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.

________________________________________________

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.

The various scenes of Toile de Jouy

Eve's Story

My master told me to bring the horse to water, it was late afternoon, still warm, my little brother came with me dogs on his heels trying to get some water too. 

My day wasn't over yet, I had to muck the cows, milk them, gather eggs and take the laundry off the lines.   What a long day it has been.  Like all my days, without seeing my lover Bernard, the Smithy.   Then I saw him shoeing a horse, he was bare chested, black from the fire but his teeth flashed so white when he saw me.   I couldn't talk to him, the mistress had said so.  She forgets how it was to be young and in love.   To her I was just a poor maid doing most of the chores around here.  No time for fun but sometimes Bernard slipped me a litle flower and my day was brilliant, sky so blue, green , green grass calling me to roll in it and forget it all.  Forget what a poor farm girl I was, yearning for pretty dresses, delicate shoes, ribbons in my hair and Bernard by my side holding my hand.   It was just a foolish wish but my day was better with the daydreaming. 

I stopped the horse from drinking too much, him being over heated.  What would the master say if his prize horse was taken ill.  So we went home slowly, enjoying the last rays of sunshine, hoping for a better day tomorrow.  Maybe I could see Bernard, smiling at me, and I could even wave at him.   Now I am looking forward to tomorrow and who knows, something wonderful might happen.


Paula's dark dark story

Peter’s Perfect Paste

Madame Sophie Martin carefully inserted the long pole into the dash churn, looking furtively over her shoulder as she did so. The cream she was using had risen to the top of the cooling bucket of milk just that morning, and the timing couldn’t have been more perfect. As she worked the pole vertically in the barrel, she added a few drops of ammonia, to control the stench.

But let’s start at the beginning.

Monsieur Peter Martin was a traveling salesman, a peddler of all types of wares commonly used in households in the late 1800s. He would hook his old mare up to his cart, piled high with buttons and bows, scissors and knives, twine and utensils, and travel from village to village. He was gone from home for days at a time, and that’s when Sophie could relax. Because when her husband was at home, he was often violent, rarely sober, and always abusive.

One evening, after a few weeks of hard selling while traveling the back roads of their region, he fell asleep at the kitchen table after supper, with the hands he had used to throttle her -- as he yelled that she had made the worst stew in all of France -- lying peacefully alongside him. It had been an evening of shouted accusations, thrashings with a switch, and threats of worse to come. Sophie was bruised, battered, and exhausted, tired of living like a frightened wretch. This was not the life she had dreamed of as a girl, nor the life Peter had promised her when he came a-courting when she was barely 18.  Now, ten years later, her life on a small plot of land in the countryside revolved around caring for the hens, mending the nets Peter would sell to local fishermen, and handling all of the household chores. She felt relaxed and at peace only when her husband was on the road. It was too much. It was enough. She snapped.

As Peter snored, his head lolling against the rough boards of the kitchen table, Sophie took the huge knife she used to cut off the chickens’ heads and raised it high above her head. Then, with all her might, she swung it down, right into the filthy flesh of her husband’s neck. He didn’t stir. She looked aghast, then, her excitement mounting, she saw that she had made a clean cut. It was done. Peter would trouble her no more.

She got to work. She carefully severed each of Peter’s limbs, moving his arms into the deep kitchen sink to cut them into tiny pieces, then his legs, then his torso. She shaved his head and disposed of the hair in the compost heap. She grew a little squeamish as she broke his skull, and sawed the features off his face, but she knew it had to be done.

Under the fading light of a waning moon, she moved all of the pieces of Peter into a fishing net strung beneath the henhouse, then lifted them into the coop. She checked the big bucket of milk and realized the cream would be separated and ready for churning the next morning.

She hardly slept. As the sun rose, so did she, and began her work. Piece by awful piece, she fed the scraps of Peter’s body into the churn, adding every so often a healthy dose of the lye she kept on hand for making soap. Once all the body parts were disposed of, she set to work in earnest, working the long pole up and down, up and down, adding lye as necessary, and humming a snatch of an old-fashioned tune that her mother had taught her years ago as they churned butter together at home:

Come butter come

Come butter come

Peter stands at the gate

Waiting for a buttered cake

Ha! Sophie thought. Peter will never stand at my gate again. She would become the first woman peddler in all of France, and she would sell a new product, a special paste that could be used for cleaning everything from grease to blood. She would call it Peter’s Perfect Paste, and it would be a hit. She would be much more successful than Peter ever was. After all, she had a way with men.

Jackie's contribution

 Maggy loved when it was bedtime.   Her families milk farm meant that her parents  retired in the early evenings and she was happy to go up the three flights of rickety stairs to her own bedroom.    Her life  had been shaped by toile de Jouy wallpaper that her mother had papered on the walls when she was 4 years old and from that time on she became enthralled with the stories she was able to invent just by looking at the different scenes on her bedroom walls.

