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1

Contents

3. Letter from the editor

5. Taking Stock, J.M. Vaughan

6. Something for Someone, M. Coote

12. Gullysuckers, P. Hall

15. The Boy who Fixed his Mind,G. Wilson

19. How I Coped with the End of the World,J. Claxton

23. Blackberry and Apple Crumble,H.J. Beal

32. Contact information

Main Illustrator: Phil Hall

To contact Phil about his art, e-mail him atphilhall@live.com

new magazinefor writers in West Sussex.

• The magazine is professionally designed and printed.

• The first edition is free and available in libraries, colleges and local shops. Members of the Writers of Arun group will also distribute some by hand.

• It will also be available on-line at http://issuu.com/dariauk/docs/ink_writers_of_arun

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stories t poems t illustrations t articles t shorts t community

FR EEmagazineshowcasing thework of localwriters&artists

3

Welcome to the first issue of Writers of Arun

Once upon a time there was a girl who liked to write stories but never liked to show them to

anyone because they always had something wrong with them. One day she realised she wasn’t a girl anymore and it was about time she faced up to her weaknesses. Undeveloped characters, creative block’s frustrations and gaping plot holes needed to be dealt with – but she couldn’t do it alone.

So (the girl, if you haven’t guessed, is me) I set up a group inviting all local creative writers to join me down the pub with their latest work, where we could read out excerpts for feedback.

Seven people – poets, short story writers and novelists – turned up on that first meeting in October 2009 and quite frankly blew me away. The cosy pub was alive with assassins, pixies, talking tortoises and stock brokers on the run. In between we discussed books we’d read that had inspired us, writing techniques and our plans for our next chapter or story. We now have 18 members.

This magazine is our collection of local writers’ work. The group can be found at www.meetup.com/bognorbards, some of our work is at writersofarun.wordpress.com and we meet once a month at the William Hardwicke pub, Bognor. Perhaps we’ll see you there.

Heather RobbinsFounder of the Writers of Arun group and Ink magazine.

4

5

Poetry Time to Take Stock

The letter says my job’s at risk;My job at risk’s the least of it.My wealth’s at risk, my health’s at risk,My house, my home, my plans at risk.There really seems no end to it.It’s time to take stock.

My friends say there’s no need to fret,Take the chance to choose, to change.Become your own boss at long last.You only need some stuff to startSo take your time – just think of it.It’s time to take stock.

My firm will close its doors in days,Its shelves piled high with stuff to buyWhich it will sell for less than penceTo recompense in part their debts;They’ll never miss some little bitsIt’s time to take stock

by Julia M. Vaughan

© P

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6

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fe… Something for Someone

1

Magic at teatime was irritating. In the evening, after a good dinner it was mildly diverting,

but at teatime, No.“Mr Molly?” George spoke quietly. A tiny

figure appeared on the rim of his teacup, bowed majestically, and dived into the tea. The perfect dive was spoilt by an agonised contraction of the feet and toes as they disappeared into the liquid.

“Hot!” thought George. Mr Molly left the teacup through a small hole just below the handle, clambered onto the handle, and sat there, out of sight of George, feeling rather foolish. The tea, which had not previously noticed the hole, slid down the side of the cup into the saucer.

2

George Mademarsh enjoyed a life of rigid routine. Rigid routine and moderation. The moderation allowed him the opportunity of being immoderate now and again, but even his immoderation was moderate. He would occasionally have two glasses of wine with his dinner. He never had three.

It was on a two-glass evening that Mr Molly had first appeared. George was sitting in his armchair by the fire smoking his pipe – he smoked a pipeful of tobacco on two-glass evenings – when he noticed a

7

Mike Coote

small silver figure walking along the mantelpiece. The figure was like a fully grown child – that is to say it had none of the ungainliness of a child, but all of the joy and mischief.

Of course George didn’t believe his eyes. He marvelled at the way the smoke had curled around to produce such a beautiful effect, and left it at that.

For some weeks Mr Molly was content to stroll along the mantelpiece, or float up to the ceiling, and he only appeared on pipe-smoking evenings. He had a habit of looking at things that were on the mantelpiece and not quite putting them back in the right place, which annoyed George until he remembered that Mr Molly did not really exist, at which point he became puzzled, and determined to speak to Gladys. Gladys was George’s housekeeper.

3

George noticed the tea filling his saucer and he moved quickly to stop it from overflowing onto the tablecloth. Too quickly, and with a clatter, he upturned the cup, the saucer and the milk jug. When Gladys entered a few moments later she found George dabbing at the mess with a dry corner of the tablecloth. Mr Molly was nowhere to be seen.

“Oh dear, what has happened here…?”“Just an accident…”

“Not to worry…”“I was just…”

“You sit down Mr Mademarsh, it’s just a little spill, nothing broken.” And quickly and efficiently she cleared away the disorder and a moment later she returned with a clean cloth and said “I’ve put the kettle on. I’ll make a fresh pot.”

