire wanted to defend herself, but she didn’t know how to talk to this new moralistic Ruth. She gave a noncommittal grunt, and said instead, “Jack can’t wait to meet Sky. Oh, damn, how long did you say she was away with Chris for? He’ll be gutted to miss her.”

“They’re back next week. Thursday, I think. I can check. Can’t the boys stay with Mum and Dad for a bit longer?”

“You spoke to Mum, what do you think?”

Ruth frowned. “Hmmm, yes, you might be right. Never mind, I’m sure we’ll work something out.” She drained her tea and looked at the clock. “I have to go, are you coming?”

Claire thought about the long drive back south, and shrugged. The morning would be soon enough. “Sure, why not?”

*

Claire looked around the room. It wasn’t a church, it was a school hall. She’d sat in one just like it, not that long ago, to do her final exams. And before that, for school assembly, lunch times, end of term reviews. It had a herringbone wood floor and long wooden benches around the walls.

The hard plastic of the grey stackable chair dug into her legs, as she looked up at the stage, where a white screen held a welcome message for the congregation. In the corner a group of adults were setting up a band, with guitars and microphones. She guessed it would be a different sort of music to the stuff they played at the sixth form concerts.

Next to her, Ruth waved in greeting to people she knew. Every now and then someone would stop and talk, holding their hands out to Claire in welcome and gushing with enthusiasm at her presence. She felt like a fraud.

Fidgeting on her seat, Claire began to think that the drive to Cornwall might have been preferable. She hadn’t been in Church in years, discounting the odd wedding or christening and, even though this building wasn’t made of stone and stained glass, the feeling of righteousness was just as strong.

A hush fell, as a man walked into the centre of the room towards the vacant lectern. He held his hands up in salutation and proceeded to greet his flock with gusto. He turned towards her when he hailed, “visitors new and old,” and she felt her cheeks catch fire. Overhead the strip lighting shone down, and she found she missed the dark corners of a traditional church.

Then the singing started. Claire looked in surprise at Ruth, standing with eyes closed and arms aloft, fervently hurling her words at the ceiling. As Claire read the lyrics on the screen and tried to sing along without being heard, she noticed more people waving their arms while belting out their praise

She felt embarrassed for them, in all their effusive sincerity. It might not be a cult, but it wasn’t for her. Peace radiated from her sister, though, and she decided that was good enough.

When the service was finally over, Claire sat waiting for Ruth to finish her goodbyes. She was watching her sister’s face as a shy-looking man in his thirties walked towards them. Ruth’s cheeks held a faint blush and she caught her lip between her teeth. It lasted only a moment before her expression reflected only friendly pleasure.

“Mark, I didn’t see you earlier. I’d like to introduce you to my sister. Claire, this is Mark: he’s organising the trip to Oxford this weekend.”

I’ll bet he is, Claire thought, as she shook the hand held tentatively towards her. So that’s the way the wind blows? She looked from Mark to Ruth and back again. I wonder if they know it yet.

***

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The Humans: 2013 365 Challenge #336

A very profound book

A very profound book

I finally started reading, and very quickly finished, The Humans by Matt Haig this weekend. If you haven’t come across the story (goodness knows how, as it flooded Twitter for a while during its release) it tells the story of an alien who comes to halt mathematical progress on Earth because Humans are deemed too violent to take the next step in technological evolution.

I was drawn to the book by its Twitter campaign and because I just happened to have read and enjoyed an early children’s book by the same author. The social media campaign was something truly incredible, with a lovely video trailer made by lots of different real people reciting lines from a part of the book called Advice for a Human (see picture below)

I started following Matt Haig’s blog, Twitter and Facebook, and found him to be a fascinating person, full of self-doubt and amazing insight, with a history of depression and attempted suicide. I couldn’t wait for the book to be released. I bought it in hardback (a thing I never do) and then bought the kindle version as well because I wanted to take it on holiday. That was in May of this year.

