Annemarie's contribution
A Long Way Away.
Laden with parasol, tartan rug and her book she navigated her way through the sand dunes, between dense grey-green clumps of marram grass. Already she could feel sand insinuating itself into her shoes and Simon, too close behind, her trod on her heel. Muttering to herself she could feel irritation, both physical and mental, prickling her feet and brain. This was not her idea of a holiday at all she mumbled under her breath. It had been Simon's wish to spend leisurely time on the coast. Glimpsing the beach she was dismayed how crowded it was and only midday.
'Here we are,’ said a jubilant Simon placing the picnic basket down - much too close to a family of five, thought Helen.
On the hot gritty sand she spread out the tartan rug, remarking how worn it was, threadbare and lacking wool like a scraggly cat, ribs showing through mottled fur. The sand would probably come through it. Parasol stuck firmly in the sand, she shrugged off her outer clothes. She lay down on the rug and surveyed her body, the disagreeable bulges of middle age yet another disappointment. She jerked her eyes away and jealously admired two young women turning their bronzing, oil-slicked, slender bodies like two chickens in an oven perfecting the ideal golden roast.
The children, a bare four feet from them, squealed with delight as they ran up and down fetching water for their sandcastle, which with screams of joy they promptly destroyed. She shut her ears to the noise. It was their first weekend away since he’d come out of hospital and she was determined to be little kinder to him, aware of her brusque, sometimes sharp-ongued treatment of Simon.
She arranged the picnic she’d specially prepared - asparagus flan, roast beef baguette (organic meat from a local farmer) and tomato salad (from their own home-grown heritage tomatoes). Simon meanwhile opened the bottle of Frascati wine which she watched glug-glugging into the glasses.
She began to relax, savouring the crisp, citrusy taste of the wine, when a rowdy group of teenagers chased each other, thudding along the beach, barely missing Simon and Helen. She said nothing. She tried to ignore the abrasive crunch in the asparagus tart. She gritted her teeth (was that the sand?) as she bit into the beef baguette. And in the tomato salad - was that Himalayan salt mined from the Punjab region of Pakistan or was that sand sprinkled from the soles of passing strangers?
She sighed and wiping off as much sand as possible from her body, sand which had crept in and secreted itself almost everywhere, she picked up her book. The day was turning out as badly as she’d imagined
“I’ve blown the lounger up for you,” Simon puffed. “I'm going to have a short snooze; why don’t you have a swim and a float,” he suggested. His face was red, whether from the sun or from blowing up the plastic lounger, she wasn’t sure but she grudgingly grasped the lilo and with her book protected in a plastic bag she approached the waters edge and gingerly climbed aboard. Plastic bag balanced on her stomach she back stroked her way over the waves, away from the other swimmers. She extracted her book and lay on her back for a leisurely, peaceful read which quickly evolved into a sun-induced slumber. She was awoken by a splash of cold water, a rogue wave swamping the inflatable. Surrounded by shimmering waves she shielded her eyes against the afternoon sun; but where was the beach? How long had she dozed? Why had Simon not missed her? She licked her salty, crusty lips and tried to shout for help but her throat was dry with fear. At the same time she frantically tried to bale out seawater with her damp book. She stared in all directions and as her eyes acclimatised to the bright sun she could just about see the faint hazy blue outline of a coast…a long way away, a very long way away.
Sarah's story
A long way away 4 (the brother-in-law)
Yes, he remembered the last time he had seen her. In her house—it used to be "their" house, hers and his brother's, but now his brother was dead—and for some reason he had gone to see her. A bad choice. He remembered the teacup she had served him his tea in. He had lifted it to his lips and then just looked at her. She had looked back, not getting it. So he had explained to her, "It's chipped." She had given him a look of such scorn that he knew exactly what she was thinking: "I'm not inviting you back here again."
"Fine," he had thought. "I certainly don't intend to come back anyway."
He knew that her children didn't care for him. Ostensibly it was because he hadn't been at his brother's funeral. He had flown home and had been there when Richard passed away, but then he had had to get back; it wasn't his fault the man took so long to die. At the time he was still working, and Indonesia was a long way away. Now he was retired and home again in his birth country, with his Indonesian wife; they even lived in the seaside town he and his brothers and cousins had spent all their childhood holidays in. When his parents had died twenty years ago he had taken the old house there on the coast, for his retirement, leaving the apartment in town to the youngest brother Robert, who preferred that; Richard, by his own choice, had taken the investments and with the money bought the old house in the country where his widow Anne was living now. His widow. Roger felt a certain smug sense of triumph: he was older than Richard, but his wife wasn't a widow.
