Jackie:
She couldn’t remember the exact moment that she threw the bottle into the river . One of those crazy things you do when you are 12 years old. All silliness and giggles – cut off jeans and crop tops getting brown in the summer sunshine.
Memories come rare now –life seems to belong to someone else , just the other day she went from the bathroom to the kitchen a few steps away and - forgot what she had come to do.
Filtering through her brain little snippets produced hazy images …
childhood holidays in a small village of Burgundy France, lazy hot days sleeping in the hammock strung between the cherry trees, playing with the village kids on bikes, skate board and constructing tree houses in the forest surrounding the village. Helping with the vendanges – sandwiches and an apple from the tree – chocolate croissants and Playing with Augustus the family dog – walking down to the river with Mum and Dad on a Sunday afternoon - then a few years later with the gang – a group going for a swim and the evenings spent playing football or hanging out at the parapet near the village fountain.
Summers passed by with dreams and no fear for the future.
One day they had found a bottle – an old bottle possibly previously containing some medicine by the smell. The cork had been intact so she had composed a note offering a reward to the person who found it. Tossed it in the river and watched it float away bobbing up and down imagining it being thrown and lifted by gurgling waters to the next region in the l’Yonne and beyond to the Seine river then Le Havre and then the Atlantique ocean and beyond – imagining a far off land - nobody would ever find this bottle thrown into a small river in the middle of France. Just a bit of fun……They had laughed at the thought.
Now 60 years later her deteriorating mind was playing tricks, had practically erased those moments, had she ever been young? Words escaped her now – rolling away out of sight like a box of marbles dropped scattering on the floor into unreachable places. She looked for them in vain.
Looking at her grandchildren had she ever been so carefree and mindless …. Lurking somewhere in the grey matter of her brain were memories and pictures of happy days she tries to read a book and gets distracted by ….things
– I must go make tea – or the phone pinged again- a message – a reminder – an appointment. She felt disconnected, wordless
The house phone rang this time.
Hello Madame –“yes, hello “…. a foreign heavily accented voice – what if ….. what if the voice hesitated and there was an echo from somewhere on the other side of the what sounded like a different planet …. What if ….Madame – are you listening can you hear me ? What if I were to tell you that I have found your bottle with the message – I am claiming your offer of winning 10,000 £ if found - as is written by a certain Jacqueline.?
Startled – who was Jacqueline ? could it be me. The name rang a bell.
I don’t have 10,000£
The voice was fading but –“ lawyer” and the words “moral duty” came faintly down the line.
What if this was her.
_______________________________________________________
Geraldine
IF
Si Ma Tante en avait on l’appellerait Mon Oncle
So, just one of those beautiful autumn days, where the colours blaze in the air, the sun shines at its most, trying to make you think no winter will ever catch up and embrace you with cold winds, making you duck your necks to fight against the chill….
So Clare decided to take her three little boys out that afternoon for a walk in the forest. When she put it out to them, they were rather resistant, wanting to ride their bicycles.
Lets have a deal then : there’s a nice place, right near the forest where you can play with your bikes in the small sand quarry there, and after that, we’ll have a little walk in the forest and you can help me look for some mushrooms, said Clare.
Yes, yes, yes, hooray !
So, bikes in the boot of the car, kids in behind strapping in those who needed to be strapped in, a small rucksack with a little snack for afternoon tea and a nice big bottle of fruitjuice. Off they set !
The place Clare took them to was amazing : it’s a small sand quarry in a strange clearing at the edge of the woods , with little heaps of orangey sand. With the autumn colours, some trees still quite green, some others almost red and the sun shining through them, it was just like in a fairy tale : you were wondering if they were around watching this happy family intruding…
Out came the bikes, the two eldest boys went up and down the sandy hills while Clare played in the sand, making castles with her youngest son who was only just 2 years old and couldn’t ride a bike yet. Idyllic afternoon.
Big boys exhausted, came the time to have tea : out came the rucksack, the fruitjuice was shared, the cereals bars shared out, the papers collected by Clare, back into the bag as well as the banana skins just collected after the banana distribution.
Well now we are all restored, time for our little mushroom hunting and so they pushed off in a small dirt track looking around, under the trees, waiting for the first one to cry out « I’ve found one, I’ve found one ! » . The sun was playing hide and seek between the tree trunks and everybody was having great fun !
But after about half an hour of this funny hunt, no mushroom had been found yet! Maybe the weather had been to good, not enough rain in the previous days or our acuteness of vision was too low…
Nevertheless, when Clare stopped at a path-cross and looked up, the sun was getting low and…she had no idea of where she was, where she had left her car with the kids bikes, and which way to go… The forest was still a splendor, but she started feeling anxious! First thing : keep the children free from this anxiety, keep looking cheerful and happy, and try and go back on their steps.