Since then I’ve tried to start it half a dozen times, but I just couldn’t get into it. The narrative voice is the alien, and the tone was so stilted and disinterestedly miserable, it put me off, even though I knew it was part of the story. Then, too, I started to feel pressure to love the book. Because the reviews were amazing, and because I liked the author as I came to know him through social media, I wanted to like the book, and felt bad that I didn’t. I had invested time and emotion into supporting its release and its author.

And then, worse of all, I started to disagree with some of what the author said on Facebook, and my faith took a wobble. It’s something I’ve been thinking about a great deal recently, and is probably a topic for another blog post – about how our perception of a piece of art or literature changes when we come to know more about the author and was it maybe better when the author was hidden in mystery and unknowable. Anyway, as I say, that’s another post.

Some of the great advice (better read in context)

Some of the great advice (better read in context)

As a result of the emotional (and financial!) investment, though, I couldn’t give up on the book. So I started again on Friday, and couldn’t put it down. I read it with my fingers in my ears, while the kids decorated the Christmas tree. I finished it at 2am last night, leaving me groggy and grumpy for today’s family lunch. No matter: it was worth it. This is my (rather short) Goodreads review:

“It took me a long time to get into this story, after wanting to read it for months. I’m glad I persisted, it was so worth it. This is a deeply profound, yet funny and entertaining book, full of pearls of wisdom you’ll be desperate to share with people.”

As I read the story, I kept reading bits out to hubbie, much to his bemusement (that never works, especially when the recipient is playing Candy Crush or similar). It’s full of Tweetable bits of goodness. I could feel the author, and what I knew of his history, in every line, and it added to the authenticity, although I suspect it wasn’t necessary. The story rings true by itself. I wanted to find a nugget to share here, but there are so many. Instead I would say, read it. Even if, like me, you can’t warm to the alien and you find him annoying in the extreme. He grows on you. And it’s a book that will stay with you long after you read the last page. As an author I always think you can’t ask for more than that.

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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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“Thank you for letting us stay, Nana.” Alex’s voice wobbled between child and adult, as he gave Claire’s mum a rather formal embrace.

His face still showed the pallor of expended emotion; pale and drawn despite the tan he’d gained during his time in the South West. Claire wanted to pull him into a proper hug, one with feeling. The greeting they’d got from her parents was lukewarm at best.

I guess I wouldn’t like it if someone turned up on my doorstep and asked me to take in house guests. She thought about it and her lips twisted into a wry smile. Mind you, it’s no more than both my siblings have done to me this year. Suddenly Auntie Claire is the only one with all the time in the world.

She pushed away the bitter feelings, and turned to make sure Jack was alright. He’d been less affected by their father’s announcement, chattering excitedly on the long journey from Cornwall to Cambridgeshire. As they had neared their destination, however, he had become more subdued and, since their arrival, he had hovered in the background.

A quick glance showed her he wasn’t in the room and she went in search of him, leaving Alex to forge a stilted conversation with his nana. Her father, Claire noted, had also disappeared and Claire felt disappointed at his cowardice.

She found them both, eventually, hidden in her father’s study.

“There you are!”

Her voice made them jump and their faces flushed with guilt. She concealed a smile at how like naughty schoolboys they both looked, despite a gap of half a century between them.

“What are you two up to? You’ve left Alex battling on with Nana.”

“He’ll be fine,” Jack said brightly, “he’s good at charming the old biddies.” Then he realised what he’d said, and blanched.

Claire’s dad laughed – a loud guffaw – as much at Jack’s stricken expression, it seemed, as at his words.

“Don’t worry, son, your secret is safe with me. Your nana can be a tough nut to crack, but she’s soft underneath.”

Claire privately wondered if that were true, but said nothing. “So, what are you two doing?” She perched on the edge of the desk and looked at them with one eyebrow raised, her arms folded across her chest in an expression of severity that was all act. Seeing Jack locked away with her father gave her a warm glow of satisfaction, but there was a game afoot and she was prepared to play her part.