The  French rural landscapes were in a darker shade of pink - the colour of wine - a rich Burgundy wine - and the various scenes of the French countryside let her dream - let her drift into an imaginary wonderland and become the person she was to turn out to be.   Later  at the age of 8/9 years of age she gazed at the designs on this wallpaper and dreamt a different fantasy each night.   One night  a dark handsome prince  would come to their farm located in the deep French countryside and ask her to dance.   They would twirl, twist and swirl  round and round in circles with the dogs and chickens playing at their feet.   She would wear pretty blue dancing shoes, a cotton fichu and long pleated skirt with a bolero in the same blue as her satin shoes.   Her handsome partner would be in grey velvet - a waistcoat made of peacock feathers and a beautiful cone shaped hat on his head.    He would lead the way and they would gaily dance into the night - until Maggy fell asleep in her childhood bed.
Upon waking she would again stare at her wall of the bedroom and remember her dream in part - put it aside until she was again alone the next night and a new story and trance would commence.    She loved her wallpaper - it allowed her to do what she liked best.  Dream and drift into a state of real unreality.     having finished her homework, eaten her meagre supper - said goodnight to Ma and Pa and go to her room she loved nothing more than  lie  on her bed half asleep and half awake drifting in and out of a fantasy world ;
Then she was the girl washing clothes in the stream that ran next to the pretty field full of buttercups, stretching up to catch the butterflies ………. another time she became a man on a horse leading him to a fountain and letting him slurp up as much cold fresh rainwater as his heart desired surrounded by the sheep and their lambs.    Another time she was churning butter, the chicken coop perched high in the trees and faithful puppy at her feet.   When she could feel the butter taking form in the barrel as the milk set and wrapped itself around the big wooden spoon making it harder and harder to turn -  she’d  smell the thick milkiness that would make wonderful butter for her bread in the mornings.    The cockerel forever present would allow her to  stroke his feathers and he would fluff up proudly showing off his beautiful colours of crimsons blues and greens.    Perhaps he would allow her  to pluck one of those feathers and stick it in her hat.   Those dreams lead her to  many imaginary adventures.
When the two young youths came to pour fresh juice during grape harvest time  - she would accept the cup they offered her - and although so very young admire the golden head of hair of the youngest boy - look into his blue blue eyes that were clear as the sky, hair wavy as the wind and she felt a desire, felt the beginnings, a stirring of something feminine that she couldn’t define.

As she grew older, married a boy with flaxen hair she papered the walls of their home with this famous toile de Jouy wallpaper - they had many children who in turn danced away their evenings and so it continues ;   these classic patterns are still popular today

The Uninvited Guest

A story by Eve

My name is Alexander.  I am a magnificent black, silky black cat with emerald eyes.   I live in a Maison de Maître in Burgundy with a charming garden.   I own a rather pretty lady called Isabelle, she hates when I kill birds.   Nonsense!   I do kill them but never bring them to her anymore.    The screams and being called a “bad cat” is not very nice.   But I really don’t care.   To do my evil deeds I go to the neighbours, the Macrons, a very nice couple who dote on me.  I get tidbits of salmon, turkey etc.   They would love to have me but I can’t do that to Isabelle,  she adores me.

I am always welcome at the Macrons except when they have guest for a meal.   Because I do beg for a morsel, climb on laps, I can be quite a pest in their eyes not in mine.   I just do what I like when I like, that’s it.  So I am banished outside when people come.   The other day, I heard Isabelle mention the Macrons were having a garden party, garden means outside, there is no way they’ll keep me out and it sounds like fun.   I just can’t wait. 

Today is garden party day and I am ready, hiding in the lovely hydrangeas, looking at the guests, I spot a lovely little girl.  I will zero in on her when they are all seated and eating.   Everybody sits, chatting happily, no one looking around except the Macron’s who are looking for me but I bide my time and start to slink toward the girl who has seen me and tries to get my attention.  She is holding a piece of salmon in her chubby hand.   Everybody was too busy eating, talking to notice me so I took the salmon, ate it very daintily and here comes another one, great.   But, all of a sudden I heard Isabelle’s voice ;  I didn’t know she was here, asking the little girl what she was doing.   The stupid child told her in a loud voice that she was giving salmon to a black cat.   Bedlam … Isabelle and the Macrons got up looking for me, but I was quicker and went under the tables.  It was tally Ho for me, I had so much fun, running around, some tried to grab me but I was too fast.  I could hear “Alexander, Alexander come to Mama, come here.   Like I ever come when called!  Finally I got tired of the game, ran through the hydrangeas very proud of myself. 

I had the best garden party ever even if I wasn’t invited.

Paula's story:

Bobby was wracking his brain. His wife’s birthday was coming up, and he wanted to make it special. But how was he going to top last year, his wife’s 50^th, when he sent her and her sister to her beloved Paris for a week? Bobby prided himself on being the master of the grand gesture, but he was stumped. Then, an idea began to take shape. A great idea, a sly idea. He picked up his phone and dialed a number in North Carolina, and set his plan in motion.

