Crushed dream - Theme for the 2nd of December 2019

From Paula:

Sally lived with her brothers and parents in a lovely leafy suburb of London called Crouch End. Sally was 12; her twin brothers, Alex and Drew, were 10. Their house was at the foot of a sweeping cul de sac lined with trees: sycamores, English oak and horse chestnut. Their front garden contained a giant weeping willow, which provided an advantageous spot for the children to hide beneath and spy on the comings and goings of their neighbors. Their back garden was a vast expanse of green lawn, stretching away from the deck behind the house down to the shed at the bottom of the property, and was lined with silver birch trees. Sally’s mum had scattered a few benches and small tables at the edges of the garden, but the large green lawn, perfectly intact, was the favored spot for games of Red Rover and Capture the Flag.

In fact, the house at No. 12 Hornsey Lane was the favorite of all the children on the block, not only because of the huge back garden, not only because Sally, Alex and Drew were always up for any game at any time, but also because of their parents. Known to everyone in the neighborhood as Mr. and Mrs. D, they were welcoming to every child. In their house, no one was ever saying “Get those muddy boots off! Take your feet off the sofa! No jumping on the beds!” And when the children were playing in the back garden, there was always a large pitcher of freshly made lemonade on the deck, alongside a platter of homemade cookies.

Every child in that neighborhood secretly harbored the wish that they had been born into a house so full of laughter and love. Of course, their own houses had love, and laughter, but not exactly on the scale found in Sally, Alice and Drew’s home. That house, that home, was special, and every child in the neighborhood understood it innately.

In that home, on Boxing Day every December, a neighborhood gathering was held. Every family on the block brought a dish to share, and a bottle or two, as well. At the house, there was a little present for each neighborhood child, something small but special, something that was the perfect gift for that boy or girl, something even their own parents might not have guessed. Cries of excitement and happiness would fill the air.

And as the evening wore on, and the children wearied of their games, and the moms and dads had moved from wine to tea or coffee, everyone would gather in the living room for a game of charades. The children clamored to be paired with Sally, or Drew, or Alex, because they were funny and smart and made the best faces. The adults jostled among themselves, hoping to draw Mr. or Mrs. D as their partner, for the same reasons. And as the charades ended, and the evening wore down, families would drift away home, to dream of Boxing Days and weekend barbecues and neighborhood birthday parties to come, with the best family in the world.

Early the next morning, just before dawn, Crouch End was rocked by an immense explosion, a blast that shook every child, every mother, and every father out of their beds, and left the neighborhood shaking in fear at what possibly could have happened. Windows shattered. Dogs howled in terror. Birds fled the trees. Moles scurried deep underground.

As the dust settled, people began venturing outside to find that a crater the size of Westminster Abbey was carved out of the ground where Sally and Alex and Drew’s house used to stand. Flames licked the edge of the lifeless pit. Deep in the earth was a colossal collection of sizzling rock, blindingly hot, that sent a pall of smoke rising over the whole neighborhood.

News crews had already started to arrive. Cameras were everywhere, many perched just at the edge of the smoking abyss where a family had once lived, had loved each other, had welcomed every child into their home as if he or she were their own.

“A meteor!” the cry went up, and was passed from house to house. A meteor, hurtling from space, no way to predict it, no warning to get out of its way, no time to protect one’s family from it. As the neighbors gathered, grieving at the unbelievable loss of this precious family, their pets, their home, anything that showed that people lived here once, people who were very, very special -- there was, in fact, one thing left standing.

At the curb, the sturdy letterbox, scorched and leaning at an odd angle, but intact all the same, held the family name: The Dreams.

Annemaries contribution:

Almost every weekend when we were children, we set off on the car to go swimming  in the lake, followed by a picnic. My mother always led the sing-songs during the half-hour car journey but being Dutch,  she knew no children's songs in English, so she would sing popular songs from the 50’s - « Que Sera, Sera », «  Red Sails in the Sunset » and endless Doris Day songs interspersed with wonderful Italian songs from the LP bought on their Italian holiday. I so loved these journeys and yearned to sing like my mother.
After my first term at boarding school, aged six, I was desperate to offer my selection of songs gathered and learnt from The National Song Book. I loved these rousing songs of the heroes  and heroines of « back home »,  our mother country thousands of miles away - The Campbell’s are Coming, in Dublin's Fair City , Men of Harlech, The Vicar of Bray - and I couldn't wait to launch forth with my favourite « The British Grenadiers » . After all I knew all the words and when to bellow out « with a tow row row row row row to the British Grenadiers » (I was quite shocked when I recently reread the words of shooting and killing). Well, I’d barely finished the first line , « some talk of Alexander and some of Hercules... », before my five year old  sister stuck her fingers in her ears and shouted

 “Stop! You can't sing. Please, mummy, tell her to stop. “

I was devastated. I never sang again in the family car.

 I thought I could recover my dream at school because the following term I was cast , age 7, in a Shakespeare play so fame was still a viable possibility.  Admittedly I had one line of only three words to say - « Sire , your crown » - and I am now sure I was only cast as the page boy because my surname was Page; but  how thrilled I was when , after the play was over, my teacher told me I was as good as the Missing Link! It was at least five years later that I discovered what the Missing Link really meant and the only stagework I undertook thereafter was behind, or painting, the scenes, and making costumes.  

What about learning the piano? Oh how I wanted (and still it is my number one dream) to play the piano. My best friend was the school's star music pupil and she spent multiple months patiently trying to teach me, only to give up in despair as I could not differentiate between notes and in all that time I managed to learn  only the first line of one Christmas carol by memorising the position and order of the notes.

 Each hammer blow of failure crushed my dream of singing, music or theatre until I progressed  from pupil to teacher. Now I was teaching 5-9 year olds all subjects including singing and movement and music! It lasted one week because the very first singing lesson two delightful children put their chubby fingers in their ears, just as my little sister had done fifteen years earlier, saying « Miss, my ears are hurting ».  Obviously I had a an insurmountable task; crushed yet again I was able to persuade a non-arty teacher to swap her art lessons  with my singing/music  lessons, both classes profiting from the arrangement but my  own entertainment abilities ever diminishing.
I still yearn to play the piano and burst into melodious song in company and achieved my ambition but once. While on holiday with friends we visited a 14th century beamed pub in the back of beyond. It happened to be their sin-song night and lubricated with red wine I and my tone deaf friend regaled the revellers with the entire nine verses of “On Ilkla Moor Bah 't 'at”. I am sure the applause was for finishing at last.