He and his wife saw nobody. Several cousins and their children still had summer places there and even came out sometimes in the off season, but they did not "'frequent each other". There were times when they passed each other in the street without saying "hello". They did not even invite him to their mother's funeral--his aunt, after all. Anne had attended, he heard, and with one of her children to boot. He, Roger, had got the news only two days after the funeral, on a printed announcement. He and they were the only members of his generation left; the others were already dead. Except Anne.
And now she was on the news again. About to publish a new book. He had vaguely followed the list of books that had come out in the past years. One was billed as "a family history" and that had caught his suspicious interest. "She'd better not write about our family," he had thought and had actually gone out and bought it. He never went farther than the first ten pages and the table of contents, however, because it was about the other side of the family: hers.
But this time it was "the story of a marriage." Oh boy, he'd get her this time. He read the description; it certainly sounded like their family, or at least, his brother's marriage. He read down farther and saw you could order it online. It was pre-publication, so you wouldn't get it for another two months. But he'd get it, and read it, and then he'd attack her in court.
Two months later the postwoman rang the bell at a holiday cottage on the coast. She rang twice and no-one came. As she stood there wondering, a neighbour came out of his front door and spoke to her.
"Er, ah," he said. "There's nobody there. The owner died last week and was buried two days ago. His wife, er, his widow, has gone back to her own country."
"Well," said the postwoman, "the book's paid for. There's no point in sending it back to the publisher. Why don't you take it?"
The man, whose name was Gilbert, accepted the package with thanks. Then, as he was retired, he sat down in an armchair and opened the book. After half an hour or so he called to his wife, "Say, Christine, you should read this. It has some rather crusty things to say about our ex-neighbour." She came in and he read her out a passage and they both laughed. Then Gilbert settled down for a most enjoyable day's reading.
Patrice's story
Long ago and long, long away (Minford Place)
The first apartment I remember, and I can’t say if it is really a memory or something I’ve cobbled together from stories and photograhs from childhood, is the apartment on Minford Place, just a few blocks from Crotona Park in The Bronx, New York.
It was a large building surrounded by an iron work fence. There were Four O’Clocks planted around the outside that I remember blooming with little yellow flowers late in the day. There is a photograph of me in a playsuit with a pinafore top surrounded with a lacy ruffle. The bottom is not much more than something to keep the diaper in place with ruffles on the butt. I am holding the railing with my right hand and I think I am about 16 months old. The look on my face is one that I have been burdened with my entire life. I am staring at the camera, my mouth slightly open with a wary look in my eyes. I know it was my father who took the picture with an old Pentax bought – or perhaps liberated – from the PX.
There is another photograph, taken around the same time, of my brother Gary, not much older than me but past the toddler stage, hanging onto a tree, his mouth wide open, yelling. I’m sure it was taken at Crotona Park – part of a series.
There is another one of me with my mother sitting on a blanket in the grass, me laying on the blanket beside her. I am younger in that picture – but I think I can still see that look of wariness.
These photos are all black and white, though I know the dress my mother is wearing is a blue silk one she bought before she left for the States. I swiped it from her when I was a teenager and felt gorgeous in it.
My parents met in West Berlin, post World War II. My mother was 17 or 18 years old-my father an American Army soldier who had escaped Germany with his Jewish family in 1941. My father was a boisterous rebellious character. For the older son of a middle class Jewish family to join the military was frowned upon. But his good German and American citizenship served the military well and I think the discipline – as much as he paid attention to it – served my father well.
The story they told once the dust of their divorce had settled enough for them to be in the same room and for them to tell stories, was that my father was having coffee on Unter de Linden Strasse and my mother was walking along, window shopping. She was noticeably pretty, with strawberry blonde hair, blue eyes. My father wolf whistled and made a crack in English. She responded in English and that was the beginning. He was everything my great-grandmother would hate: American, of German descent, in the military, he would take my mother away – perfect.