“Oh no. Thank you. I must get back to the office. Thank you for clearing up the disorder.” George used his hands and his sweetest smile to persuade Gladys that he really could not wait for another pot of tea, as they walked out of the sitting room and into the hall. She went into the kitchen with a slight humph. He put on his coat and opened the front door, where he was pleased to see it was raining, so he collected his new umbrella and set out for the office. As he walked he tried to collect his composure. The umbrella afforded him a private, protected space, and by the time he got to the office

8

Something for Someone

© Phil Hall

9

Mike Coote

he felt sure he could carry on as normal. Then he noticed Mr Molly riding on one of the large droplets that had begun to fall from the points of the umbrella, laughing and waving.

George froze.“Um, Mr Mademarsh?” Mrs Clarke was rather tentative. She worked

in the office for Mr Mademarsh, and because Mr Mademarsh always went home for tea at three o’clock and never returned before three forty-five, she had got into the habit of leaving the office at ten past three, having first switched the telephone through to the saleroom where Reg had promised to take any calls, in order to collect her eight-year-old son from school. She then took him home and settled him in front of the TV before returning to the office at three thirty-five. She had not thought it necessary to mention this to Mr Mademarsh. It was now three thirty-five and Mr Mademarsh was not only there in front of her, where he should not have been, but he was also quite static and blocking the doorway, thus precluding any option she might have had for slipping in unnoticed.

“Um, Mr Mademarsh,” she repeated, “I hope you don’t mind but I just popped home to … Its Jimmy … He’s not very well …” and she burst into tears.

George Mademarsh remained frozen. Before his eyes sat Mr Molly, laughing. His seat was a raindrop of perfect liquid beauty containing a world of life and a moment of transformation, hanging from an invisible silver thread.

Poor George. He had such a perfect unchallenged life. He had inherited the saleroom from his father. He had kept on Alf the porter and taken on Reg White to run the auctions and deal with the customers and the clients. George expanded the Stamp side of the business. He turned an insular childhood hobby into an insular life.

“I’ll take responsibility.” Reg said, appearing from the salesroom. “I said it would be alright. I told her not to worry. I said I would mention it to you. She always gets her job done.” Reg went on talking because Mr Mademarsh was not reacting. He kept glancing at Mrs Clarke and saying “It’ll be OK” with his eyes and he kept talking until Alf emerged and said,

“You won’t get no sense out of ’im. ’E’s had a seizure.”“Eh?” Responded Reg.

10

Something for Someone

“That’s ’ow ’is Dad went. ’E was older, mind.”Reg and Mrs Clarke looked at Mr Mademarsh and then at each other and

they both realised at the same moment that Alf could well be right because Mr Mademarsh was not moving at all.

Mrs Clarke said “Oo dear,” with the slightest of grins, which Reg noticed, and saw rolls of a good life with a slide and a climbing frame and a little house with neat curtains and a holiday in France every year and parent-teacher meetings and a small garden and picking runner beans and retiring and trips to the seaside and ice creams, all in the slightest of grins.

“We’d better call a doctor.” Reg said. “Mr Mademarsh. Can you hear me? Mr Mademarsh?”

“Undertaker’s what you want. ’Is Dad was just the same. ’Ad to break all ’is bones to get ’im in the coffin.”

“I think we’d better go into my office.” The corpse spoke. He was speaking to Mr Molly, but of course everybody thought he was talking to them, as they did not see Mr Molly. Their reaction was mixed. Alf very nearly did have the seizure he was so joyfully describing, and had to be helped inside by Reg, while in the meantime Mrs Clarke was very attentive to Mr Mademarsh, helping him towards his office, help he did not want, and when she then stayed in his office, apparently waiting for him to say something, he was rather bemused. When she was joined by Reg White, who said that Alf would be fine in a minute, and that it had just been the shock, and that he could explain everything, Mr Mademarsh was more bemused. When a voice said quietly “I’m sitting on your shoulder, but they can’t see me” he sat down with such a jolt that Mrs Clarke thought he had had another seizure.

“I’ll be fine. Just go on with your work. No, no. I’ll be fine. Come and check in ten minutes, if you must. Really, I’ll be fine.”

Poor George.“I did warn you.” Mr Molly spoke as he abseiled down the electric cable

that hung in a perfect sweeping curve from the standard lamp to the plug. He used a folded piece of paper looped over the wire and held in both hands.

“But this is my office. This is where I keep my stamps. Please stop doing that!” As George spoke, Mr Molly was about to make his fourth descent.

“Just one more.” And as he flew down the wire he yelled “Yippee!” at the top of his voice. Then, rather earlier than on three previous occasions, he let

11

Mike Coote

go of the paper and executed a perfect double backward somersault before landing square on his feet. He turned and bowed to George. George was dismayed.

“Please.”“I did warn you.” and with that Mr Molly flew gracefully onto the desk

and sat crosslegged on the silver cigarette box which George had inherited from his grandfather. Mr Molly leant down and read the inscription upside down – “Presented to Mr A.P. Mademarsh for his services to the community of Ripley and Heanor as a token of appreciation.”

“Please. What do you want me to do?”“Something for someone.” And with that Mr Molly flew straight out

through the window, which was not open, and away.There was a knock at the door. It was Reg. “Come in,” said George. “Sit

down. Now.”“Can I say something?” asked Reg. “Jenny, Mrs Clarke, she’s very worried

about Jimmy. She doesn’t like leaving him on his own.”“Who is Jimmy?”“Oh, Jimmy is her son. He’s eight. She had him when she was very young.