IF only she had done like “Op’O my Thumb” and left some little gravel or any other kind of “clue” behind, she would know which way to go!
IF only she had asked the children to look out with her as to where they had been walking, but they had all walked with their nose to the ground like little dogs looking for truffels!
IF only it was 2 o’clock in the afternoon instead of almost 5 o’clock, there still would have been plenty of time before sunset!
IF only the little one wasn’t so tired, Clare wouldn’t have to carry him on her back now!
IF only science knew better and would have invented some kind of outdoor telephone that you could take with you!
IF only , if only, if only…. But better get walking now, either way and hope your lucky star will guide you.
So, with suddenly much less enthusiasm, the little troop set off again taking the first lane on the right and quietly started walking. The forest seemed now almost like an enemy, feeling dark and damp and the little fairies had been replaced by bad dwarfs. At one point that seemed ages later, a weird noise began to grow. It sounded like music! In the middle of the woods! So Clare and her tribe quickened their pace, ears all out trying to follow the music and above all where it came from. The forest seemed to be getting more and more dense and dark….
And oh! What a surprise… As they were taking a curve in the lane they landed into a small clearing where the sun was dropping and there was a man there, who seemed to be clearing up some cardboard plates and gathering plastic glasses and paper serviettes. Next to him was a small record player…. Playing the music that had guided their steps. He looked very surprised to see them.
Clare walked up to him to introduce herself : hello, he said! What brings you around here? Oh! He stank of alcoohol, but, on the other hand, seemed quite harmless and friendly. So, Clare described the place where she had left her car and the kids bicycles and asked him if he knew where it was, and if they were not too far from it. Oh! He said. I know the place but it’s miles away. You’ll never reach it before dusk. If you just let me finish packing, I can drive you back there if you are OK to squeeze into my little car! We just had a couscous picnic party with some friends and I’m clearing up.
And there, another load of “IF” emerged in Clare’s mind :
What IF he has an accident, he seems so drunk!
And IF he gets rough with me and/or the kids?
And IF he takes me to another place, strange or in the middle of nowhere!
But then, IF I don’t take his offer, how can I get out of this “horrible” forest before the night?
How can I feed the children who will start feeling so hungry?
How can I protect them from the cold night that I is beginning to fall on us?
But then, what other alternative?
So, believing in man’s kindness and again their lucky star, Clare picked up his offer and a few minutes later they all scrambled into his little car. Motion towards civilization, hope and home…. It seemed a very long trip through the woods, in bad bumpy lanes, with a zig-zaguing driver, but at last, through the trees appeared a patch of red that grew bigger and bigger and there was Clare’s red car standing just in front of the sand quarry where the adventure had begun.
Here we are, and here is my car she said in a loud and grateful voice to their unsure but nice driver.
She felt so relieved, so stupid and happy at the same time.
They all climbed into the car, and as they started driving home, a little voice came from behind “Did we really get lost, Mummy? And IF we hadn’t found this nice man to take us back, what would we have done?
And Clare turned to her 3 boys with a smile and said :
You know, IF is a wonderful word, for it can give so many answers to a question, and take so many different turnings in an adventure like this one, that it opens all doors for so many possibilities…
And… remember this all your life : it will be of great help to you little lads!
________________________________________________________________
Annemarie's story
If only she could go for the day to the stables, then for a ride along the lane to Barrow Hill, the autumn hedgerows with their haze of blue from the sloe bushes replete with dark bitter fruit and spindle trees with their colour-popping pink and orange heart-shaped berries; instead she had to go to the committee meeting of the Talented Women Tennis Players. Then her grandmother's voice echoed across the years to her ten year old self:
‘If ifs and ands were pots and pans there'd be no work for tinkers.'
Now Fiona realised the pointlessness of 'if' so she brushed aside thoughts of galloping across the hills; she quickly showered and dressed and went downstairs. A shaft sunlight slanted across the table where she sat scraping some of the butter off her toast and putting back some of the cherry jam that she had lathered on top - after spending lockdown in tracksuits her normal clothes appeared to have shrunk.
Once at the tennis club she pushed a few chairs around the table and placed paper and pencils before each chair. These meetings were tedious and boring and Fiona felt that they were mostly a vehicle for some of one member in particular to parade her self-importance. Jane having no job or career was the stalwart of the committee.