There is , of course one way you could all hear this songstress. Invisible in my car you could hear me sing along in perfect harmony and full operatic voice with Jose Carreras, the Beatles , you name it. When I am alone at home spending the day cooking you could creep in unseen and hear a perfect duet resounding round the house sung by Ella Fitzgerald and Annemarie Williams; you really don't know what you are missing!

Crushed dream by Jackie

Sigfried and Annabelle had been in love and  wrapped up in each other since high school.    At age 15 and 16 they used to sneak up to  Annabelles single bed – exploring themselves and then spending hours planning their future and vowing to spend the rest of their lives together –  Sigfried was her first and only man and Annabelle his  only conquest.    

In their imaginary world ..  

They would have 4 children two boys and two girls and three dogs and live in a large farmhouse in the countryside.     Sigfried would make enough money to take the family on far away holidays.    After high school graduation, then university  they  both started  jobs   finally deciding at age 30 to get married and managed to buy a small house and start a family. 

5 years later Annabelle had still not conceived so  investigated the idea of adopting a child.   It took ages to contact the different agencies – their private life was turned upside down by the visits of various officials , pyschologists and medical people.   Annabelle resented the probing and indiscrete questions the couple were obliged to answer.

   

Finally the day arrived a little girl was handed over to the couple who so wanted to start a family.      The 6 month old baby looked like a Russian doll.    Round baby rosy cheeks , pearly white teeth with a sweet smile and beautiful blue eyes.    She gurgled, giggled and her tinkle like laugh enchanted the couple.    But……… she had no name.   So they called her “Dream”.     Representing their every desire.  

“Dream” had been to several families since her birth her mother having abandoned her in a van parked in the forest.       It was only by chance that she was discovered one cold night by night hunters passing by .

Since then for some unknown reason she went  from family to family – and when questioned why the family couldn’t keep her as a foster child they  kept silent and no amount of questioning gave an answer.

This sweet child with dark curly hair and chubby fingers played happily during the day , Annabelle took her out in the new pushchair and received compliments from everyone she met – such a beautiful child – how lucky you are .     Annabelle bought a white wooden bed – decorated it with flowing tulle and ribbons –

Friends gave teddy bears and squeaky toys an she  put up a  baby mobile   with dancing animal shapes that reflected on the ceiling.   

It started on the very first night.    As soon as the child was put to bed the nightmares started–she banged her head against the bars of the new white wooden bed,  wailed and cried all night long – woke every hour screaming her head off with night terrors trembling and only calmed down when she was in their arms.

Another night she was found standing up scratching the walls,  tearing the pretty teddy bear wallpaper to shreds that Annabelle had so lovingly put up when she had heard they were to have a child.   The sleepless night made them tired and irritable and they started to argue and fight over trivial events in their everyday lives .   Tensions grew and both dreaded bedtime for the child.

Annabelle had never imagined that a  baby could behave in this way and after a few weeks of sleepless nights was   desperate to find an answer to stop this and develop a healthy routine. 

As this went on for many weeks they were longing to find a solution  – one night Annabelle took Dream and placed her between Sigfried and herself – as the child finally fell asleep appeased by the warmth and comfort of her parents they both fell into a deep and much needed slumber.         And sleep they did.     After months and months of waking up every hour,  rocking the baby, cuddling her,  pacing up and down,  worrying about her they both slept soundly knowing that baby was wedged between them tucked in safe and sound.

   

They slept so profoundly that when Annabelle finally woke the next day she turned over and gazed at her baby child  – but her sweet face was slightly squashed up against Sigfrieds back and as she took her into her arms she saw that  her cheeks were no longer rosy pink but white and pasty.   She was alarmed to see black bags under her eyes – she couldn’t hear her breathing, her body was limp,  cold to the touch – she gently stroked her arm then shook her more violently screaming  Dream Dream wake up now its morning – Her crying woke Sigfried  and they both stared at their child …

The baby girl had been compressed between their weight.    Both dead to the world in their need to catch up on their sleep they had neither heard her protests nor felt the baby being slowly flattened between them as they tossed and turned  – gradually suffocating  her.

They had  crushed their dream   

I've had enough

Sarah

I've had enough – IV – rev
(27.10.2019)

There's going to be a storm.  I can see the tree tops swaying.  More than swaying—they are nearly bent in two.  I can hear them rustling even through the double windows.
Bang, goes the door.  That darned cat—has it got into my room again?  Despite the toy farm wedged up against the door?  (Why do I have nothing else but my grand-children’s abandoned toys to shore up that door against my nosy cats?  Always trying to get in there and scratch up my mother's brocade armchair or my grandmother's old Chinese carpet!)
Bang!  I'll have to go up and wedge it tighter.  Bang! bang!  Is that animal going in or coming out?  And which one of them is it?  Bang, bang.  Drat those cats!
Ah, it's not the cats.  It's the wind.  Push that farm up against the door and fix it in there with a tile from the floor.  (Drat those grandchildren for pulling up the tiles!)  Bang, bang!
I haven't heard from anybody for several days.  They must all be busy.  School, work, shopping, sports, drama groups, homework, housework, they always have something going on.  Well, I've got my puzzle.  And all those sheets from when they were here last week.  Bang!  Stop that!
Dr-r-ring, dr-r-ring.  That must be Ricky!  I've phoned him five times.  No.  Unknown number.  I’m not answering, no.  On principle.  Why do they bother one so?  Bang, bang!  Bang!  Is there nothing that will stop that door?
M-r-reow, m-r-reow.  What's with you cats?  You've been fed.  You've been more than fed.  Oh, you want me to sit down.  Bang, bang!  I haven't got time to sit down; maybe later.
Bang, bang!  Oh, you mean the wind.  Poor cats!  It's driving me bats too.  Bang!  My, god!  Will the wind stop?
Dr-r-ring, dr-r-ring!  Same number.  Maybe it's important.  Hello?  Hello?  Nobody there!  Bang!  Fuck you!  I hope they're listening.  Bang, bang.
Why doesn’t Ricky call back?  There's no point in trying any of the others, not at this hour.  Bang.  They're all at work or at school.  Bang, bang!  Bang!
This plant needs water.  Bang, bang!  Bang, bang, bang!
Oh, dammit! Take this! And this! 
And she heaved the plant at the window, which didn't break.  So she tore the phone out of its socket and heaved it after it.  And then the chair, which finally broke the window.  “I've had enough!” she screamed.  She sank down on the other chair, the only one left, and whimpered, “I've had enough.  I've had enough.”
+ 425 wds