“Pops was showing me his book. Did you know he’d written a novel, Auntie Claire?”

Claire switched her gaze from Jack’s eager excitement to the look of sheepish guilt on her Dad’s face. “Is it finished then? I thought it was a thriller? It doesn’t sound like something a young boy should be reading.”

“Oh, Claire, I’m not a baby. I’ve read James Herbert and Stephen King.”

“Really?” Claire was genuinely shocked. Even she didn’t have the stomach for some of the more gruesome horrors. She wondered if she should forbid Jack from reading books liable to give him nightmares. Then she looked at his face and had a flash of realisation. Whatever difficulties in Jack’s life, he had yet to experience real fear and horror and so the stories were just stories. They probably had less impact on him than on an adult who could read the truth behind the fabrication.

Suddenly she grinned. “That’s amazing, Dad. I’m so proud of you. Can I read it, too?”

Her dad’s grin was as wide as hers. “I thought you’d never ask.”

*

Back in the lounge, Claire saw that Alex was manfully trying to engage her mum in conversation, and her heart went out to him. Even she struggled to find a topic of interest when talking to her mum.

As she walked in, her mum looked up, and her expression was honey-laced venom. Startled, Claire took a moment to gather herself, then said,

“Jack and Pops are in the study, Alex. Why don’t you go and see if they’d like some tea and cake? It’s been a long time since lunch.” They had been offered nothing on arrival. If her mum wasn’t going to play host, then she would show her how it should be done.

Alex jumped up like a man given a reprieve on death row, and practically ran from the room.

“Okay, Mum, out with it,” Claire said, as she heard his footsteps retreating down the hall. Her words took the wind from her mum’s anger, and Claire had to swallow a laugh.

“I’m surprised you have to ask. You turn up, unannounced, with Robert’s boys in tow, and without so much as a by-your-leave tell me that they’re staying here for an undetermined length of time, because you saw fit to send their father home. I think you have some explaining to do, young lady.”

“I’m not a child, Mum, you don’t need to take that tone. Robert’s behaviour was unacceptable. He arrived two hours late, with a chit of a girl on his arm, and announced he was engaged to her. His treatment of the boys is disgusting and he’s so far up his own arse they have to ship in daylight.”

“Claire! Really!” Her mother’s face went pale. Then her expression changed and she became a frail old woman. When she spoke, her voice was querulous “I don’t know why you’re shouting at me; it isn’t my fault.”

For a moment Claire was almost fooled. But not quite. “Oh, give over, Mum. Quit playing games, I’ve had enough of that from Robert.” She wanted to add that yes, it probably was her fault, at least in part. If she’d taken time to teach Robert some manners he might not be a total git. Realising such a discussion with her mother was an exercise in futility, she took a deep breath and controlled her temper with effort.

“Jack and Alex are your grandsons. You should be proud of them; they are amazing boys. If I could, I would keep them with me longer, but I have trespassed on Conor’s goodwill enough already. I’m only asking you to let them stay for a week; take them to see Ruth and Sky. Poor Jack doesn’t remember his cousin at all. They won’t be any trouble. I have money to buy their tickets, and I’ll contact Francesca and ask her to meet them at Stansted.”

Her mother’s face remained petulant and Claire snapped. “For God’s sake, Mum, don’t be such a cow. I know you couldn’t give a monkeys about me or Robert, and I doubt Ruth gets a look in now she’s got her life back on track, but this is your chance to make amends and be a decent human being. Why don’t you give it a try, you might find you like it?”

Before her mum could answer, Claire stalked from the room.

***

Perfect Procrastination: 2013 365 Challenge #334

A potential front cover (though fonts are always a challenge)

A potential front cover (though fonts are always a challenge)

Sometimes I’m so easily distracted I think I’m no better than a three-year-old! Instead of getting stuck in to writing today, particularly important on a Friday to give me a head start for the weekend, I spent two hours designing a cover for a potential entire Two-Hundred Steps Home volume, even though I haven’t even written December’s installments yet, never mind getting November’s finished and up on Smashwords.