She’s on her own with him. She doesn’t want to lose her job, and she doesn’t know what to do.”

George Mademarsh absorbed the information slowly. He realised that he knew nothing at all about any of the people who worked for him. He found it difficult to make connections. He could not work out what he could do – something for someone Mr Molly had said – was this what he had meant?

At this moment Mr Molly came steaming in through the window towing a streamer with the word “YES” written eight times, went around the office once and left as he had arrived. Reg did not appear to notice.

“Is there something I can do to help?” George sat with his back to the window. There was a picture on the wall opposite him and the glass reflected the scene outside. He saw fireworks exploding in the sky.

12

I’d cried my ears off, when I heard she’d OD’ed on Catnip. It had turned her a shade of grey; she

looked like a winter’s shadow.She had the appearance of someone who’d

vomited out their own eyeballs, and then gobbled up her own face, but had missed because she couldn’t see.

She slowly came too, I felt cock-a-hoop, almost giddy, like a tipsy wigwam or a wonky snickers bar. Emotionally confused, a mixed bag of meat and cooking sherry. Oh god, make it stop.

She spun me around like a soggy zoetrope all slow and forced, similar to a postman’s deflated tire in gravel.

Her instructions were bizarre and incoherent, she was a user and a junky. I was part of her master plan, a dog-eared Ikea instruction manual, a worn-out Argos catalogue that had been scribbled on by some kid high on haribo, who’d then chewed through the cheap blue pen, inhaled the ink then immediately spat it back out over the commodity section.

She gargled with some words, which then fell from her bottom lip, relieved and wheezing onto her lap. They’d been replicated affectionately in her diary decorated with wilted drawings of flowers bedded in and around the sentences; a sense of hyperbably that was akin to being trapped inside a drunken yet familiar suburban cul-de-sac.

Gullysuckers“S

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13

Phil Hall

© Phil Hall

14

Gullysuckers

A shamble of a thrill-seeker on an aging bumper car track, getting pummelled from both sides, losing her change with every hit, she was hooked.

You must get up, I told her, you’re covered in grease. She never listened, the words never stuck, they’d simply skim off her face and down a ditch. She lit a cigarette and then chain-smoked like a trouper. When she’s in her 80’s she’ll look like two cue balls stuck to pack of grey crêpe paper. She was pale and fragile like a crumbling cliff face.

Head lolloping on the back door of a taxi rank, I pulled her up from the floor. She’d been there so long her hair had a side quiff; the long straight fringe and large eyes gave her the appearance of a tatty skateboard viewed from the side.

As we waited for a car to pass by she held my hand, cleared her throat and spat to the curb. I raised my eyebrows and intended to look at her with disgust. Then did the same, I was hooked.

Come on you smackhead, she said, let’s shoot up in the park, or black up; it’s your choice.

She said I was a nutbag, and that racism is shit.As the night’s damp air set in we lay under the swings and knocked them

back and forth, a rush of air on our faces each time they swung by. A full moon framed through an angular set of clouds, the chain’s swing whipping passed like a ship’s radar refreshing in a monochrome sky. She opened a bag of Wotsits and made plane sounds whilst flicking them up and over the oncoming swing, most of which landed on my face.

She rested a Wotsit on my cheek and said I looked like a savory ashtray.

15

Martin Cooper had always been a strange boy, his mother recalled. Her son had clear blue eyes

and blond hair, like his father, but even as a baby he didn’t look at her; rather he looked in her direction but it seemed that he focused his eyes beyond her, and he was more fascinated with what he saw there than the adoring face of his loving mother. Naturally this was disconcerting for a young mother with her first child; she had nothing of her own to compare him with. She did have friends, of course, but somehow she didn’t feel comfortable discussing her fears for her firstborn with them. Their children seemed so normal, she thought. They were interested in plastic ducks that squeaked, rattles to comfort them, dummies and anything else they could find to put in their mouths. However, none of these things held any interest for her son. She could only guess at what was going on in his mind till the day he started speaking his first words: “Dead people, Mama, dead people,” as he pointed upwards. From that day on Mrs Cooper knew that her son would never be a normal boy and she resigned herself to do the best for him that she could.

She enjoyed her job as the marketing manager of a fruit importers. She somehow knew that the first time she had to leave work early to collect Martin from school that it would not be the last. The headmistress told her that Martin had upset a teacher by lying. He had told his form teacher that

The Boy Who Fixed His Mind

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The Boy Who Fixed His Mind

her mother was near her, and couldn’t she see? The headmistress said that teacher’s mother had recently died; Martin must have found out somehow, perhaps by eavesdropping, and it was a cruel deception. Mrs Cooper was outraged at these slurs against her son and said so, but the headmistress was having none of it and backed her teacher just as strongly.

There followed regular visits to child psychologists, experts in their field with letters after their names, names that appeared on published papers with numbered footnotes in small writing and bibliographies covering almost as many pages as the writing itself. Martin wanted to educate them, show them things they didn’t know about how the mind works, but they thought they knew it all and he could see their minds switch off when he tried to teach them. Many of the child psychologists had once been teachers but only the best teachers understand that teaching is a two-way process and that the pupil may be the teacher and vice-versa when the occasion merits. Martin bore his disappointment bravely without understanding why he had to keep these appointments because, as he said to his mother, “I don’t understand why they can’t see and hear what I do Mum; why is that?”