____________________________________________________________
Annemarie

The Ambassador's Lament – I’v Had Enough

Below the spires of learned Oxford,

Beside the shining Cherwell waters,

I studied French and modern history.

My aim to be an English diplomat
Working for the Foreign Office,

(That place of privilege and mystery),

Attending presidents and queens and princes

In palaces and embassies and courts,

Regarding trade and other cultures,

Sharing grubby secrets of the state

And sometimes mending fences,

Then sending back my long reports.

I imagined luscious luncheons and busy banquets

Drinking Scotch and bubbly Bollinger,

Canapés, pâtisseries and caviar.

Then I had some foreign postings

- To China and to Africa, to India and Norway,

Where in return for Britain hosting

I must eat what others offer.

Chitterlings from pigs'  intestines,

Smelling like putrescent bins;

Mopani worms and bunny chow,

Swallowed sickly, downed with drink

While the guest of Cape Town's latest author.

Just along the Bergen shore way,

Dining with the newest NATO link

And discussing Norway's naval state

I thought it very funny how 

I had to brave the smalahave and again the dreadful dravle,

A milky sweet with floating curds of cheese.

But worst of all was lutefisk,

Old fermented fish immersed in lye,

Gelatinous and very slimy,

It almost had me on my knees.

Then on to China's oriental land

Where many dinners had been planned.

With determination and diplomacy,

I emptied bowls of birds' nest soup

And put myself at greater risk,

By eating chicken feet  and baby mice.

I emptied every bowl and my host refilled it every time,

With rooster's testicles and other stinky stuff.

Until I pleaded, “Show me mercy;

Not another slice at any price-

Too many festivals - I'VE HAD ENOUGH.”

_________________________________________________________


Jackie's interpretation of "I've had enough"

I’m–out of breath all puffed out and gasping for air.    Since I got up this morning poked my nose outside my burrow it has been one long run from those hunters.    My friends the foxes, badgers, deer and wild boar are all on the alerte.     It is that time of the year when we have to be watchful and are listening to the sounds of footfalls in the forest – twigs cracking and hunters shouting to each other guns at the ready – waiting to shoot us down strip us of our flesh and eat us for their supper.   

 October to end of February is nightmare time for us animals.  The hunters are usually only active during the day but recently some of them have set up night cameras to watch our movements and track our homes.  How dare they do this.   Give us some peace humans.      Our friend  badger recently came face to face with one of these cameras and his face was reflected back at himself – gave himself quite a scare.    He quickly moved his family from their den to another place in the woods – checking for footprints pricking up his ears and  listening for other human signs.

from September to February – wide awake and always on our guard the winter months are the worst for us animals.    A few of us are very lucky to be able to hibernate – digging deep retreats in the earth under large trees or in hedgegrows we are able to escape from the hunting men 

The worst is those dogs.     Shut up all year round the hunting dogs are released after having spent months cooped up in cages sometimes and at best a small courtyard.   They are hungry for exercise and the taste of blood – our blood  waiting to pounce and tear us to pieces. 

Those dogs act upon commands and when the whistle blows they either just go hell for leather and leap into water , jump over logs and just generally want one thing in the world above all and that is to please their masters and boy can they run fast. 

I’ve had Enough of this carnage,  enough of all this shooting killing and eating meat

Leave us alone you human beings let us live our lives quietly

Unfinished Business - Our stories

Unfinished business 4  by S.M.
(13.07.2019)

He burst rather hurriedly into headquarters main office.  “Whoa there:” said Philips.  “Did you come to help?  That’s good.”
“Well, yes and no.  There’s an urgent problem we have to deal with.  I’ve just read an article—”
“Well, I hope it has to do with the elections.  That’s all we got time for now.”
“No, it’s much more important than the elections.”
“Can’t be!” said Philips as he tossed a wrapped pack of flyers into a case.  “Gotta get these out.”
“This is more urgent!”
“It’ll have to wait.  What is it anyway?”
“We have to get this area ready for the Big One.”
“Oh, that!  Come off it and help me with these.”
“No, really.  I’ve just found out that we’re not prepared at all.”
“And so what?  That’s their worry down in California.  And you’ve been seeing too many films.”
“I’m not talking about the San Andreas.”
“Then what the heck are you talking about?”
“Cascadia.  The subduction zone.”
“The what?  Never heard of it.”
“That’s the trouble.  Nobody pays any attention to that.  But it’s much more dangerous than the San Andreas fault.”
“Oh yeah?  Where is it?”
“Out a couple of hundred miles, in the Pacific?”  He ended on a rising tone, hoping perhaps that this might ring a bell.  But Philips went on wrapping packs of flyers and motioned with his free hand for him to join in.  “Where the North American tectonic base meets Juan de Fuca.”
“Meets what the fuck?”
“No joke.  Juan de Fuca is trying to slide under us and when it does—“
“It’s gonna cause another California earthquake.”
“It’s not just California.  It’s mostly us in fact.”
“Us?!  When did you ever hear of an earthquake in this region?  My great-grandfather was born here.  And he never felt a thing—if he had my great-grandma woulda moved back east.”
“There have been.  There was a big one in 1700.”
“Who told you that?  And how could they know?  There was nobody here then.”
“Some natives knew it.  They had a tradition that one of their tribes, living on an island, all died at once when their island sank into the ocean.”
“Indian stories!  And you believe that?”
“It’s been proven, by a Japanese!”
“OK, OK, so there was one once, maybe.  But that was over three hundred years ago.”
“That’s just it.  The next one could be any time now.”
“The next one?  What the heck are you talking about?  Hurry up, I want to get these done before the committee comes in for the meeting.”
“There have been over forty earthquakes here in the past ten thousand years.”
“Ten thousand.  Oh, OK, you reassure me.”
“Not at all!  If you calculate it that means around two hundred and fifty years between quakes.”
“Aha! So you see, we missed it!  It ain’t gonna happen, man.  Don’t get everybody riled up about these stories from the past.”
“The tsunami in Tohoku—“
“In where?”
“In Japan.  You know, Fukushima and all.”
“Oh, that.  But Japan’s always having earthquakes.”
“That’s just it.  They were prepared.  And yet 18 000 people died!”
“That can’t happen in the US.”
“You think so?  Two thousand people died in New Orleans because they weren’t ready for Katrina.”
“Sure, they should have been.  Hurricanes are current down there.”
“But I’m telling you that here we’re on the brink of a huge quake and a tsunami too—they say 13 000 will die!”
“You’re just quaking in your shoes, fear, that’s your trouble.  I don’t feel a thing.  See?”  Philips stood there, grinning, his arms stretched out, steady as a rock.
“No, seriously, Philips.  We’ve got to put this on the platform.”
“And scare everybody?  No way.  We are not the prophets of doom.  Oh, here they come.”  He looked at his watch.  “And none too soon.  It’s almost ten.”
The committee members started filing in and sat down one by one.  “Now,” said Philips, taking out the sheet he had prepared, “we’ve got some unfinished business here ...”
Out of doors, the dogs began to bark.
 