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Paula's contribution
The writing group luncheon was in full swing: wine glasses shimmering around the table, forks lifting to eager mouths, gossip and so much more being shared, a slight breeze ruffling the seemingly casual yet perfect hairdos of the women gathered on the terrace to share food and friendship. As the meal wound down, cheese and then dessert dispensed with, the stories began. Wine glasses refreshed, one by one, the five women read their interpretations of that month’s theme. And as usual, each story was completely different from the one read before; each story was a wondrous and imaginative rendering stemming from a prompt of just a few words.
When the stories had been told, and the praise had died down, it was time to determine the host of the next meeting, and most importantly, the theme. A few ideas were thrown out, but the group could not decide. Finally, someone had the idea of writing each idea on a piece of paper, and putting that paper in front of Eve, who ceremoniously closed her eyes and jabbed her finger onto the page, choosing one of the ideas jotted down.
A long way away.
That would be the theme for the next month’s stories.
Well, Paula thought, we aren’t meeting again until October 17th. That’s a long way away. I don’t have to think about this for a good long while. Of course, Paula, whose background was in daily journalism, usually wrote her story on deadline, often the day before the monthly meeting, sometimes even the morning of. And they usually turned out ok.
Jackie, musing on the theme, which was one of her ideas, after all, decided she would have a good long think about what she would write about. She very much enjoyed reflecting on such things as she worked in her studio every day, creating lovely pieces of art.
Sarah, walking home across the village after lunch, already had five ideas in mind, and immediately sat down at her computer to begin. By the end of the day, she had written six stories. And so many more ideas were dancing about in her head.
Patrice had to think about this. A long way away, she thought. Well, that could be almost anything, couldn’t it? She decided she would sleep on it; something would magically come to her, as things usually did. Besides, she had a habit of ignoring the theme and writing whatever the hell she wanted to, anyway.
Annemarie, who was not able to attend the lunch, learned of the theme via the group email that went out after the luncheon, and thought, “Bollocks! A long way away? Whatever shall I write about?” But then she turned her attention to the meal she was making for friends that evening, and she knew that she would eventually find exactly the right words and feelings to create a beautiful story. But not today; she was much too busy.
Geraldine, who was traveling and so missed the lunch, read the email with the next month’s theme, and wondered, “What in the world? Oh, well, I’ll come up with something. I always do.” And it would be topical and probably frightening, because Geraldine was the moral center of the group.
Eve, driving home from her first writing group luncheon in months, didn’t give it a thought, because she was unlikely to write anything at all. She was just happy to have been enveloped in the love and care of these women she had come to know so well.
And at the appointed day and hour of the next writing group luncheon, each woman arrived with their stories in hand, eager to share a meal with friends, to share what they had written, and, more importantly, to share that camaraderie that exists only among people who have a common passion and a common purpose: in this case, putting words on paper to express thoughts and feelings and imaginings without fear of ridicule or criticism. It is, truly, a lovely way to spend an afternoon.
Geraldine
October 17th 22
It’s a long way away, said the spider to her two new born babies who were looking at the ceiling where they lived, hoping to be able to cross it to the other side for more food catching !
It’s a long way away said the hedghog to her husband who wanted to change to the garden on the other side of the road, and so many of us get killed by fast cars when we attempt the journey !
It’s a long way away thought the cat who had been displaced by the family who didn’t care to keep him any longer as a pet and wasn’t quite sure he’d be able to find his way back home for another try to seduce them, as he really loved the house and surroudings.
Its a long way away to run out of reach of the hunters thought the boar, dashing through the woods at a supersonic speed to keep alive !
It’s a long way away one these slippery stones, said the horse to his wife as they were taking four people for a run in the carriage between the Opera and the Eiffel Tower !
It’s a long way away said the salmon as he went to start his trip to spawn on the other side of the ocean !
It’s a long way away sniffed the Afghan Hound at the start line when he discovered how long the race would be and remembered he was there to win it !
It’s a long way away to walk to school moaned Albert as his parents, aware of environment problems, suggested he would now walk the kilometer between home and school and this would also be very good for his health and would help him grow into a nice independant person !
It’s a long way away to go on the college trip to Florence, thought Emily, as their teacher explained to them how they would travel there by bus, crossing the Channel, then France, then through the Alps (highest mountains in Europe !) and finally down the Italian motorway !
It’s a long way away, thought Richard, as he was planning a 4th year University exchange to finish his Degree in California, Silicone Valley, hoping for an interesting job and life after the experience !