                                                            *****

Julia murmured, “OK, bye for now,” into her phone, set it on her desk and stared at her calendar. She just might be able to make this work, she thought. She would have to move a few meetings, cancel a few plans, but it would be so worth it. It was a wonderful idea, and so like Bobby: generous, and sweet. And oh, so sly.

                                                            *****

Ingrid was snuggled into a corner of the sofa, one cat on her lap and one nestled beside her. It was her birthday, she had taken the day off work, and it had been a great day so far. It started with a long walk in the park, then she had met her sister for a lazy, champagne-fueled lunch at their favorite French bistro, followed by an afternoon of shopping. And now, she was watching an old movie, waiting for her husband to get home with her favorite Chinese takeout. He had an afternoon meeting, he had told her, but he should be able to get home, dinner in hand, by 7.

                                                            *****

She heard his key turn in the lock, and she paused the movie. “I’m watching ‘It’s A Wonderful Life’!” she called, as she heard his footsteps in the hallway. “Come on, it’s getting to the good part!” Bobby walked into the living room, laughing. “You would say every part of that movie is the good part,” he told her, as he set a shallow box filled with the familiar red and white takeout boxes on the cocktail table in front of her. “Bobby!” she cried. “That’s enough food for an army! What’s gotten into you?” At that, he turned toward the hall, and she followed his gaze. There, standing in the doorway, looking uncharacteristically shy, was her best friend, Julia. Ingrid screamed, jumped off the sofa, and rushed to hug her friend, laughing, and crying, asking Bobby what the hell, how did he manage this without her knowing, what a great birthday surprise. Then, everyone was talking at once: Bobby, telling Ingrid how he had tried to figure out how to make her birthday really special; Julia, saying how she was amazed that Bobby was so determined to fly her down to New Orleans to surprise Ingrid; Ingrid, trying to work out how she had been so clueless, and already on the phone to her boss, asking for another day or two off work so she could spend as much time as possible with Julia.

*****

The next few days were a blur of lunches, shopping, talking, walking, dinners, playing their favorite board games, drinking champagne, watching their favorite movies, Bobby on the fringes in the evenings, filling their glasses, doing the washing up, tucking them into bed when they drank a bit too much. Ingrid and Julia called Julia’s house, to talk to Ingrid's dear goddaughter and her sister, and Julia’s husband: yes, they had all known about it, yes, what a fantastic surprise, yes, they wish they could all be there. At night, alone in their bed, Ingrid would wrap her arms around Bobby, nestle into his shoulder, and murmur, “You always give me the best gifts.”

Three days later, Ingrid had to get back to work, even though Julia would be there for two more days. Because Ingrid worked at night, she and Julia had most of the day together, and at 3 o’clock, as Ingrid headed off to the office, she said plaintively, “What will you and Bobby do while I’m gone?” Julia smiled and said, “Don’t worry. We’ll think of something. But mainly, we will wait for you to get home.” “Well, you better stay up,” Ingrid told her. “I know you, Julia. You’re a lightweight. I get off work at 11, so pace yourself.” Julia grinned, and said, “Text or call when you’re about to leave work. I’ll be up and ready.”

Ingrid called home a few times during the evening, aching to be there with her husband and her best friend, and every time, Bobby would remind her, “Text or call when you’re leaving. Julia wants to make sure she’s awake for you.”

*****

It was 9 p.m. and Julia was wide awake, stretched out naked on top of Bobby, their sweat mingling on the sheets of Bobby and Ingrid’s bed. “What a brilliant idea,” Julia whispered, still out of breath. They were feeling pretty proud of themselves, pulling this off. Living in different states, it had been a challenge, over the last decade, to find time to be together. This “birthday surprise” was perhaps Bobby’s finest idea, because not only was Ingrid happy; she thought it was all for her.

*****

Ingrid wanted to surprise her best friend. She got off work early, and softly mounted the steps to the apartment. She slipped her key into the door. The living room and bedroom were across the hall from each other, at the back. When she stepped silently inside, she heard muffled voices, but something wasn’t right. The living room was on the right. These sounds were coming from the left, the master bedroom. She walked down the hall and reached for the bedroom door . . .

*****

There are moments in life that forever are defined by Before and After. What do you do when you realize in a shocking flash of discovery that two of the most important relationships in your life are over, at the same time? What do you do when the full breadth and depth of betrayal comes into immediate, shocking focus, when you learn just how deceitful people you thought you knew could be? For a long time after that night, Ingrid would deal with what her therapist helped her understand were three betrayals: his, hers, and theirs, together.

*****

As the years passed, Ingrid came to realize that her birthday surprise, the uninvited guest, was the best thing that ever happened to her. The Book of John was right: The truth shall set you free. There is life, and truth, on the other side of betrayal, she learned. And most important, there is love.

A story by Annemarie:

The Uninvited Guest

I remember when I was invited to a fancy dress party (among people I knew or 'sort of' knew) when I was newly engaged;  though I say it myself,  I did look good - my shiny black hair in a swinging bob and fringe, surmounted with gold hairband, decorated with a brilliant blue lapis lazuli snake;  the artfully  draped sheet around me was clinched  with golden  belt and bejewelled buckle, and a plethora of gold and 'jewels from the orient' around my neck, all made, painted and decorated by my little niece – I was Cleopatra embodied and I felt so good!