Jackie:   Unfinished Business


Girl raised her hand.     “I’ve finished my homework”

Teacher:    "Good girl, now put it on the pile with the others I shall correct them tomorrow."

…….               Teacher:   "Everybody has done wonderfully well on this subject but there is one person in this class who has not completed their paper."   Teacher stared at Girl.

Girl:    Girl looked up;   "but I did finish it Miss, my homework is finished";

Teacher : "No it’s not,  look this paragraph has not been completed and some of your words are left hanging like a piece of string in the wind ….."

Girl:    "Hanging like string " ?  … "excuse me Miss but I am using my imagination not the textbook.

In this school we teach you to do your lessons correctly, we assume our students will follow the rules and write what is expected of them."

The teacher beamed at the 23 students in her English class.     But a frown crossed her brow at the girl sitting in the front row.

Teacher:   "Look at your classmates girl, they have all followed the protocol,  the lines are perfectly drawn, each A impeccably formed and those L’s – well, a better drawn loop would be hard to find.    There are no unfinished sentences, a complete sentence has at least a subject, and a main verb to declare a complete thought and an ending.      Adjectives, verbs and nouns are all in their place and all the words are correctly spelt"

Girl:   "Excuse me teacher."  

Teacher:   "Yes, Girl what is it."

Girl:   "In my small undeveloped student brain with  an apparently slow mental capacity I have successfully completed what you gave us to do.       Learning  to my mind is expressing oneself and finished or unfinished doesn’t come into it.   My text was perfectly flawless and using my little tiny intelligence  I finished it to the best of my ability using my resourcefulness .    The sentence that is supposed to be hanging in the air just because you think it is unfinished doesn’t mean that it is is not .   My particular text is meant to be incomplete.  "

Teacher:   “Ah , so you admit”

Girl:   "This is a new way of expression, modern, in vogue, stylized, we are in the 21^st Century.     Unfinished means finished.  Complete, ended, closed, and finalized."

   Girl:   " If finished to me is unfinished to you then I cannot finish this class and will be sorry to say that my education will finish here if  I cannot find a more appreciative teacher who values my unfinished finishes.

Teacher:    "Finish your sentence girl and lets  rid of this unfinished business

___________________________________________________
Annemarie:

Unfinished Business

When I go away on holiday, often with a couple of friends in a gite, the last thing I actually want to do is shop and cook. Of course there are always local delicacies but as long as they are ready to eat that’s fine by me, especially as my other half can”t/won”t cook but is quite capable of putting delicious bought stuff on a plate.  John had arranged a week away in a gite in the South of France;  a golfing holiday with his friends;  but I knew none of them and was very apprehensive, especially as the other seven had been holidaying together for four years. I could see days of food preparation and shopping by the women and worse still, I would probably have to take charge of  organising/cooking at least two of them.

We arrived late afternoon at the gite, which lay basking in evening  sunshine, a river gurgling alongside and  two enamoured geese patrolling their  stretch nearby.  Under the dappled light of trees and climbing roses a table was laid and aperitifs were ready;  a delicious meal to which each of us had contributed and all in all a wonderful start to the holiday.

The next  morning we came scrubbed and clean, dressed ready for the day to find the French contingent in nightwear laying out big bowls of coffee, tea and in one case a ghastly concoction of chicory and dried milk. But where were the  golden, crispy, buttery croissants, the almond-filled pastries ? No, just hard dried bread from last night's meal and homemade jam.  Well, perhaps that was just the first morning – I had the rest of the week to look forward to   As I had only recently had  two teeth broken on French bread which had been enhanced with bits of grit, replaced  two expensive crown,  I passed on the dry crusts!  Then there was a cry from Sylvain  - ooh! I thought, he has the same problem,  but n,  he had spread his piece of bread with the deliciously sounding 'chilli jam', (one of my culinary contributions!) And no, we didn't know why the English called it jam. Sometimes we call jam cheese as in damson or lemon cheese. Bewildered French faces round the table.