Mrs Cooper shook her head; she was completely at a loss to explain to her son the injustice of the situation he found himself in. It seemed that because her son had special talents he was being victimised by the very people who should be helping him. She resolved from then on to persuade him to hide his talent, appease his teachers and survive by pretending to be like them, so, as she explained to Martin, they wouldn’t feel threatened by him. Martin understood and vowed to put the plan into action. The door bell rung and Mrs Cooper opened the front door to Mr Cooper, whose turn it was to look after Martin as part of their divorce custody settlement. Across the street she noticed a white cat, without a collar, sitting on the brick wall of the house opposite, looking boldly in her direction.

“Come in, he’s almost ready.”“Almost? I expect him to be ready when I arrive”, he joked, but as it was

so close to the truth it was a poor joke and nobody was laughing.“Please drive carefully,” cautioned Mrs Cooper; she always said that and

Mr Cooper always drove his black BMW as he pleased, too close to the car in front, 10 mph faster than the speed limit and overtaking on solid white lines when he thought he could get away with it.

17

Graheme Wilson

Mrs Cooper went up to Martin’s room and spoke with him. She told him what she always said before he stayed with his father. Martin knew it by heart.

“Don’t tell your father what you see, don’t look through him, don’t talk to anyone who isn’t,” she hesitated, “who isn’t there.”

Martin knew she was right. If he told his father what he could see and hear he would become angry, blame his mother for putting strange ideas into his head and accuse him of lying again, but Martin had never lied.

Today Mr Cooper had planned a trip to the funfair; they were going to have fun on the dodgems, ride the roller coaster, knock the cans down and win prizes at the shooting galley. He was really excited as he reeled off the list, trying to generate something of the same enthusiasm in his son. Martin didn’t really mind, he was happy to be with his father; despite

© Phil Hall

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The Boy Who Fixed His Mind

their differences, he loved him. The BMW picked up speed and Mr Cooper overtook a lorry on the dual carriageway and stayed in the outside lane doing 80mph; he liked the feeling of the BMW as it responded to his touch, he knew the car well, what he could do with it and how it would behave under any conditions.

It is hard to explain why he failed to see the white car that had moved up alongside him in the slow lane. Behind him a big red four-by-four was flashing its lights and closing in fast on the BMW. Mr Cooper struck the white car on the inside lane, sending it hurtling into the crash barrier. The BMW, suddenly slowed by the impact with the white car, was twitching from side to side as as the damaged bodywork jammed against the front passenger side wheel. The articulated lorry driver behind the BMW slammed on his brakes but couldn’t prevent the impact that catapulted the black BMW towards the central crash barrier, sending it spinning round to hit another BMW in the outside lane, which caused Mr Cooper’s car to flip upside-down before coming to rest with all wheels spinning. A quick-thinking driver pulled Martin out but when he went back for the driver the car had become an inferno and all he could do was watch from a safe distance and shake his head in sorrow.

“You are a lucky boy,” said the surgeon.Martin smiled weakly; he knew that was true because he had met the

children who had died there.“Daddy’s here, he says he is very sorry for the crash, he wishes he’d

listened to you now”, Martin told his mother as he lay in the hospital bed.“Tell him I miss him very much.”“He knows mum, he already knows”.Martin recovered fully from his broken arm and leg, a testament to the

hero who pulled him out of the broken BMW and the skill of the surgeon who fixed his broken body. Martin had to fix his broken mind himself as there was no one better qualified than him in the whole world.

(Graheme’s other stories in this series, Gnomes Make A Special Day, The Forest Fisherman and Hestia and the Face in the Fire, can be found on his blog http://yearofreturn.wordpress.com.)

19

How I coped with the End of the World

Outside my window blows fear. The world is pow-ered by fear; it’s the only fuel left. The world is a

desperate place, hostile and cold, and in it everyone is alone: all hope is lost. I spend my days scavenging for sustenance and during the freezing nights I scramble for heat and some kind of comfort. I’m often left won-dering what it’s all worth, this life, what was it ever worth? What’s the point in trying when all avenues lead to death? Nothing lasts forever, and even that concept is hard to accept.

I grew up in a world that was tearing itself apart through greed and selfishness, until eventually it happened, it could take it no longer and the world died; my world had destroyed itself. That’s when the sky went dark and the clouds blocked the light, making each day cold and foreboding, grey and dull. A shrill, freezing wind would often blow across the lands which had become vast and uninviting; the world was closed off to me now. Venturing out became impossible for a time, it was dangerous and my instincts were faltering. In truth I was a danger to myself; the whole world had changed and I was falling behind. I didn’t know how to survive in this new world; my life skills were inadequate, but adapting seemed like a task I couldn’t bear to endure. My endurance was in question and my longevity uncertain.

It was safest in the day to remain indoors. I had a small room in a building to hold up in. I blocked the windows and barricaded the doors. The room was constantly cold; I could feel the heat ebbing away from my fractured soul. I thought it was best, prudent, to keep out of sight,

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How I Coped with the End of the World

away from other people; they were dangerous, not to be trusted. There was no community, no society, nothing that I could interact with. There was no comfort. My days were spent being haunted by images of the past, lost memories of happier times. They shimmered like golden sunshine on a Finnish lake, but they were more like fragments of a forgotten dream. The smells of summer and the heat on my skin, the taste of the air was sweeter back then. The colours were vivid and brilliant. My life back then was like a dream; it was beautiful, only it was real and I was living it. I could never have foreseen that sometime later the dream would be shattered and I would awaken to a new reality of pain and suffering.