This time however I was a little older and I had been invited to a 'vicars and tarts' party ( I know, it is a curiously English way of entertainment). I plucked courage in both hands and accepted the invitation as it was from one of the teachers (the only one who had been welcoming during the 3 months I had worked my 2-day week supply teaching at that school). The staff room can be a very isolating place and this could be a means of really getting to know the other stand-offish(?) teachers.

I would certainly not dress up as a vicar; no, a full-on outrageous tart and they would realise what a fun person I really was and then life in the staff room would be a whole lot better.

This is when charity shops and TK Max are so useful.  I spent a day trawling the shops and came home with my glittering bounty. A good uplift bra (a tart needs a cleavage after all), some black lacy patterned tights and very fancy black suspender belt,  a figure-hugging purple dress which just covered my derrière.  I was beginning to look forward to discover this other me.  After a lazy scented bubble bath  it was on with the black underwear, a bit of a struggle to slither into the shiny purple dress, just covering my derriere and a glimpse of suspender;  plenty of chunky gold necklaces, (my Cleopatra moment), bangles and gold hoop earrings); then my makeup: this was beginning to be fun - a smear of lilac eyeshadow topped with a swish of silver glitter, a pair of thick fake eyelashes and a generous lashing of deep crimson lipstick. Last of all deep crimson nails. My long dark hair I scrunched and teased into a spiky mess and added  a quick spray of purple to cap it all. I didn't look half bad - in fact I looked completely bad! I picked up a little glitzy bag and a pair of high-heeled shoes and, running late, drove off to my friend's house.

Arriving at her road I suddenly realised I had forgotten to bring the invite with the address and I couldn't remember the house number only having been there once;  then I saw all the parked cars. Yes,  this was the right house. I parked the car, put my shoes on, pushed my boobs up, niceand pert and tottered to the door. A little nervous I rang the bell and after a few minutes the door was opened by a somewhat older man than I had imagined Mary's husband to be. It was also eerily quiet for a raucous fancy dress party. He looked me up and down …and up again;  “Can I help you?”

 “ Yes,” I said “I’ve come for Mary's party. I've got the right day I hope.”

“Well no Mary  lives here... but you are welcome to come in.”

Muttering profuse apologies and trying not to fall over in my stiletto heels whilst trying to shrink my chest back into its uplift bra I hurried back to the car. Mortified, I sat there all dressed up, not knowing where to go. I knew I had the right road so I drove slowly along the houses and there it was;  a road leading to a field with what looked like a cricket club or some sort of hall and plenty of cars. Of course, Mary's husband was cricket mad so they must have hired the pavilion for their party. I parked the car and for a second time tottered along  to the building. Lots of noise from within which was a heartening sign - so I banged on the door. It opened and before me stood a gentleman in immaculate dinner jacket (a bit strange I thought for a vicar). His eyes stood on stalks as he surveyed me and over his shoulder were many more immaculately dressed guests, men in dj's and women in evening dress, and not a suspender belt to be glimpsed  anywhere and amongst them the parents of Daniel Palmer (year 4’s class swot) staring straight at me.

“I don't think I’ve got the right address... is this Mary Conochie's party?”

I was already slinking away in total humiliation as he said:

“I think you have the wrong address.”

I never did get to know those teachers well.

Jackie's story:


Hannah parked her battered rusty 2CV Citroen and was surprised at the number of expensive gleaming cars lined up in the paved courtyard of this splendid 18th Century Chateau.   she hesitated at the entrance … it was this evening the Count and Countess had asked her to come for a drink …  ….. a sudden thought made her wonder if she had got the wrong date 
Her host opened the door, a glass of bubbles in hand  Ahhhh  “My dear”,   he looked her up and down, frowned then welcomed her … “you’ve arrived ! ” ….. and whisked her into a room full of formal dinner jackets and sparkly evening gowns.  

Clad in cotton shirt and jeans the other guests received her as stiffly as white linen left out in the frost for the night.    Not accustomed to the high life “My dear” as she mimicked to herself lived at the Chateau’s estate, looked after the many animals there, surrounded by dogs,cats and goats, dressed in overalls and rubber boots;   mucking out, milking and hardly went out in the evenings.     She certainly had nothing anywhere near sparkly chic in her wardrobe.   She thought to herself thank goodness I didn’t come in my mucky farm boots….

Feeling awkward and distressed at being very underdressed at this very chic razzle dazzle party Hannah just wanted to disappear down a hole in the floor. 