After breakfast the French, performed their ablutions and arrived clean and chic and armed with paper and pencil at the table again, just as I was settling down to my holiday book. Apparently it was time to discuss today's menu, everyone contributing suggestions, each suggestion given due consideration as only the French can.  Lunch and dinner menus, all four courses, sorted, it was time to write lists, lists of  who would buy what where. So different from the quick all-in-one pot meals we had when holidaying with English friends.  And the shopping was  just for today! This  one-hour post-prandial meeting occurred every morning of the holiday, with great enthusiasm  and dedication from all participants (we two Brits keeping  a closed mouth and an open mind.)
We all nine of us descended on the local supermarket, fingering and testing, tweaking stems of melons (if they detach readily when they are ready). Then it was off to the bustling street market. This was more like it I thought, a bit of holiday shopping. In two groups we targeted local  produce with the same determination and dedication applied to menu selection. With barely a glance, we were whizzed  past the artisan jewellery stall laden with beckoning bangles and bracelets;  after all, we had tomatoes, aubergine and courgettes to examine, cheese and charcuterie to choose, no time to linger over linen dresses swaying in the mistral or inhale the scents of lavender, lemon verbena and jasmine soaps whispering their way to our olfactory senses.

No, no time for lingering, all those pates and saucisson had to be in the cool , so off we were whisked back to the gite – just in time to prepare lunch. Contrary to my worst expectations everyone, all the men helped, each having such confidence in their own prowess in the kitchen. We did as we were told- me, preparing salad , John relegated to table-laying and drink-pouring.  I soon discovered there were expert ways for tomatoes to be cut for salad although there was not always agreement. « Very finely sliced «,  said Jacques, « to  better absorb the dressing. »  « Non, the little ones should be cut in quarters and don't cut the lettuce, Annemarie; leave the leaves large and we fold them. »  Saucisson had to be cut to a particular, exacting size, the mayonnaise made with just the right amount of oil, the correct whisking - who makes mayonnaise from scratch on holiday?!
BUT the meals, and above all the mealtimes,  were delicious; each course, each item minutely dissected and discussed, each conversation easily digressing into descriptions of succulent food, anecdotes concerning the local butcher  or farmer. Afternoons  were food and food-talk free (we went sightseeing swimming – proper holiday stuff!)  until  dinner preparations and apéritifs.

 Well, what can I say about a nation which prides itself on its wine and gastronomy  and then drinks a mélange of   Pastis and a livid  green mint syrup, such as might be seen in a Jekyell and Hyde film,. What will I remember from this very French sojourn?  The fun and laughter, their inclusiveness, how to choose a melon and slice tomatoes and of course terrible, terrible brittle bread breakfasts. All too soon we were on our way home, hoping to be invited again next year.  But first we had to stop at the market - the little necklace made from delicate loops of blue pottery which I had spotted out of the corner of my eye that first morning, might just still be there. Oh, and the linen dress...and some scented soaps . ..

We arrived home very late and very tired, fed the cats, watered some gasping plants, then collapsed into bed - until I remembered something.

« What's wrong », said John.
« Unfinished business, » I said as I went downstairs to the freezer and dug out our last packet of English smoked bacon and a couple of sausages plus eggs and tomatoes for the morrow's proper breakfast

Eve/ Unfinished Business

So this is it, Eric thought.   Divorce at last and I can start on my new life.  Alone for now, it is a funny feeling to be in the apartment by myself but something was nagging at himself. It was something he couldn't put his finger on, something unfinished, was it at work? did he forget to do paperwork, call a client?  He would never do that being a very serious businessman.   

She had a good lawyer, he kept the apartment since she left for the new man in her life, that skeezeball, a good friend of his (ex) He thought that all as well in their life , even though Jill acted coldish sometimes, had a lot of meetings out of town and sometimes that his wife, all of a sudden was spending money on clothes, spas, trying to look younger and desirable. 

 Not for him, he found out when Jill told him she wanted a divorce.  Just like that out of the blue - Now, thinking about it, he realised they had made a fool out of him, it wasn't a pleasant feeling and he should do something about it, have another talk with Jill, another talk but now they were divorced so it would be different - he would meet her in a charming auberge out of town , maybe he would hear about her romance with Steve.      
They met, she told him about her loneliness married to him, boring life, no compliments, sex was a bore too.  He couldn't believe his ears and was getting very angry, very very angry.   They decided to leave and the weather being lovely walked around the property and as he was charming, she relaxed a bit.   Eric asked Jill to come over to his car, he had something she had to see concerning her, it was about, some business they were partners in and they must talk about the papers that were in his car.   She agreed, asked what buiness it was, all he said that it's unfinished business but it will be done tonight, at last.

THE SECRET

From Jackie:

The Secret
What I’m about to tell you, I haven’t wanted to tell anyone before,  is a secret that I’ve kept to myself for a long long time and has remained untold forever. 
I haven’t revealed this to anyone at all and maybe its time that it came out into the open and for me to bring it to light so I’ll take this opportunity to let it all out. 
It is difficult to tell about this secret because it is really so personal that in actual fact the only person who can understand it is myself.
Now I’m not sure that I’m able to do this but I’ll try …..
So here goes - the secret is about something I did once and regretted instantly - something so terrible that even I am ashamed and horrified at this dirty deed.   I was young, inexperienced in life and lacking in direction having lost my parents at a young age.
I kept the secret from my family and friends and it felt really scary to have this knowledge deep inside me and not let it out
To  come clean and confess would I believe be an enormous relief …….but on the other hand could also be damaging and I could lose you,  all my friends.    You might consider this secret to be so terrible that you can’t associate yourself with me anymore - that I’m not worth knowing or that you would be just plain disgusted that a human being could do such a thing.
So here goes, but wait,  just a few more minutes.   I’ll get round to telling my secret soon although it is something  that should never be disclosed really.    I want the whole world to know but I haven’t been able to tell before today

Once I’ve told the secret I’m sure I’ll feel an immense relief.   The burden will be lifted off my shoulders and I imagine a sense of calmness and comfort will overcome me.   Just the fact of letting the secret out - saying the words and making it known to others would be liberating I’m sure .    The burden I have been carrying all these years will be lifted.
    But….. Is it fair to push it onto someone else ?  Will that or those persons then feel the same as me and then in turn have to keep what I have revealed to them thus creating another secret.   A secret that each of them will feel the need to hold on to and then suffer what I have been going through all these years.
What could it possibly be,  you must all be asking yourselves?
Well,  its a secret!   and as secrets are supposed to be well, secret and therefore not meant to be disclosed and not  made public ; I’ll just save it for myself and keep you all wondering what on earth it could be.