There is method in my madness.

Partly I thought it might be nice to produce a printed volume for my hubbie for Christmas. (He reads this post, so it won’t be a surprise even if I get it done!) It’s not likely to happen, though, because it would mean finishing December’s posts by around the 10th, in order to get it all uploaded and ordered. Hahaha, excuse me while I roll around laughing. I have no doubt that, despite the best intentions, the last installment will actually be written on New Year’s Eve, when the kids are in bed and hubbie is trying to drink in the new year with me.

The second excuse idea was that I could put the book out for pre-order, to see if there is any interest in buying the complete set of twelve volumes, even though you can download the individual ones for free.

More important, the cover for November

More important, the cover for November

It would be around 275,000 words, which is substantial for any novel, and of course would have to come with the HUGE disclaimer that it is a first draft and hasn’t been edited or proofread. I would hate people to buy it under any illusions. That said, I think a lot of the people who download the free copies don’t follow the blog, and no one has left me an awful review yet. (Ignoring the fact that I’ve only had a handful of reviews!)

Of course it would be lovely to edit it all and have it proofread, but part of me thinks that would defeat the point of the exercise, which was to produce something in installments without planning or the ability to go back and change things. Aside from the odd typo I’ve spotted (and once when I changed a character’s name in one installment) I haven’t gone back and amended anything. What you get in the downloaded volumes is what I wrote, day by day, through 2013.

Maybe, with a decent blurb and introduction, it would work. People might pay to have it all in once place, or as a reminder of the year, if they enjoyed it. Who knows, they might even recommend it to others. Certainly if I publish a sequel it would be handy for people to be able to catch up. Anyway, there’s my justification for two hours of my day wasted. And I’m sticking with that! 🙂

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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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Alex paced across the room, picked up the iPad, put it down again, then walked back to the window to stare out across the lawn to the sea, as if expecting to see his father striding across the grass.

“He’s late,” he said, without turning round.

“I’m sure his flight was delayed, that’s all.” Claire tried to be the voice of reason, concealing her irritation that Robert hadn’t even sent a text to confirm that he’d arrived at the airport. Keeping her voice level, she added, “He had to connect at Brussels and Birmingham to come down here, and then he’ll need to get a taxi from the airport. There’s a lot to go wrong.”

“He wouldn’t have been late if this was a business meeting. Even some minor client grossing less than ten grand a year would have ensured his punctuality. But for his sons, well, why bother?”

The tone of disgust in Alex’s voice tore through Claire. She wanted to tell the boy not to speak about his father like that, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. He had a point.

“He came to Cambridge when Auntie Ruth was poorly,” she said, instead. “He was brilliant at the hospital. I’m sure his delay is something outside his control.”

“Father probably only did that so he could feel important. You know, showing that he was better than you and Auntie Ruth. Or to get away from Mother for a week.”

The words were unanswerable. Claire realised she didn’t know her brother at all. Even during that awful week, when she’d thought Ruth was going to die, she had barely spoken to Robert. When he hadn’t been talking to the doctors he was on his phone, discussing business, or buried deep in emails. She wondered when her brother had become a stranger.

“I’m sorry we didn’t get to see Ruth and Sky,” Jack said, breaking into her thoughts. “I haven’t seen Auntie Ruth since I was little, and I’ve never met Sky.”

Guilt washed over Claire, as she realised that was true. Ruth didn’t have the money for travel to Europe, and it was years since Robert and his family had come home for the holidays. They usually went skiing.

I should have taken them up for the weekend, to see Mum and Dad and Ruth. It’s not that far away.

“Why don’t you ask your dad if you can go, before you fly back to Geneva? I’m sure your flights can be changed.”

Alex snorted, but said nothing, merely turning to gaze out the window again. Jack shrugged and picked up his iPad, and was soon lost in a game.