 At this, she glanced down at the beautiful parquet Versailles and to her surprise down by the skirting board was a tiny mouse.    His whiskers quivering - little brown eyes alert, ears as pink as rose petals, and nose twitching nervously.    “ Oh miss” baby mouse cried and she bent down to listen  …  “I’ve lost my mummy could you help me find her”
Goodness Hannah thought, how in the world was she going to find a mummy mouse in this very elegant and refined soirée.   Most of the guests present would run a mile just at the word ‘mouse’ .   So putting the baby mouse in the pocket of her jeans she set off to mingle with the guests.  
She sipped banalities and swallowed her discomfort of unfortunate dress sense until the butler announced « Ladies and Gentlemen, dinner is served…… » 

There in the centre of the table was the most beautiful floral display.  A magnificent woodland log planted with different shades of moss interspersed with leaves of silver birch and ash brown branches  - Textures of pines, ferns and wild wispy delicate purple flowers poking through with the whitest of snowdrops - the different hues of botanical treasures were a delight to the eye.  
But, in the middle of this fabulous display poking its little face through the bark was evidently a Mummy mouse.  Round, brown and plainly distressed.     “My baby, my baby” she squealed frantically, and became more and more hysterical - the shrieking was thankfully drowned by the chatter, laughter and clamour of knives and forks on china.   But, it wouldn’t be long, Hannah thought, before someone spotted Mummy mouse as there she was,  perched on the large green lily leaf that was draped artistically across the table and she could just imagine that if seen the ho hah that would cause.   
Inside her pocket she could feel the agitation of baby mouse upon hearing her mothers cry.   Squirming and trying to look dignified she reached in her pocket to reassure the tiny creature but by a twist of her hand the baby mouse escaped onto the table - running circles amongst the silver,  slithered up and down the candelabras, knocking over wine glasses and finally found refuge in the central woodland display where mother mouse gathered her up in her paws.  

The sight of those finely dressed sophisticated ladies attempting to escape a tiny helpless mouse by clambering on chairs - thus ripping their taffetas and silk gowns, twisting their ankles on their high heels;  the men in a flap waving bow ties, flailing arms and hopping up and down had Hannah in fits of laughter - 
After the guests had calmed down, (some of them had left without finishing their dinner)  she thought what fun it was  being an uninvited guest.

Using five words to create a story

"Wilderness"   "Age"  "Dream"  "Copper"  "button"



Annemarie's story

Wilderness, age, dream, copper, button

The two of them had arrived in a quaint little street and entered through a door discreetly marked “Miss Asia. Your future in her hands”.  January in Britain was dank and miserable compared to hot, sultry weather of her native Texas. The visit was a birthday treat from her friend for reaching the great age of fifty. Of all the self-help, new -age therapies she had tried this visit had most filled her with apprehension, with trepidation. Would the psychic foresee anything bad? Yes, Lucy was a little nervous, to say the least.

They sat in  the darkened room across the table from the clairvoyant.  The clairvoyant took hold of Lucy’s hands, turned them over, turned them back again and gazed at her palms and the rivers of lines therein. She muttered words as she gazed at her client's hands: “ wilderness, I see open lands, copper.. unfulfilled dreams? and buttons, I see buttons ....”.
“Oh yes, “ cried Lucy “I am off home to see my family and go on my first camping holiday in the wilds of Texas. This is so wonderful ... and look I have my copper bracelet on; (for my arthritis, you know.) And Janet,” she added, turning to her friend,” remember this morning when I was so nervous I couldn't do up the buttons on my black coat and you told me to wear my duffle with the toggles? Miss Asia, you truly  are the real thing.”
On their way home, after the half hour session, Janet and Lucy marvelled at the ability of the psychic;  then Janet reminded her of other birthday gifts, new age therapies and treatments Lucy had tried during the twenty years of their friendship.
“Remember when the children were little and you had your first aromatherapy session. The woman brought her bed to your house, played gentle music of the mountains, or some such thing, and you forgot to pick the kids up from school? “

“ I know, and it was the last day of school but it was so relaxing and my lumpy muscles all smoothed down and eased with scented oils. When she left I was only going to rest for a few minutes before taking a shower and the next thing I knew I was woken by a persistent phone call from the school. The head and their two teachers could barely contain their anger. I was red in the face from running, panting like mad, my hair scraped back, face etc. all oily God, the teachers weren't happy, last day of school. Two little lost kids, last day of school term.”

“Then you did yoga but couldn't bear the fat people or the body odour or the dusty floor, you couldn't concentrate because of trundling traffic noise; that only lasted three sessions,” said Janet. “After that you enrolled me with you, for a piranha pedicure. My goodness I remember those fish with jutting jaws filled with piratical teeth, circling impatiently. The second that we lowered our feet towards the ravenous swarm, they latched on - hundreds of tiny mouths sucking and nibbling at heels, ankles and in between toes. Feeding off the dead flesh on our feet. Just so we could have perfectly smooth tootsies - ready for summer's peep-toe shoes, flip-flops and those strappy slingbacks. Never again!”” 

“What about the ader -,, averd- you see I still can't pronounce it, “ said Lucy.