From Annemarie

My Secret

Out in the bush there were no shops so their mother made nearly all her own dresses. She bought the latest patterns and with the arrival of beautiful fabrics from America she was often busy at the dining room table sewing  the Dior  New Look dresses for herself, with the unpadded, rounded shoulders, shapely bust lines, nipped-in waistlines, and full, gathered skirts  and  for her two girls she always made them  identical dresses with dirndl skirts, puff sleeves and embellishments in the form exquisite embroidery, rick-rack braid and hand -made appliqués of butterflies. Dresses were for going out to friends or for the special fortnightly visit to the Kampala where they had tea and cakes in Drapers, the big (the only) department store. Then they were allowed to wear their special petticoats, layers of net and frills which displayed the billowy skirts to best advantage. Afternoon tea was where you met friends and where you showed off you best clothes.

Best of all for these two little girls was to watch their mother transform into a princess for the event of the year - the St. George's Ball. People came from all over Uganda, from the up-country tea estates, from the coffee plantations and from the surrounding towns. For this event you did not wear home-made, no, you bought your dress when on home leave in England - a pukka evening dress from a real shop in London. There would be a well-known label on this dress (years before everyone wore labels, any old labels!) and you had your hair set and permed and you wore a beautiful face.

    Their  mother would sit at her dressing table upon which were  tortoiseshell brush sets and silver caskets full of trinkets, earrings and necklaces  and apply her make-up - mascara, not too dark, she was blonde after all, a little rouge, brush her eyebrows with the cutest of tiny brushes and then dip the soft pom-pom powder puff  into a tub of loose powder, dab it on her face and last of all and best of all was her lipstick, which she  carefully applied to her lips, mmm-mm-ed them elegantly together and gently dabbed with tissue and voila -  their mother was a real  princess in an ice-blue, off-the-shoulder, satin gown, bouffant skirt,  high heels and gorgeous red lips.
    In 1955 the family were on their biennual home leave, which coincided with their mother’s birthday. She was ecstatic as one of her birthday presents was a lipstick - not any old lipstick, no, this was one of Dior's newly launched lipsticks, his foray into make-up or as his advertisements at the time boasted:

 “for women wanting to wear Dior but unable to buy the dress.” and   “an ingenious idea: a lipstick for your bag and a lipstick for your dressing table”.

The lipstick came in a beautiful box with a lid that snapped shut with a satisfying click and was  decorated with a silky ribbon; inside it was lined with undulating  grey satin in which nestled the golden tube of lipstick itself. But this lipstick was revolutionary, really so, as it came with a new twist mechanism which twizzled the lipstick round and up and back down again. Never had the mother had so expensive a piece of make-up. She couldn’t wait to show it to her friends back in Africa.

      The new magic lipstick fascinated the older girl but the children knew it was 'look, don't touch' when it came to mum's dressing table. One day the parents went into town taking their younger daughter and leaving six year old Annie and her one and half year old brother with their great grandmother. It was whilst Granny was dozing that  Annie was tempted . The golden  lipstick reclined in its grey satin bed, the lid of the box open like a four poster bed. Her little  brother sat  playing with a box of coloured wooden cubes, clunking them  this way and that, totally absorbed in building the blocks, knocking them down and making noise.  Annie picked up the lipstick - how on earth did it morph into a red torpedo? Her fingers twiddled and fiddled until suddenly there was the pure deep red rocket – magic!  She gazed at herself in the mirror; she would try just a tiny smear on her lips, just a bit more, and sshe pursed her lips together making silent mmm..mmm kisses as she had seen her mother do... and then she heard the sound of a car engine as it drew up in front of the house. Her parents were back! How to make the red rocket disappear ? In panic she pushed and pushed, she shoved and she rammed the lid on but the lipstick refused to  disappear magically into its case. It squeezed and it oozed out all around, covering her fingers in red waxy, sticky goo.  She tried wiping her fingers on her clothes but that just made her dress red, as red as her smeared face ;  then she heard the car doors slam and voices, coming up the path. Panicking she wiped her hands on her  little brother, put the offending object in his dumpy little fingers. Red lipstick progressed onto the walls, the counter pane and the door. As her parents entered the bedroom she was holding her brother and scolding him:

“ You naughty little boy, you know we must never touch mummy's things and look what you have done. “

  Yes, she timed it well; little Richard was deemed too young to know, their mother should have put the lipstick away properly, and was it really fair to leave a toddler in the hands of a six year old and 85 year old? Their father was tight-lipped as he repainted the room and thought about the most expensive lipstick he had ever bought. 

Sixty-four years later my secret is out and I’m sorry Mum, Dad and Richard for the loss of your lipstick and so deviously blaming my little brother.


Sarah's contribution;

My secret 4 -  by M.S., aka S.P.

I am unhappy.  I am not supposed to be, but I am.  They tell me not to look so glum so I try to smile.  They say I am not trying enough.  But why should I try?  To please whom?  For, what have I to smile about?  Even my children are more or less strangers to me.  They are in the hands of nannies and caretakers most of the time, I am not allowed to raise them as I would—oh, what would I not tell them: flee!  Get out there and meet ordinary people!  Get a simple job, forget about money and celebrity.  But there is no use in my trying.  They are part of the system already; they are doomed.
There will be no more children, that is for sure.  Over that at least I have control.  If only I could get those two out of this stultifying, artifical, hypocritical world, if only I could do it somehow, he could get one of his bastards to put in their place.  Oh, they wouldn't like that—not only the officials and the family, but the people themselves wouldn't like that.  But why then let him make those children with impunity?  Why are there two sets of rules?
I almost got away.  I was out of the country, or almost.  Technically I was out of their reach.  But they got me, and they took away my passport.  Because men are stronger than women, even than women like me.  And because women are trained not to make a scandal.  If only I had kicked and screamed, if only I had shouted, "They are kidnapping me! I want diplomatic immunity!"  Because that's what it was.  But foolishly, I let the occasion slip.  I am storng, physically; but I have no courage.
They had arguments, of course.  Things I already knew and things I had not suspected.  That my career, the only one I was trained for, was over; I hadn't even qualified the last time.  I was getting older.  But I had thought I could go on, as a sort of ambassador for sport, promoting respect, encouraging people with "intellectual disabilities" as they call them.
Is that what I am supposed to be?  I have no schooling, I did not do well at anything except sport.  Is that why he chose me?  He thought I would be docile, and provide good strong bodies for his children.
But they told me I could not do even that.  "Ambassador"?  If I left, my name would be mud.  No-one would accept me.  I couldn't even get an ordinary job—what else do I know how to do?  And they had my passport.  I could not travel or stay anywhere without that; I could not even go home.  And my family would disown me, they said.  At least, once they began to make things difficult for them, whereas now, didn't I see, they were doing so well?
I cried at my wedding.  He chid me for it, so did they, he made me suffer afterwards.  But they told me that nobody saw.  If nobody saw, then why chide me?  They know how to punish me; they get at me through the children.  So I try to smile.  Not very hard, but I try a little.  I see the photos, I think I am doing pretty well.  I keep my secret.