Claire looked at them both and felt helpless. Two weeks ago she didn’t know or care about her nephews. Now, though, they were real people; people she didn’t want to see suffer. Despite his eagerness to go, it was clear Alex only wanted to return to his friends and girlfriend. Jack had been subdued all morning, his silence speaking of his unhappiness far more than words.

I wonder if Conor would let me take a few days leave to run up to Cambridgeshire with the boys. I can’t see Robert taking them. She thought through the logistics, and suppressed a sigh. I guess it’s a bit late for that. Robert would have a fit if I suggested it, after he’s flown all this way to pick them up. Assuming he hasn’t forgotten.

Claire chewed at her lip and tried to concentrate on the book in her lap. The words blurred as her mind filled with thoughts too muddled to be processed. Behind her attempt at calm, a wave of anger was building: rage at her brother’s thoughtlessness, and remorse at her own previous neglect. Who was she to take the moral high ground? How often had she spent time with the boys or gone to visit them in Geneva?

Maybe we have no capacity to love, in our family. Perhaps that’s it. Maybe Ruth got it all, and is using it all on Sky. The rest of us: what do we know of family and loyalty and trust?

She closed her book and followed Alex’s gaze out the window, losing herself in the relentless blue of the uncaring sky.

*

The sound of a car pulling up the driveway echoed loudly in the silence of the dining room. Both boys turned to face in its direction, as if hoping to see through walls and confirm it was finally their father.

Tension twisted Claire’s stomach like the shift in pressure that heralded a storm. Shaking off the feeling, she rose to her feet and turned to face the door. She could hear voices in the corridor, as the manager gave directions to the dining room, as Claire had requested earlier.

Her brother’s form filled the doorway, and Claire could see a second person standing just behind him, clutching his arm.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

Claire shot an angry glance at Alex, about to admonish him for his language. Before she could speak, she registered his white face and the pursed and bloodless lips. She turned back to the door to see what had made her nephew so angry. Hanging on Robert’s arm was a young woman, younger than herself. In her late teens or early twenties, Claire guessed. The woman clung on to Robert as if he were a life raft, staring up at him with wide brown eyes.

Claire wondered if Robert had brought the au pair to look after the boys on the trip home.

That would be like him. Can’t even look after his boys for a few hours.

That didn’t explain Alex’s outburst though, not really. From what she had gathered from Jack, the au pair was a sweet German girl, with limited English. Not someone to be treated with such loathing.

As realisation dawned, Claire felt the blood drain from her own face.

Not even Robert could be that stupid and cruel, surely, to bring his new girlfriend with him?

As far as he was aware the boys didn’t even know he’d met someone new. Even if they weren’t close to him or their mother, it was still neither the time nor place to introduce a replacement.

Robert stood motionless in the doorway, surveying his sister and sons, a faint sardonic raise of one eyebrow his only expression.

“Hello Claire, boys.” He nodded in their direction, as if stumbling across a casual acquaintance, rather than coming to collect his sons after a two-week absence. The girl hanging on his arm gave them a timid glance, before turning back to gaze at Robert. He seemed to feel her stare, because he pulled her into the room and put his arm around her.

With a broad smile he said, “I’d like you to meet Gabriella. My fiancée.”

Silence reverberated round the room like an aftershock. Then Claire sensed sudden movement to her left. Alex strode across the room to stand in front of his father.

Staring up into his face, he hesitated, then said distinctly, “You utter bastard.”

He pushed past his father and Gabriella and left the room.

***

I Am Thankful: 2013 365 Challenge #333

Driving to the beach

Driving to the beach

Since my sister moved to the States a few years ago, and I linked up with my husband’s American cousin on Facebook, I’ve become more aware of the American holidays. Mostly we don’t celebrate them over here. Hallowe’en is only starting to take off, and Valentine’s Day was only significant in high school. Thanksgiving doesn’t happen at all, except on social media. But Thanksgiving is probably my favourite. I love the idea of a day to be thankful.

Christmas is one of my favourite holidays, but it’s always slighly marred by commercialism and the fact that I’m not particularly religious. But you don’t have to believe in God to be thankful.