It’s a long way away to sail around the world thought Amanda when her beloved husband said he needed a break from home and was planning a round trip on his friend’s small sailing boat !
It’s a long way away to reach the moon, thought Armstrong as he stepped into the rocket with his pal wondering if they would ever get there and step on the satellite !
What about reaching Mars in the near future ? Is it such a long way a way and will mankind have to consider the possibility of reaching another planet to save itself from destruction ? After all, Planet Earth would really be better off without us ! And who knows, maybe this alternative is not that far anymore…
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Jackie
A long way away
Smoke flies were starting to bite me. I could feel them creeping up my long sleeved shirt and leaping onto my neck, biting my ankles and jumping onto my hair. They were tiny, jumping like fleas but slightly bigger.
I had time to observe them as the service truck coming to pick up my broken down car wasn’t scheduled for another ¾ of an hour. The sun was hot, boiling hot and I couldn’t shelter in my car as it was parked on the off bay just off the autoroute. This was the main toll road going West of Lyon towards the Dordogne. I lent against the shade of the telephone post and prayed someone would answer.
Hallo – vous etes en panne? Yes, I cried please help.
As I scrutinized the horizon amid pounding trucks, caravans and hooting Saturday voyageurs on their way to or back from their holidays I hoped that the depanneur who was coming to save me would twist his magic wand and the car would start again and I’d be on my way. It was 11:30 and I’d left home at 8:45 hoping to be at my destination of 650 kms from home by 4pm. a holiday much looked forward to and booked way back in January and much deserved to my mind.
I waited safely on the other side of the crash barrier surrounded by the smell of burnt grass and shrubs which was very strong. I imagined the fires that had been happening all through the summer in the West of France had got to here – and the worst of the worst I’d be smoked out by the still fuming grass sides of this autouroute n° 71.
The fix it man arrived – hooked me up and had my car on the back of his truck in a flash. Aren’t you going to look at the engine I naievley asked? What, with this traffic, Madame are you mad have you seen how fast they are going and how dangerous it is. look just ahead how lucky you were not to have been caught out in the tunnel – then I saw the sign of the tunnel of 1,5 kms long just up ahead. What a nightmare that would have been to have been caught slowing in a long tunnel.
The garage he took me too was , well I’m not sure where. In a small village and of course was a Renault garage. Oh no, we can’t repair VW’s here you’ll have to wait until Monday and its now 12:30 on a Saturday and we don’t open on Saturday afternoons. Can’t you just look I said check the oil, water? I said hopefully. No we’re only authorized to look at Renault he declared. But, he and his wife did very kindly offer to put me up for the night. I declined gracefully.
So, the insurance company
Sent a taxi to get me to the nearest Hertz rent a car – he took 1 hour to get to me and 1 hour to get to wherever it was. The young lady in the Hertz rent a car office told me that sadly the only thing she had left on her books to lend me was a Jumpy van you know the type with no windows in the back and just side mirrors. I said that I had another 450 kms to do and had never driven a van before – she jangled her diamond covered wrists , flicked her blonde hair over her shoulder and said ; “Madame, have confidence in yourself”. Cheeky soul I thought as I climbed in trying to set the GPS.
I did arrive at my destination but only at 9:30 pm. And it was pitch black.
On the way I must have touched the navigation screen and switched it to little roads and not the motorway. So I did the 450 kms on tiny switchback roads and pretty villages where you had to slow down to 30kms. An hour. The place I was going was impossible to find in the dark. I went round and round having to u-turn the monster van in and out of mistaken roads and paths. I rang my hostess and she came to get me. Relief. I was shown to a lovely room with my own bathroom – I had booked a cheaper room with shared bathroom but the person had desisted at the last minute so I was in luxury. The other retreaters were already seated at the dinner table (they had waited for me) how kind … and I had an amazing dinner and welcome by everyone.
The next morning I broke the coffee pot spilling boiling coffee down my thigh then after having rinsed out my linen pants put them on and they promptly split right up the bum. This has got to stop I thought ..so from then on I moved very slowly, picking up cups with extreme caution, making sure I did not fall down steps or break my leg or such …. Can you imagine! No I can’t. The holiday was wonderful, the ladies amazing and I stitched my heart away for 6 whole days. The swimming pool was to die for and I highly recommend a holiday like this but if you are driving do check that the rodents haven’t chewed up your wires under the motor of the car.