The friendship of women

Annemarie's contribution:

The Friendship of Women

Apprehensive and somewhat scared Sarah, short and a little tubby,  waited with her mother in the school playground. The family had arrived back in England after her father had finished a 5-year contract in India.  Mother and daughter  stood out,  bronze-faced and with  sun-bleached hair amid  the other girls with their pale English winter complexions.  She was so obviously   the only new girl arriving mid-term. Then a smiling red-headed girl swung her school bag over her shoulder and approached Sarah.

« You must be the new girl the teacher said would be joining our class. I'm Melanie , come with me.»...

So began a friendship between the two ten-year old girls which lasted through all their school years. Melanie was the girl everyone wanted to be friends with and although Sarah was noticeable for her silver-blonde hair in all other respects she was quite a plain Jane.  Sarah bathed in the glory of Melanie's friendship, happy to help her friend with homework. They both went to riding school on Saturdays and sometimes to the odd gymkhana, giggled over first boyfriends and later both went to the same universities, Melanie studying fashion design and Sarah biotechnology.

Although they led very different lives, both social and academic, they made sure to meet once a fortnight for a day in town, where Melanie advised Sarah what clothes to buy - after all it was her thing. Then they would have a pizza or Mexican meal for a good gossip and catch-up on each of their lives, loves and work.

When Melanie married she walked up the aisle resplendent in cream silk, her titian hair in a sleek chignon and Sarah her bridesmaid, perhaps a little too well-endowed for the sleek apricot silk dress.  Sarah was the doting 'aunt' to Melanie’s two children, happy to baby-sit when Melanie and Alec  had to attend  first nights, her husband being something to do with theatre land.

Much of the time Sarah had to fly abroad to oversee environmental issues in remote regions and it was on one of these occasions that she returned with her own six-foot-, rugged Indiana Jones and the announcement that she and Louis were getting married.

Of course her best friend was matron-of-honour and the two children pageboy and bridesmaid. For Sarah it really was one of the best days of her life; still a little plump she looked radiant beside the love of her life.  The years that followed saw the two families enjoying dinners together and weekends away with their children . They confided in each other, commiserated when each of them lost their mother  and when  Sarah accepted an offer to work on a new environmental project it was to her best friend she turned for help with Sarah’s two young children.

Yes , of course, Melanie was happy to collect and take Sarah's children to primary school until Louis or Sarah could pick them up. What were friends for? For two years the arrangement worked brilliantly for both friends, Melanie looking after the children in Sarah's home three days a week and in return Sarah cooked both families a huge Sunday lunch - Melanie’s day off...

As  Sarah mixed the botulinum toxin ( undetectable and leading to paralysis and a s-l-o-w death) into Melanie's cup of coffee she smiled grimly and thought how ironic it was that this selfsame poison was in the Botox which plumped up her best friend's beautiful lips, those same lips she had seen just a few days ago,  so passionately kissing her husband on their marital bed while the children played laughed and jumped on the trampoline in the garden.

Paula's contribution:
 

I had a writing assignment due in two days, and I was flummoxed. As a journalist, I was used to looming deadlines, and writing up to the last minute was pretty much standard practice. But this time, I was starting to feel a little panicky. My brain had gone blank.

Obviously, I needed some help. So, I sat down at my computer and opened my email program. I selected six of my closest friends, one in Paris and the rest scattered across the United States, and I asked each of them: What is it about a woman’s friendship that is so special?

It’s a busy world out there, and these women have many, many things pulling at their time. Some are still working professionals, some are mothers, grandmothers, wives, community volunteers. Not only that, but my request landed in their inboxes the day before Mother’s Day in the U.S., a day many of these women would be celebrating with their families, and probably not exactly in the mood to ponder a somewhat philosophical question from a friend a continent away, much less sit and write down their thoughts.

But they did. Their answers came fast and furious.

Donna, in New Orleans, was first. “I count on my best women friends to hear me, to know when to give advice, and to know when to say nothing, usually because I am wrong!” she wrote. “They listen to all my crazy talk, silly talk and boring talk. They attend the pity parties I give myself. They listen when I am angry and venting, and yet they still love me. In exchange, I am the person who will never forgive anyone who has done them wrong.

“Trust is everything,” Donna said. “Losing that is misery. So, I vow to the women I love that you can trust me, absolutely.”

Esther, writing from a suburb of New Orleans, and concise as always, said, “A woman’s friendship means you have someone you can share your inner thoughts with. Woman to woman is understanding.”

Nathalie, the Parisienne, had more to say. “A woman's friendship is very particular and unique,” she wrote. “Two friends are actually like sisters. They do not need to talk to each other; they understand each other and feel the same things. They know they must be the ones to manage everything in all areas, including the world of work, which is dominated by men. They are also the heart of the family.” She continued, “The physical side also plays an important role, because only women understand the hormonal changes we go through.” But perhaps one of the most significant things about the special bond between certain women, she said, is that they can go a long time without seeing each other, yet when they meet again, it is as if they had seen each other the day before.