“Oh you mean 'ayerverdic therapy'. Is that why you stopped - you couldn't pronounce it.” asked Janet. .”And you only lasted two sessions of Reiki - the stones were too hot and you were sure he was placing stones where stones shouldn't be placed!  Last year's mindfulness therapy. Well first session and chaos in the whole group when a spider lands on your face during meditation and you start screaming. You know, Lucy, you are hopeless!”

“You have to admit,” Lucy laughed, “ I am easy to choose presents for. Remember the orgasmatron. Oh you know, that  head massage device made of minute copper wires attached to the handle of a spider-like contraption, designed to 'gently massage the head and the back of the neck.' I think we only used it once at our new year's party and then not just for heads!”

“Last year it was hagstones, all those white stones with holes through you hung at various windows to bring good fortune. Pity your obese marmelade cat chased a fly and swung the hagstone against the glass.”

“I can't believe how that window shattered (or how expensive it was to replace - or how angry Howard was because it was antique  glass,” added Janet.

“Well the clairvoyant visit was good and we're off next week to Texas, first time since the kids have left home.”

Ten days later Lucy and Howard were in Texas. After a couple of days with family they were spending their first night camping  beside a dried up riverbed. Before settling down for the night she tapped Howard on the shoulder;

  “Howard, Howard - I am just off to the lavatory… and I may be some time, “ she joked.

  Clambering out of the tent she gazed up at the night sky bestrewn with stars.

“ It's just like the psychic predicted,” she mused, “ here I am at my age in this wonderful  wilderness, a dream come true.”  

Feeling the late evening chill she did up the buttons of her long blue cardigan and gingerly followed the leaf-strewn path to the outside toilets. She did not see the copperhead snake lying silent and motionless on the path. She only felt, first pain, then tingling, then a painful throbbing in her foot. She struggled to the rough-hewn wooden toilet cubicle, tottered onto the seat and in the dim light of an eco lamp hanging from the ceiling she saw  the  swelling of her ankle visibly climbing up her calf, felt her muscles in excruciating pain and  she was gradually overtaken by a dreadful nausea. Her copper bracelet was of no use now.

Paula's story:

The metalsmith lived in a small cottage on the edge of town, just steps from a grand and wonderful forest, with his three daughters, Gold, Silver and Copper, and a tiny gray kitten named Pewter.

To mark the birth of each of his children, the metalsmith fashioned a special button out of the material for which they were named. The buttons were quite beautiful, and the girls prized them above everything but their love for their father and for each other.

Gold kept her button under her pillow because, she said, it gave her sweet dreams.

Silver sewed her button into the lining of her coat because, she said, it kept her toasty warm.

Copper threaded her button onto a thin ribbon of black velvet and wore it around her neck because, she said, it kept her father’s love close to her heart.

As the weeks and months passed, Gold and Silver began to notice something odd about Copper. Where the beautiful button lay against her chest, a green circle had begun to form, in the exact shape of the button. Copper scrubbed her skin with a rough cloth, she scratched at the spot with her fingernail, she used a pebble to scrape the circle of color, but to no avail. Her skin remained a lovely shade of green where the button lay against it.

As Copper grew, so did the circle. By the time Copper reached the age of 15, her entire body was a translucent shade of emerald green. Her eyes were green, her hair was green, even the tips of her fingers and toes were green. People came from all over to see The Girl Who Had Turned Green. Copper and her sisters were very gracious, and they offered tea and biscuits to everyone who visited their little cottage. They became known for their kindness and generosity almost as much as for the hue of their sister’s skin.

One day, a grand carriage pulled by four huge, snorting horses thundered into the village, through the gate and straight to the metalsmith’s cottage. When the carriage door opened, a huge man dressed in brocade and jewels stepped out. His shoes had buckles made of diamonds. His belt clasp was made of pearls. His hat sported the finest peacock feathers in all the land. He was the richest, fattest man the sisters had ever seen. He called to the metalsmith, announcing, “I have come for your daughter’s hand in marriage. She will live with me in my castle, and she will want for nothing for the rest of her life. And if you do not agree to let her go, it does not matter, for I shall not take no for an answer. If you try to hide her, I will search far and wide for your gorgeously green daughter for the rest of my days, until I find her and she is mine.”

The metalsmith eyed the man, then looked at his three daughters, his pride and joy and the source of all his happiness. Gold and Silver stood shoulder to shoulder, trying to shield Copper behind them. Copper was terrified by the fat rich man, and horrified at the thought of being torn from her family, her home, everything she loved. The metalsmith thanked the man, and told him that he would talk to his daughter, and it must be her decision. Then he whisked the girls inside the cottage.

“Quick,” he whispered. “Copper, you must undress quickly.” Copper trusted her father, and she did as she was told. As she took off her dress and underthings, her shoes and stockings, her bonnet and hair ribbons, her father continued to talk softly. The three girls listened very carefully, their eyes intent on their father’s face. As he spoke, they began to smile, and Copper even began to take on a bit of a glow. Finally, the metalsmith opened the front door of the cottage, stepped outside alone, and told the rich man, “No.” The rich man was furious. He pushed the metalsmith out of the way and forced his way into the cottage. Inside, he found Gold and Silver, sitting on the hearthrug, peacefully playing with Pewter, the kitten that was by now a cat. There was no one else in the cottage.

