Thursday the 21st of April, my 6th birthday. A day indelibly etched on my brain. It was the day that I received 2 tickets to go to the circus with my friend Susan.
On the morning of that momentous day I was bubbling with anticipation at what my gift would be. My curiosity was soon satisfied when I opened my birthday card and discovered the tickets.
That was the beginning of an arduous but long and exciting journey that led me all over the world.
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A group of boys were pouring over the local paper, gasping as they read the article. ‘Local Boy Jailed For Armed Robbery.’
Reminiscing, the boys thought back to their school days. Owen had always been a chancer. Selling cigarettes to anyone behind the bike shed for tuppence for one, nicking them from his brothers’ hoard in the shed. He unscrewed the clasp on the door, bypassing the padlock put on after an unfortunate incident with some mushrooms.
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Two words sprang to mind. Fat Chance. What were the odds on a crime scene being this neat? The victim, a message written in his own blood, and the murder weapon all within a few yards of each other. My gut told me something was wrong.
The boys in blue were happy enough to sign off on it. Even though the accused had a cast iron alibi, but I smelt a rat.
I went over the evidence again. There was only one fatal blow to the victim’s head. He’d have been dead before he hit the floor. The baseball bat had been wiped clean. The question was how could a dead man write his killer’s name in his own blood?
“Follow the money”, my instincts shouted. “Who was set to gain by this murder?”
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We had a game where we would set up prompts and build stories together, sometimes wild, crazy stories. ‘It could so easily have been me….’ was one opener and
complicated, fantasy travel plans was another favourite. It made us laugh, and the dafter, the better. In fact we enjoyed doing most things together and even doing nothing together was better than doing nothing separately.
The ‘easily have been me’ one was a rich vat of story opportunities. We often returned to it.
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In the stroke ward were a dentist, a heavy-metal bass player, an underwater welder, a politician, and Nat Wharton, bigshot drug dealer, whose bed was surrounded by a posse of gun-toting cops, each of them as large as a truck laden with opium.
The bass player didn’t know if she was in Carnegie Hall or a hall of mirrors. She listened to the faint boom ba boom of her hapless heart, trying to detect the backbeat and ascertain if the instrument was in four-four time.
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‘Aspen?’ Bill spat out the letter ‘p’ like it was a bitter pill. ‘What sort of name is that?’
I stroked my swollen abdomen and gazed out the window for added wistfulness. ‘Mum would have loved it.’
‘Hazel still rules our lives from beyond the grave,’ he muttered into his tea.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I stood up, losing my balance. In an instant he was easing me back onto the sofa, my vulnerability softening him.
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“I’ve got a surprise for you,” Martha laughed “but first, close your eyes.”
What was this little surprise? Martha would probably hold up a deformed jumper, which she had knitted over many nights, and Chris would force herself to wear the itchy ill-fitting thing with a “Oh it’s just what I wanted!” kind of smile. That was typical Martha. A trait Chris still found rather charming.
Her birthday surprise as it turned out was much more alarming, for as Chris sat cross legged upon her lavender sofa, she felt the warm sensation of something soft pressing against her lips. Her eyes bolted open to find Martha, her BFF, kissing her.
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Mam was in a jumpy phase. Carl had been hoping her new boyfriend would bring her some calmness. After all, Astro had been patient with him. He’d taught him songs, and school stuff like showing him how to remember his tables.
‘If you feel that way about me, you can go!’ Mam was saying. Her face was red, her eyes wild like that panicking horse he’d see on tv, and which he kept thinking about in bed when the light was off.
There were days when Mam seemed to be in a hurry like a racing car round a circuit. Other days she was quiet, didn’t want to go out, was touchy. She took medication to help her condition, but she was still a different person from one week to the next. Was her medicine worsening things? He worried about that sometimes.
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I met with my hero twice a day, everyday. Morning and night. He wasn’t your average hero, he didn’t wear a cape, or fly, nor did he have highly advanced technology. He was small, white, round and tasted of talcum powder. He did have superpowers, he could fight against illness, look after me and was very strong.
Yes, he was a tablet. My hero was a tablet.
We first met when his fellow tablets couldn’t handle me. He was recommended by the doctor because he was so strong. I did some research on him. Found out what his strengths and weakness were. If I were to work with this fella, let him into my life, I needed to know who he was.
He seemed suitable.
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The syringe went in. As small wisps of raw power arced between her fingertips, she let out an involuntary gasp. She’d been expecting something of course, just not… this. Her entire life she’d been told she was special. “One in seven billion,” said the very serious looking people in white coats, who’d crowded round her prodding, poking, and doing all sorts of other tests, then shaking their heads.
Now, those same men stood back, as awestruck as she was, before turning to shake each other’s hands.
“We’ve done it!” one of them whispered reverently. “We’ve tamed Clarke’s Third Law.”
She didn’t know what that meant, and then… she did. Information was there for her instantly; every electron that had ever passed through any electronic storage device available for her to access at will. Some of it was fascinating, some too disturbing to contemplate, but suddenly she understood what she was. Who they were. What they’d done to her. Her brain and body felt truly alive… electric.