Debbie, writing from Columbus, Ohio, had something similar on her mind. “I like this question because it really makes me think about something that seems to come naturally,” she wrote. “Women can be very critical and judgmental, especially in the early stages of a friendship, but I love my women friends because they don’t judge me, and they are always willing to listen. I feel with my women friends, I can say anything. I can tell my deepest secrets, and I know I can trust them. Once you have a good friend like that, you never lose her. Even though we might be separated for years, it is exactly the same as if we never parted. I don’t know what I would do without my women friends, because that’s all I’ve really got right now.”

Maribeth, in the mountains outside Denver, Colorado, wrote that although she feels her truest friends have always been men, her friendships with certain women are very special to her. “We have our different beliefs, and yet they accept me unconditionally,” she said. “We agree to disagree, and that’s that!  From the very first time I met them, I felt a special connection.”

In short, she said, “You can be at your best and your very worst, and they still love me and will always be my friends.”

Liz, in northern California, thanked me for asking her to reflect on such a great subject. “The friendships I have with women are very important to me,” she wrote. “I have women friends spanning 20 years younger to 30 years older than myself. We share our joys and our sorrows. Many of us have children, and sharing events from our kids’ lives with one another, and asking advice, is always a part of the conversation.

“As wonderful as my relationship with my husband is,” Liz continued, “I definitely feel that my women friends are a part of my life that rounds out the rough parts and brings me comfort and joy. There are things that a man just doesn’t understand. Part of that is physical -- bearing children, having different equipment – but part of it is emotional. Sometimes, guys just don’t get it, and a woman friend immediately does. Must be the way we are wired.” 

Liz happened to be hosting a girls’ night the evening she received my email request, and she was excited to ask her gal pals what their thoughts were on the subject. Here’s a sampling of what they contributed:

It is a very important part of my life for fulfillment. I need more than just my husband.  Camaraderie, non-judgmental, no one takes offense.

Another of Liz’s friends said: I could not live without my women friends. I feel safe with them. We are together through the seasons of life. 

A third contributed: My best girlfriend is my touchstone. We have the same outlook on life. She is like a sister to me. Women are lucky because we let down and share. Men don’t do that.

Another said: My really good friends are much more sincere and honest. With men, we are a little on guard. Men think less of us and it creates a distance. 

And then: My friendships with women are the most important relationship I have — more than the ones we have with our spouses. Women are the ones we rely on in times of trial and tribulation. There’s something about exchanging stories of our lives with women that resonates with our hearts. Sharing our lives in a close way with a lack of judgment … we all understand that we’ve all been there, and we support one another.

By the morning of the day my assignment was due, I was ready to write, and I had learned something very important about my women friends. They are passionate, they are smart, they are loyal to me, and they are ready to help at a moment’s notice. Here’s the truth: I never could have completed this without the friendship of women.

______________________________________________________

Jackie:

  Imagine three girls of 15 years old sitting on a school yard wall swinging their legs and giggling their heads off.   Telling silly jokes - bumping shoulders - nudging knees, elbows  and making fun.    On the other side of this wall was the  boys changing room.   It was break time at school and we were sharing our lunch boxes  as always - drinking coke and eating our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches  - crunching our apples and equally dividing up our chocolate bars or cake from home. 
Our main conversation was “boys”   All three of us were obsessed.   Though we had never held hands, been walked out,  or even been near to having a smoochy kiss.

Oh what fun we had - watching those boys come out of their changing rooms to go play soccer or tennis.   Commenting on their gangly bodies, hairy legs and uncoordinated style.      Luckily for us we never liked the same type of boy.     Kris who was originally from Norway had quite a classic look with short hair and already mature figure loved smallish boys with blond hair - Ann,  small dark Ann, who had  severe acne but the darkest brown eyes you have ever seen - preferred a nondescript  specimen - those with braces on their teeth and hair in their eyes.   I always went for the show off - the loudmouth - the one with all the girls around him.   The football star - the A student.    Of course it was hopeless me tall like a beanpole and chest  like  a pancake attracted no one.   But the fun was in dreaming.

After school I would rush home and spend the next two hours on the phone;   yes,  to those same friends - talking about everything under the sun but especially boys.   We had BBQ’s at each others houses, picnics, expeditions into our suburban gardens, ice cream tastings and pyjamas parties.   We bonded as one,  a complete friendship.     My,  how we tittered and chattered on the phone - with parents complaining in the background that “wasn’t it about time we finished our homework” or get off that “damn phone”    I felt safe with these friends - girls I could rely on - tell secrets, confide and most of all be myself.      We wrote lengthy  letters to each other at weekends or on holiday and on the final day of school  long epistles of love were scribbled in our yearbooks.  

Time changed our bodies.  Kris became more maternal,  she budded out and Ann and I stared at her wishing it would happen to us.   Boys were looking at her,  taking an interest.   Ann and I looked on looked on with envy.  

Then the inevitable happened.   Kris went out with a boy.     Yes,  she had a date and after we pestered her to give out the details became more distant and grown up.     Then Ann during a talent contest at school discovered her amazing singing voice and from that day onwards was surrounded by admirers.   She went steady with a boy from class and had no time for “girlfriends”. 

 
 We had vowed never to forget each other and always stay in touch but life took us on separate journeys  -  I for one often look back at those good times,  happy to have experienced such closeness and companionship and especially to learn and develop all through my life about this freedom that only girlfriends can offer us.

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Eve' story

Women are great friends as far as I'm concerned.  Who but a friend would ride in my car, reminding me, that their life is in my hands, Why?   I am a good driver, had some mishaps, who doesn't.   My friends actually fear getting in my vehicle and I know they are praying to God I'll stay on the road and not end up in the ditch like last week (aqua planning) and I was driving slow.   My friends have a heart of gold, still riding along after many years, with fear in their hearts and eyes.   Nobody but a true friend would put up with that ordeal, never knowing if they'll come back from the outing.    I cherish my friends, their grit, fearlessness and love for me, never knowing how everything will end but we are still all here, in one piece.
Friends are marvelous, ready to comfort and help in life's hard moments, with everything collapsing around you.   Your friends will be there, cheering you up, making life not so bleak, leaving you with hope for the future.   What would we do without the wonderful women we call our friends.