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.

________________________________________________

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.