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Hubert was struggling. Progress on the Business Improvement Plan requested, rather mandated, by the Directors of News Wales Live Radio was tortuous. Analytics had diagnosed a 25% audience fall -off after the third quarter- hour. Perhaps change the bumper music. Done. Replace the liner front-selling the next guest…. possible. Could be a one hour programme was simply too long. Rearranging the playlist would address the former. The latter was frightening, heralding a possible cut to his hours and a corresponding reduction in salary. With the legally- enforceable encumbrances of 3 ex-partners and 7 children to support, a Bentley Meteor to maintain and fuel, plus his 10 tank collection of non-native reptiles and amphibians to feed, house and heat, Hubert had decisions to make. He compiled a list of friends and professional acquaintances and started.
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The credits rolled over the screen as he stood to turn off the television after their normal Saturday night animated film, as if it was a routine action.
“Do you think we need fairies?” she asked jokingly as she stretched after lying awkwardly for the past half an hour.
“No of course not,” he smiled as he started tickling her feet. “Our fairy tale consists of takeaways, laughter, cuddles and adventure.”
She giggled uncontrollably as she tried to wiggle away from her tickle monster.
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Packing up his dad’s old kitbag, Billy excitedly rushed downstairs. The camping trip beckoned. The gang had finally persuaded their parents to let them sleep over at Devil’s Cave near their home.
Summer holidays had started. Most of the boys had jobs for the holidays but this weekend was a boy’s right of passage. His mother had laid out food for them, some bread, a bit of dripping, and some jam tarts. That was my contribution.
Gathering at the end of our road we set off. It was quite a climb to the cave but there was a stream bubbling away alongside the path, so we stopped to fill our pop bottles frequently.
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Laughter echoed around the kitchen, bouncing off gleaming surfaces and easing the tension. Andy had been right. A get-together was exactly what the community needed at this difficult time.
Across the marble island, her face protruding from behind a vase of lilies, his wife, Kat, barely cracked a smile. Not that the Botox permitted much facial expression, but the sparkle had been absent from her eyes ever since their neighbour, Mark, had gone missing. Andy took a swig of beer, drowning out one bitter taste with another.
He was launching into his next comical tale when the doorbell rang. Andy excused himself and weaved through the guests to the front door, listening out for gossip. Did anyone suspect anything?
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The house was like nothing she’d seen before. It smelled of biscuits and old tea; and looked like a half-buried cottage with just the top floor sticking out. This, it turned out, was an accurate description.
She’d been dropped at the end of the lane by a taciturn bus driver, who simply nodded at the lane when she asked for directions.
After walking for a mile, the lane ended, and the bramble shrouded garden began. At first her aunt’s cottage wasn’t visible, just a curl of wood-smoke from a chimney poking above the treetops. She headed towards it and arrived at the two up, three down-down-down to find her aunt leaning out of a window, shaking a large quilt covered in esoteric patterns.
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It was really great to meet up again and surprising the way we fell into the old patterns of benign teasing. There was the indulgence of reminiscence and a lot of catching up on the water under the bridge. In some cases that seemed to be quite a deluge. Having said that, we were more or less up to date on relationships – break ups and reassemblies.
Four of us, who now sat in a city park, had been especially close and still shared an odd sense of humour. I have to admit some of our conversations tended to straddle the boundary of acceptability, but it was all part of the delight of storytelling about passers-by who were unaware of their part in our dramas.
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It was a good day for it. The sea glimpsed through bare branches was grey, but towards the lighthouse it shimmered beneath the southerly sun. A long walk to the pier but, yes, it had to be today.
He walked along the prom crab-slow, a dignified figure, like a priest approaching the altar. These last few months exhaustion had been his companion when he woke up, his antagonist as the day wore on, and his tormentor in the evening hours before he collapsed into bed again.
Before him the distant lighthouse was like a stub of drawing chalk in a sandcastle, and the small houses in Mumbles fought for light amid the up-thrusting copses. He knew his end was approaching. Perhaps his feckless son would empty his house afterwards, perhaps the council would. None of it mattered any more. Just Jane. He didn’t want Jane left alone in the house after he’d passed.
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The discussion always went round in circles like a serpent consuming its own tail. It was a tough problem, and becoming important that they found some solution, what with the cost of living crisis.
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Will had always loved wood. He loved trees and sawdust and the curls of planed wood. The tools for wood working were endlessly fascinating; sharpened chisels, saws and delicate nails. Even the smells of wood were pleasurable, both timber being worked and wood rotting in country glades.
As his school reports, carefully preserved by his mother, attest Will was a student of broad abilities and his future was an open book that could fall open on a number of different pages. Will’s mother had her own set of expectations and was quietly confident that her son would attain well paid professional status in due course.
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Do you remember when we made that promise, Dad? In the fading light of a summer’s evening, when you sat beside my bed and closed the book you’d been reading, leaning in to kiss me and wish me sweet dreams? Always that. Never goodnight. Definitely never goodbye.
You smelled of tea and biscuits. The beginnings of a beard peppered your chin, bristling against my cheek. Your beard was dark then. Not even a whisper of grey. Nothing like the creep of white that haunts your face now. Your skin in the glow of my bedside light was bright and flushed from a day’s work, and the comforting clatter of Mum washing up floated through the floorboards. I don’t remember how old I was, but I remember the book. The Tiger Who Came to Tea.
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