For Copper had slipped out of the back door and into the forest, where she disappeared into the wilderness, among the trees and the bushes and the tall grasses, surrounded by the exquisite colors that matched her skin perfectly.

Jackie's story:

Buttons are my passion.   Their history, shape, colour and the way they can change the look of a garment in an instant are all fascinating to me.    A few years ago I went to a place called Briare.    Just an hour and a half from Vezelay in the Loiret department of France. 

  Mosaics, tiles , buttons, beads, and enamels were in production in this town since 1845.  You can see the famous Briare tiles at Orly airport, in the Metro, and in some bathrooms of French homes.  The button production stopped in the 1950’s when the washing machine came into fashion but they continue to manufacture Briare tiles to this day.  The movement of the washing machine caused the porcelain buttons to bang against the sides of the copper  drums and broke the rather fragile material.   Plastic buttons were introduced from that moment on.
 The remaining stock of buttons from the factory were thrown onto a lake behind the manufacture and over the years piles have risen of rejections with small ponds interspersed and remain to this day buried with grit, grime and soil.   I learnt about this pile from a friend with whom I had gone to do a button show in 2010.    As the land where the button heap was located had been bought by someone and this land was attached to his house - it was forbidden to go onto his property.   But …. My friend knew of a way and we climbed through a hole in a wire fence - crawled up and over an abandoned forest like wilderness, round some trees, stepping over ponds and ditches.    With trowel and a bucket (which my friend just happened to have in the boot of her car) we started to dig in the dump which was the size of two football fields, and 20 feet high.  This area is made up entirely of tiles.  We walked over this slippery heap and it was like walking over broken glass stumbling over broken tiles but sometimes whole ones.     I had never imagined in all my dreams seeing such a place.   I was ageless, digging down into the tile covered surface in some spots we came across beads  and china buttons.   The buttons were black, white or blue decorated with red or yellow, green flowers, and a variety of coloured beads.     We happily spent a couple of hours digging away until the sun became too hot and snakes appeared on top of the piles and so we   hastily left.      Not though without a pot full of the most beautiful buttons, beads and some pretty mosaic tiles which I scrubbed clean and used in my workshop.   I have pots of them still today.  This day remained one of the highlights of my working life.      I’ll go back one day in the near future to see what else I can dig up.  

This months theme for our writing group "TASTE"

Jackie's contribution:

Taste
Lily was doing her maths homework.    The assignment was an algebraic problem and she was finding it hard to concentrate and find a solution.    It was already 7pm and she hadn’t had dinner -   Mom was in the next room getting ready to go out. 

Tonight was her Mom Zelda’s first internet date and Lily had pushed her into going.    Looking at the photo together on the internet website a few nights ago they had agreed that the man in question a certain “Steve” looked quite nice and could be just the type of man her mom needed in her life.   Since her parents had divorced,  Lily worried about her Mom.  Her Dad had found a new partner almost immediately and he seemed happy enough.    It was funny Lily thought that her parents happiness was essential to her well being.     Dad had changed since he had met his new companion - more open about things, gave his opinion whereas before he had held back avoiding conflict in the family and more importantly now he was back to cracking his old jokes and laughed a lot.   

 Lily being an only child was perhaps hyper sensitive and only felt comfortable when  Zelda was in a good mood.  These days it wasn’t that often.   Mom in a bad mood meant nothing in the fridge, cigarettes left in the ashtray to leaving a stale smell in the house, wildly coloured oil paintings half finished and empty wine glasses scattered around and drying up like riverbeds.      When Zelda was in depressed mode Lily  often found her when she got home from school, still in her pyjamas, just as if she had got out of bed    - Lily worried then, her school grades dropped,  she sank to the bottom of the class, she stopped eating properly and her best friend avoided her as she was so pre-occupied with herself and her family.

Her Mother had a lot of qualities but as most artists she was an eccentric and the way she dressed sometimes made Lily  feel embarrassed at school events and even walking into town.
 Her clothes were all over the place and if it wasn’t purple trousers with a tartan shirt and fur lined hat on a hot summers day it was a summer dress in the middle of winter with stiletto heels and striped ankle socks in the ice.       

Listening to her Mother get ready for this important night out Lily thought carefully about how she could approach the subject of her dressing more carefully,  putting  colours together, staying casual but smart so as not to frighten off the man in question.     Although listening through the thin partition that separated her bedroom from her mothers she could hear that the dressing process was already well on the go

Mother was humming a song in the next door bedroom - trying to concentrate on her homework she couldn’t help hearing the psst psst  of perfume, the clunk of shoes as they were thrown out of the closet, the rummaging round for a suitable bag and the clank clank of jewellry and she imagined her mom picking and choosing which pair she would wear so she sat calmly waiting to see the outcome.    Her Mom had style that was for sure and she had learnt in college that style meant individuality and she admired her for that even though it was a bit wacky.