This nightmare really began a short time after I had made the long trek south from Lincoln. That’s where I was when the first hint of danger arose. That’s when the first thoughts of panic entered my mind; panic and fear. Fear is a powerful emotional response; it was fear which urged me into action, fear which dictated my steps. I held myself together long enough to stay focused on the task of survival. The fear of everything falling apart is something so overwhelming that it removed any other emotion from my mind. I knew that the spectre of change was looming, my delusions were telling me that everything would be fine, I could control my fate, my destiny; it was in my own hands to guide my path, but I knew, somewhere inside my mind, I realised the truth, that it was all about to come tumbling down upon me. The world was spiralling out of control. The end was here.

The journey south was perilous; I doubted my ability to last the course. I fell several times on the way. I was collapsing into despair; into the horror that was all around me. I had no choice but to make the trip south and hope that I could affect a change for the good from there, but I knew that the battleground for me remained in Lincoln, what use was I 200 miles south of there? Regardless, I would fight the good fight, trying to resist the change, the onset of doom which was sweeping from the North. Hope is what drove me on; the hope that the world might still be a better place, and that there still might be a place for hope. What are we without hope?

The war was over almost as soon as it had begun. There were no photo-graphers, journalists or television reporters that related this event to the people of the world; this event went largely unheard of. Not even I really know what happened; I couldn’t say what caused it. All I know is that now I live in its aftermath. I live in an England of despair, in a county of decay, in a land of no hope. In my heart hope remained for a time; I believed that I had to try and be positive that something good still remained. There was a chance that it could

21

James Claxton

© Phil Hall

22

How I Coped with the End of the World

be as good, if not better than before, something to rebuild, but it wasn’t until three weeks later that the battle was truly lost. When my hope finally left and my spirit rose to heaven. My salvation lay across the sea, but my salvation was now dead to me. And now I had to choose: How should I live my life?

I sat in my box room in the building I was holed up inside and I waited for something positive to come my way, a message of deliverance. I had an image in my mind of a fire of hope inside my heart, smouldering in the embers that once fuelled a powerful flame. Something better was coming; I had to believe that I would be rescued from this hell. Still, the sky remained dark and blocked the sun’s bright rays from my face. The light of my life had been extinguished. As time went by I started to accept the situation. There was no-one coming, and any salvation would be of my own making. The world was as it appeared to be, desolate and lonely, harsh and cruel, and for someone as myself to wear his heart so easily upon his sleeve, I would have to accept that pain and disappointment would rise, and rise often. I would have to accept this new world in order to survive it.

Survival was optional and options were few, but survival is what I chose. The question of what would happen next kept its place at the forefront of my mind. In the face of suffering the hardships of life I still wanted to see what was around the corner. Every new beginning comes from another beginning’s end and a new door had opened to me; it was just a matter of perspective. Hope had wasted me, but in the embers of the fire that smouldered in my soul, hope was reborn; a flame grew once again.

The memories of the battle, the war, they still remained, and they doused the flames of my spirit at times, but the fires remained and grew stronger. The battle was my battle, the war my war, and my adversary? My adversary had been my dear friend, my best friend, my love, my lover; the woman to whom I had devoted my life, the person who above all I valued. I know nothing of her anymore. She froze the earth, and made the cold winds blow south. She began a conflict which besieged my heart. I wonder sometimes if she is happy, and I wonder if she regrets the war she commenced. She banished me from her door and sent me on the long trek south; I was caught unaware and stabbed through the heart. I died in that battle. She took the spoils of the fight and set off across the sea to take her place as the Ice Queen of Scandinavia. The flame in my soul, my undying inquisitive nature, renewed me, and in time the fire in my soul will scorch the clouds from the sky, the frozen land will thaw and the wide open spaces will beckon to me to set myself free.

23

Blackberry and Apple Crumble

Larry wandered down the stairs, dressed in yesterday’s underpants and a burred sweater Meg had bought him when he was in a fat phase. He stood in their living room and rubbed the stubble on his chin.

That morning’s post was scattered on the wooden coffee table, home also to a bowl brimming with clementines and a neat stack of books. They were the sort of books that nobody actually reads, their function being resolutely decorative. On the top of the pile a blackberry sat, fat and ripe, its juices easing out onto the glossy cover of ‘1001 Movies You Must See Before You Die’, growing sticky on the printed face of the legend Samuel L. Jackson.

Larry sat in the rocking chair and looked at the blackberry. He leaned back and yanked the toggle of the standard lamp Meg had installed to illuminate her nightly reading and the blackberry glowed at him. He rocked forwards and clasped it between finger and thumb and popped it in his mouth. It tasted of red wine, purple velvet sofas and a lick of lemon. He swallowed and then belched slightly, an oddly shrill expulsion of air that surprised him since his burps were usually more impressively manly. He peeled a clementine, retrieved the remote control from the stripped planks of their wooden floor and flicked the television on. Christmas carols in a cathedral, the choir all dressed in red with white frills around their necks like the ruffs on show pigeons.