Like saying “I love you” to my husband every day, rather just on February 14th, I do try to be grateful every day for what I have, although it’s easy to get wrapped up in the daily minutae of tedium and routine. Taking time to look around and acknowledge what is good is essential.

So, I am thankful. I’m thankful for my gorgeous husband and beautiful, clever, loving children. I’m grateful for my lovely house and my crazy dog. I’m grateful for a wonderful family. I’m thankful that my husband found work and we have enough money to buy the things we need. I’m grateful that I can write every day, and for the followers of my blog and the people who download my novels who keep me motivated. I’m thankful for sun and rain and fog, and being able to spend time outdoors everyday. For supermarkets and fresh fruit, chocolate and coffee. For my ipad and books and my car that lets me take my children out and about without hassle. I’m grateful for so much I could write and write. But maybe a few pictures will tell a thousand words.

Photo3913

Photo3921Photo3922photo (32)

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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 gazed out across the ocean and sighed. She could feel the entire country stacked up behind her, looking over her shoulder. She felt like she’d come a long way since her beginning in Berwick-Upon-Tweed, at the top of England.

“Are you alright, Auntie Claire?” Jack walked over to where she stood and hooked his arm through hers, his eyes dark with concern. The expression made him look much older than his ten years.

Claire patted his hand, touched at his surprising empathy. Two weeks ago she barely knew the boy, but they had become friends during their time travelling together in Cornwall.

“I’m fine, Jack, thank you for asking. It’s been a good couple of weeks, don’t you think?”

“The best! I can’t believe father’s coming to get us tomorrow. The time’s gone really fast. We didn’t even get to do everything. Did you know there’s a surf school here? Maybe we should go for just one last blast?”

Claire looked over to where Alex stood, his gaze on the phone in his hands rather than the amazing view from the end of the land.

“I’m not sure Alex would appreciate that. At least he’s happy that you’re going home.”

“He’s only happy because he gets to see his girlfriend again.” Jack put the emphasis of a ten-year-old on the word; clearly disgusted at his brother’s betrayal of all things male.

“That’s understandable. Two weeks is a long time when you’re twelve.” Claire smiled fondly at the moody boy standing along the cliff. She couldn’t claim to have broken through his tough barriers, but she had come to care for her eldest nephew more than she could have imagined possible a fortnight before.

“What about you, Jack?” She added, after a moment’s silence. “Will you be glad to get home?”

Her nephew stood silent for a while, and Claire wondered if he didn’t want to hurt her feelings by admitting he was looking forward to leaving. She was about to tell him it was natural to prefer his home and family and friends to an Aunt he barely knew, when he turned to face her. His cheeks burned red, and his eyes glistened.

“I’d much rather stay here with you,” he blurted out. “I don’t want to go home. Mother’s been wrapped up in her own little bubble since Dad left. She leaves us with the Au Pair and goes shopping or to the spa with her friends. And Father, well, that’s a joke. He’s so busy with his new lady friend I think he’s forgotten we exist.”

Claire raised her eyebrows at the news that Jack knew all about Robert’s new relationship.

I don’t know why I’m surprised. They’re bright boys and he’s hardly been discreet.

She wrapped her arm around Jack’s shoulder and pulled him into a hug, unsure what to say. The prospect of having the boys stay longer wasn’t anywhere near as terrible as it would have been two weeks earlier, but there was no doubt in her mind she was looking forward to some time by herself. It wasn’t even that the boys were an onerous responsibility – certainly not on the scale of caring for Sky – and they were good company, when they weren’t fighting. But, still, being responsible for someone else’s happiness took its toll.

“How about school? Will you be glad to go back there, after the long vacation?”

Jack shrugged. “I guess.”

Claire’s heart twisted at the empty resignation in his voice.

“Well, you’re welcome to come and visit any time. I have no idea where I’ll be, but if there’s a bed or floor for you two to sleep on, then it’s yours.”

She was surprised to discover that she meant it.

***

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