The doorbell rang  -OMG  it was “him” and he was early and she hadn’t had time to check out the way her Mom was dressed ….   It was too late now and she watched helpless as Zelda ran downstairs to greet her new date and horrified she caught a  glimpse of her Mother in pink leggings, high heeled sparkly boots and red leather jacket with fringes, dragging a purse by its rhinestone chain down the stairs.   At  the same moment through the glass front door she glimpsed a shadow of purple shades mellowing in yellow and red stripes
Sizing up the purple coat, red trousers and yellow black spotted scarf this man called Steve was wearing;   she knew instinctively that her Mom had met her match.    They had the same taste in clothes that was for sure.




Annemarie's contribution:

Taste

The first taste for most people will have been mother’s milk. No choice really until you begin solids and at an early age you take control over your own eating habits, when can throw your food about, spit it out or squish it around the plate until , hopefully, you learn a few manners. It is surprising how quickly our tastes make themselves known, some of due to culture, some to individual taste.  

Hindu babies progress to  dahl and lentils, African babies to mashed bananas and in our daughter's case her first solids were liver pâté which was all the fashion and being an ignorant mother I had no idea it was far too strong for a little baby. (She is now a vegetarian- I wonder why?) Our son on the other hand had a predilection for Brussels sprouts; it was his first birthday meal and for each following birthday until one day chez his grandmother, having said he loved them, he was served a plate of muddy green coloured objects cooked for 30 minutes, so bitter he never came back to sprouts again. (He is now a dedicated carnivore). Yes, even in families children have wildly different appreciation of meals which have been slaved over a hot stove by their parent. 

A bitter pill, sour grapes - phrases we use to describe unpleasant tasting experiences.  Bitterness is often an indication in nature of poisonous plants and sourness of rotting food and  our evolution was aided by taste, by which we tested the foods. There are people in malarial infested parts of the world who tend to carry a gene which makes them less sensitive to some bitter compounds such as those containing cyanide. Scientists speculate that cyanide ingested at low levels fights malarial parasites without harming the host.

'More flies are caught with honey than with vinegar' - true for flies and in our human world sugar  and salty foods produce positive sensations and are prevalent additives, together with fats, in manufactured foods, leading to global health problems. In nature there is no natural food that combines both fat and salt. Who doesn't love a cheese-melting slice of pizza or a 'Dunkin Donut' oozing raspberry jam?

Of course taste only fully works if the nose cooperates, which explains why as a child my nose was held whilst swedes were ' choo-choo-ed down the track and into the tunnel' that was my objecting mouth. Generally speaking if it smells bad it tastes bad!

 Test and taste - close sounding words but taste is indeed used to test food. 'Just try it, just a little bit,' says mum or dad and a little pink tongue hesitantly pokes out and just touches the morsel on the end of the fork. “Eurrgh! disgusting!” says junior. Yes 'the proof is in the pudding' - you need to taste it to know if it's good or bad even though your nose may be wrinkling for a 'no'.

 Sometimes it is merely the texture, the feel of the food that is repellent. I mean, how can an entire nation savour 'andouillettes'? Not only do they smell repellent (the andouillettes  not the nation!)  but the tubes and bits of mangled innards resemble the remains of the tasty mouse my cat has crunched her way through. And there are worse foods - eyeballs, tripe, trotters, tête de veau and that's just Europe. Be suspicious of funny names! Ladies fingers - why such a name for these slimy morsels of vegetables and Rocky Mountain oysters have never been near the sea, they’re deep-fried testicles of young bulls. A-ping  sounds jolly enough    well it is  fried tarantula on a stick and that’s candy to a Cambodian. If you can't pronounce the food steer well away -   Surstrumming - fermented herring from Sweden and one of the most putrid-smelling foods in the world…. Paula, are you still with us??

You have to feel sorry for a small number of people who suffer from lexical-gustatory synaesthesia. When they hear certain words they experience random and often unpalatable taste associations. One nineteen year old woman tastes rotten food when she hears the word 'puce' or she tastes cement on hearing the word 'thrills'. Too many words and she suffers sensory overload leading to panic attacks.

But 'tastes bad' is not the same  as 'bad taste'. No, not at all  the same thing. Who is the arbiter of what is good or bad taste? Three flying ducks on one's living room wall is considered bad taste by some but  should you be rich enough to acquire it, would hanging the masterpiece  “L'Origine du Monde” by Gustave Courbet, over your mantelpiece constitue good or bad taste? Personally I would rather Courbet's work of art -  spread legs and female genitalia - remained in the Musée d'Orsay, whilst I sat sipping tea with the vicar gazing at three ducks.

Have you ever tut-tutted over a joke in bad taste? Or did you laugh  hysterically? I suppose it depends where and when it's told.

There are amongst us some who have  a taste for chocolate and champagne but others who have a taste for fast cars (or fast women); you may have a taste for opera and ballet whilst others have a taste for dressing up as women or being chained to bedposts. Who knows? 

As the saying goes 'there’s  no accounting for taste.'