He stood and intending to put the inedible peel in the bin, walked towards the open plan kitchen. On his

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Blackberry and Apple Crumble

way past his Grandfather’s clock he noticed that it had stopped, its hands firmly erect at midnight. He threw the peel on the kitchen worktop and stuffed the whole fruit into his mouth whilst opening the glass-paned door of the clock. He sent the pendulum swinging and realigned the hands to nine forty-five.

Opening the curtains he was dazzled by a wintery sun gleaming off the snow-covered fields that surrounded his home. It had been forecast, but he hadn’t believed. He’d sunk himself into his customary bottle of red as Meg slumbered above. Leaning forwards, his breath steaming up the glass, he saw Meg’s footprints walking up the path, stopping at the gate and crossing the road, the snow slashed by a passing vehicle, probably the postman’s. An apple core nestled on the top of their hedge, sullying the newly laid white blanket. Larry tutted. ‘Rubbish,’ he would say to Meg when she discarded them about the countryside. ‘Biodegradable,’ she would reply, ‘feeding hungry little mice.’

He put the kettle on and as it boiled he heard the sound of a key turning in the lock.

‘Good walk?’ he asked as Meg bundled into the room, their puppy, Alfie, at her heels. She unwound her scarf from her neck and sneezed.

‘Perfect,’ she replied, ‘I love the first day of snow. It feels properly festive. Falalalalalaaa!’ she trilled as she unclipped Alfie’s lead. The puppy scuffled over to Larry, who bent and scratched the top of his head. Larry looked quizzically at Meg. She was not prone to singing. She would not inflict it on others, she claimed. ‘Ooh, tea,’ she said, spotting the pot and mugs Larry had ready. ‘Shall we have some toast with that? Then we can track down a tree! There’s a garden centre twenty-nine point eight miles away.’

A couple of hours later, in the car, Meg sneezed again. Larry, who was driving, turned to look at her, about to make a facetious comment but stopped when he saw her face. She was staring straight ahead and seemed to be hiccupping, very fast, almost twice a second. ‘Meg!’ he exclaimed with horror as he brought the car to a stop. She sneezed again.

‘It’s left in two hundred yards,’ she said. ‘Why have you stopped?’‘You looked like you were having some sort of fit. You frightened me.’‘Yes, it was a bit odd. Faces kept on appearing in my mind. The faces of

babies, new born, crumpled. One after another.’‘Hmm,’ pondered Larry, ‘that reminds me of my iPhone application. You

know the one where it shows you the global population growing? That huge number, ticking upwards…’

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Helen J. Beal

‘Yes,’ Meg said bitterly, ‘I know the one. The one where you say it’s best we don’t have children since there are too many humans in the world already.’

‘Well, it’s what I think!’‘It’s not what you said when we decided to get married!’ Larry was silent.

‘Turn left,’ barked Meg.‘How do you know where this place is, anyway?’ asked Larry, changing the

subject, running conversationally away from an uncomfortable dead end, full of stinking garbage. ‘You’re useless with directions usually!’

Meg clasped her hands in her lap and took a deep breath. ‘Thanks,’ and then, ‘I guess I must have read about it.’

‘Good thing too, what with my iPhone missing. I hadn’t realised how much I rely on the map app and the sat nav.’

‘You and that bloody thing. You never put it down,’ Meg said crossly.‘Have you hidden it?’ Larry accused Meg as he drove into the garden centre’s

car park.‘Ha! As if I’d dare! You spend more time playing with that bloody thing than

you do with me!’ she grumbled.‘Well you got to have my old Blackberry.’ He yanked the handbrake up and

turned the ignition off. They both sat in the car, not wanting the emerging row to spill into public. They would try and keep it in their box.

‘What good is that to me? Who am I going to call on it? Who’s going to call me? I don’t have a job up here or any friends!’

‘That reminds me,’ said Larry. ‘I needed to call Jonathan back this morning about the gig on Monday. We’re going to need some extra bodies. It’s going to be busy. Can I use your phone?’

‘I don’t have it’‘Jesus, Meg.’‘What? I couldn’t find it before we left.’‘Well you had it last night. You rang me on your way home from yoga.’‘I know. What happened to the bath I requested?’‘Ah, sorry,’ Larry said sheepishly, undoing his seatbelt, hoping the row was

burning itself out, ‘The cricket was on. You know what I’m like!’ His attempt to make a joke of it fell flat. Meg looked at her hands. ‘Where can my phone have gone anyway? I had it last night,’ he said.

‘Yeah, I know. I could hear its beeping and pinging from my bedroom.’‘Your bedroom?’‘Yes Larry, my bedroom. You have been sleeping in what, when we bought

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Blackberry and Apple Crumble

the place, we referred to as the ‘spare’ bedroom, for over three months now. Virtually since we moved in, in fact.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not that long.’ Larry opened his door. Meg sighed and then sneezed.

‘There’s a pub not far from here, very highly rated food. The Abbey Inn, phone number… How odd,’ Meg said. ‘How do I know that?’

Larry sniggered, ‘You’re like my iPhone app, Top Table! Are you getting a cold, sweetie, with all this sneezing?’ He put his arm around her waist and pulled her to him. She found this maddening: that he chose to show her so much affection in public but in private could not even bring himself to share her bed, shrinking from her desires.

As they sauntered into the garden centre, a Christmas tune played over the loudspeakers. Meg sneezed. ‘Cliff Richard, Mistletoe and Wine,’ she said, and then started to recite the lyrics.

‘Yes, that’s like my app Lyrical! And Shazam!’ cried Larry. ‘Oh and I think your Mum wants to speak with you. Make sure you call her when we get home.’ Meg looked sideways at him. He’d never much liked her mum, and when it came down to it, she didn’t much either. But family’s family, they’d both agreed.

When they walked back through their front door it was dark outside. They’d stopped for lunch at The Abbey Inn and eaten pheasant and drunk a bottle of red wine. ‘2007 Bourgogne Passetoutgrains, Domain David Clark,’ Meg said as she sipped from her glass. ‘Pinot noir grape. £7.50 a bottle at…’

‘Berry Brothers,’ Larry finished her sentence and then had another mouthful of cabbage. ‘It’s almost like you’ve swallowed my iPhone.’ He’d thought back to the apple core Meg had discarded that morning on the hedge.

After they had decorated the tree, Meg tuned Larry’s guitar. No mean feat this as she had always claimed to be tone deaf. She phoned her mother back who had been trying to contact her, as Larry had suggested and had left a message on their answer-phone. She was coming for Christmas lunch the next day and wanted to know what was happening about crackers.

Meg told her what the weather would be like on Christmas Day, more snow was expected, a proper white Christmas! A high of three degrees Celsius, a low of minus one. She told Larry that Arsenal had beaten Liverpool 4:3 and who had scored which goals in what minutes. He double-checked on Sky Sports and wasn’t entirely surprised to discover she was right. Before she pulled the curtains closed on the dark end of the day, she pointed out the planet Mars to

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Helen J. Beal

him, visible in the east and the constellation Ursa Minor. She said the moon was a waxing crescent and he had to agree with her, as he had been following the sky nightly on a Pocket Universe application he had downloaded.

As they wrapped the presents for her mother and put them under the tree, she told him what other books people bought when they bought Christopher Nicholson’s The Elephant Keeper and Tracy Chevalier’s Remarkable Creatures. She tore up their lottery ticket after their light supper of spiced butternut squash soup and told Larry about a new recipe for sprouts and chestnuts that she was thinking of doing for lunch the next day when they would also be joined by Larry’s father and stepmother – a recipe Larry was sure he’d seen on the Jamie Oliver app he’d paid a whopping £4.99 for, mainly because he liked the logo.

The parents were all staying at Hellaby Hall, a special treat from Larry, taxis laid on and use of the spa there. Meg thought about the spare bedroom that wasn’t spare anymore as she told him about the special New Year rates the hotel was offering. As she spoke, she wondered how she knew this, and as she ran the blade of the scissors along a piece of ribbon, making it spring into a spiral, she decided she must have read it somewhere, or heard it on the radio.

Larry searched high and low for his iPhone and burped uncomfortably at one point. ‘I guess you miss your old job,’ he said, suddenly and unexpectedly, sitting in the rocking chair, watching Meg assemble crumbles of stilton on her oatcakes. ‘You had some good friends there, didn’t you?’

‘Whatever made you think of that?’ she asked, holding her hand over her mouth to halt the escape of any wayward biscuit particles.

Larry shrugged. He didn’t want to return to the conversation they’d had in the car earlier. He wanted to ignore what Meg had said. She was right though. He had been sleeping in the spare room for months. It had started with a cold at the tail end of the summer. Meg had laughed over her porridge at him as she spooned honey onto the hot milky oats, saying his snores had made the windows rattle in their frames. She’d giggled that she couldn’t properly enjoy the thunderstorm that had raged outside because the claps had been drowned out by him. That night she had gone to their marital bed before the sun had properly gone down, with a book after a hot bath, citing her sleepless night as the catalyst for her early night as she yawned at him.

He had remained downstairs, flicking through the channels on the television, thinking, and what began as an excuse not to disturb her soon became a habit. It was easier that way. He didn’t have to freeze when her foot seemed to rub up against his in the night. He didn’t have to touch her

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Blackberry and Apple Crumble

or play with her to try and keep her quiet. It wasn’t that he didn’t think she was beautiful, he did. She was with her green eyes and chestnut hair, her full breasts and her pert behind. He just didn’t seem to want her anymore. And it wasn’t that he wanted someone else. This part of him just seemed to have been lost, somewhere along the line.

The thought about her old job came back. A sense of someone missing her. A portrait of one of her team. A younger man, in his early twenties. He’d seen this snapshot on her phone, hadn’t he? He could see it clearly now, picture his scruffy blonde hair and openly youthful smile. He could hear the guy’s voice, what was his name? He could hear his voice, deep with an Aussie twang. He was called Richard, Larry thought. He could hear the words he was saying to Meg, filthy, sexy things.

He was torn apart by the logic that if he couldn’t, or more accurately, wouldn’t, give her what she wanted then she should be able to take it from somewhere else and a corresponding fury that someone should take something from him that was his. Fidelity is a matter of manners, he had said to her in the early days, before his lack of lust had convoluted the contract between them.

He stood up to retrieve another beer from the fridge. ‘Please would you get me an apple, while you’re up?’ Meg asked him. He grunted assent, unable to look at her, the fierceness of his conviction of her infidelity, based on nothing more than a thought, humiliated by the position his own body had put his mind.

He popped the cap off the beer and before he sat back in the rocking chair, he passed her the apple she had requested.

‘Oh,’ she said disappointed, ‘I wanted one of the red ones.’ The apple in her hand was a bright, waxy green.

‘What red ones?’ Larry asked. ‘We don’t have any red ones. I only bought those Granny Smiths.’

‘It was a red one I ate this morning,’ said Meg. ‘A Braeburn I think. It was on the kitchen side when I came down to take Alfie out.’ Alfie lay down in front of the fire, toasting the dreams that made his growing body twitch and jump.

‘We didn’t have any red ones,’ reiterated Larry.‘The apple I ate this morning was definitely red, Larry,’ Meg was becoming

angry again, her face was flushing and her eyes flashed. She stood up quickly and took her cheese plate into the kitchen and put the apple back in the fridge.

‘I’m going to bed,’ she said and stomped up the stairs. Larry watched Alfie wag his tail in his sleep.

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Helen J. Beal

As she stacked the dishwasher the next day following the turkey feast she had prepared single-handedly, Larry and his father slumped in front of the television, her mother and his stepmother poring over the books they had been given as presents, Meg thought about Richard. She cursed her missing Blackberry. She was sure that he would have sent her a Christmas message. He had told her how much he missed her. Initially Larry’s idea to move three hundred miles north had seemed a good one. She was feeling guilty about her affair even though she tried to justify it as her husband wasn’t satisfying her. She thought it would be a new start for her and Larry. He had said the stress of his job was sapping his libido, but there had been no advances from him since they’d been here. She sighed. After four weeks, lonely, she had texted Richard and he was happy to exchange flirty, dirty messages with her but she needed more. Richard was suggesting strongly that she jump ship, abandon her sham of a marriage and go and live with him. She was tempted. But she thought about Larry and the promises she’d made and it seemed difficult. She was not good at confrontation.

Larry sat in front of the television rocking in his chair. All night he had heard Richard’s voice, pleading with Meg to leave him, telling her what he would do with her to pleasure her. He had ideas that Larry had never had.

Meg came in with a tray of port glasses and a Christmas cake. Larry poured and Meg sliced.

‘Lunch was delicious, thanks Meg,’ said Julia, Larry’s step-mother.‘Yes, it’s all been terribly civilised,’ said Henry, Larry’s father. ‘Not like when

Larry was a nipper. Him and his sisters used to create a riot.’ Larry was the youngest and the only boy in Henry’s quintet of children. ‘Christmas is really about the kids, though isn’t it? Now that you’re not working Meg, it’s probably time to listen for the pitter-patter of tiny feet, eh love? You can give up being a career girl and be a proper wife and mother.’

‘That would be nice,’ she replied, looking at Larry who was fondling the remote control.

‘Well, what’s stopping you? You’re not getting any younger,’ Henry guffawed. Meg winced.

‘I suggest you ask your son that question,’ Meg said, looking at Larry who put the remote control on the coffee table and walked into the kitchen. None of the parents said anything. Meg’s mother pretended to read. Meg thought her inability to confront, her desire not to lose face, was probably inherited. She drank her port.

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Blackberry and Apple Crumble

Meg and Larry waved their parents away in the taxi, both nervous about being left alone with each other. The fight continued to brew and Meg knew that Larry would now think that he had the upper hand because of her small outburst. She felt indignant and righteous about what she had said, but he would consider it a huge breach of etiquette.

‘I can’t believe you said that to my father,’ he opened with.‘Why not? It’s true, isn’t it? I can’t abide being blamed for our lack of progeny

when the entire fault for the situation lies at your door!’‘I’m not the one having an affair!’ Larry retorted.‘Would you blame me if I were? You have not exactly been keeping up your

side of the bargain, have you?’‘It’s rude and it’s humiliating. You are supposed to love me, you said the

vows!’‘Why are you so sure anyway? Have you got my phone?’‘I can hear him, that Richard guy, I hear him saying all those things to you,’

Richard drummed his fingers on the window pane.‘You have got my phone!’‘I have not! Meg, you know yesterday, you kept on telling me things?’‘Yes, that was strange wasn’t it? I’ve been much better today.’‘I think you’ve just been busier. You haven’t had time to think so much. And

you haven’t sneezed.’‘What’s your point, Larry?’‘I ate a blackberry yesterday and you ate an apple. An apple that I didn’t buy.’Meg sighed. ‘I’ve been having the same thoughts,’ she said. ‘Strange as it is,

we’ve eaten each others’ phones. I was pretty sure it was the case this morning when I thought I’d ordered some red apples using your Ocado app. I guess we’ll know for sure if and when they are delivered. And that’s how you know about Richard. I miss him, Larry. I miss being touched. I miss you touching me.’

I run my finger along your lips and kiss you deeply… Meg’s husband acted on her erstwhile lover’s suggestion.

(Visit Helen’s blog to read her book reviews, short stories, novel extracts and lots more, at http://www.helenjbeal.com.)

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