If you ask me, thought Fiona, there was little to discuss - the next matches, who'd not paid their subs etc; but for Jane particularly it was why certain persons shouldn't or couldn't join and “wearing a T-shirt with Dick of the Desert was as good a reason as any to ban someone!
“ Has anyone seen or heard from Harriet lately?” asked Lisa as they sat down waiting for the coffees.
“ She was supposed to pick up some hydrangea cuttings on Monday” said Kate. “Gorgeous blue ones I’d done specially for her. I tried phoning but no reply. To tell the truth I was a bit miffed and would happily give you lot those plants,” she added, pushing back a lock of shiny, though unruly dark hair with fingers whose nails were less than shiny and showing evidence of garden soil.
“She used to pop round a couple of times a week, always with something delicious she'd baked but I’ve heard nothing from her for quite a while,”
It appeared that no one had seen Harriet or heard from her for over a fortnight.
“ Well,” said Jane “ let's get on. I for one have a very busy week - PTA, visit ma-in-law in hospital,
take Jamie to the dentist and Alison for a ballet exam, not to mention my colonic irrigation appointment - oh I could go on and on and all while Paul is away on business. He never seems to be here when I need him.”
“Don't you think we should check up on her at home” asked Kate. “I'd be quite happy to pop over after the meeting.”
“If you ask me,“ muttered Lisa “and I know you won't and I know Harriet has to manage on her own but as to this committee she doesn't really pull her weight..”
Jane interrupted with a sarcastic titter,,“ Difficult, considering how much there is of it; she could do with losing some!” At the same she smoothed a slender well-manicured, pink finger-nailed hand over her own svelte flat stomach.
“ She only has herself to blame, forever making cakes and soda bread. After lockdown last spring when she was moaning about being bored I suggested she came to my aerobics class, get into shape. Well...if looks could kill!”
“ You know,” interjected Kate, “ I think she's quite lonely, bringing up Ben as a single parent. Not much chance of going out and having fun. My hubby is on a job in Hong Kong and I know how difficult I find it, coping with the three kids on my own and working from home. And I think things are tough financially,” Kate added in a kindly voice. “It's her birthday soon. We could club together and give her a spa day. If she got a good haircut, had a makeover she could be quite attractive..”
“ If pigs could fly!’ roared Jane. “Do you really think any man would want her? She just doesn’t make any effort.”
The others looked shocked at Jane's vicious remarks. Jane, all of 5 ft. 3in. with a petite heart-shaped face and round blue eyes left the table to fetch the coffees from the kitchen., unaware of the looks of disapproval which followed her.
“ She looks as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, “ whispered Fiona “but some of the nasty comments she makes...well. Let's change the subject.”
Jane placed the coffees on the table commenting “Well at least we're being spared another of her guinea pig bake-offs.”
“ Now, now, Jane, you know we all gobble those cakes up except, perhaps, you. With all the troubles going re Europe and the U.K. what part is Paul playing?”
“ Oh, something boring to do with the post Brexit negotiations. Seeing some minion of Macron in Paris; I'm not really interested in politics. It's all taking so much of his time. Shall we get back to important matters - the team for next week's match and our tactics against the Warminster women.”
They were interrupted by Kate's mobile emitting a quacking noise.
“ If that's Harriet I’d like to say something to her,” said Jane. “She could have rung earlier - that woman has no consideration for others.”
Kate answered her phone and put it on loudspeakers they could all hear. “Harriet,” she mouthed pointing her slightly grubby finger at the mobile.
“Harriet here, Kate. So sorry I forgot to pick up the cuttings and belated apologies for my absence from the club today but I’ve been tied up for the last couple of weeks. Hey, can you smell these delicious croissants? No! - of course I haven't baked them myself - petit déjeuner after a fabulous fortnight in Paris, the city of love with someone we both know...but don't mention this to anyone else.”
Three faces turned to look at Jane, her pretty face frozen and ashen, while Kate tried frantically to switch off the loudspeaker but not before they heard Harriet start singing: “..if you could see me now..”
____________________________________________________________________
Sarah's contribution:
If … 2 (My life)
If I had got into Wellesley, as I dreamed, would I have been happier? I might have turned out like my nieces, smug members of the East Coast, Ivy League elite. Or I might have baulked immediately, and been unhappy there. St Mary’s was probably better, though even there I finally reacted to its students’ aspirations as the future wives of successful Catholic citizens. Still, I no doubt shared their upper-middle-class assumtions of our superiority. When exactly did I begin to lose that? Berkeley, perhaps. Or France. In any case, I think things would have been about the same wherever I went, but I would not perhaps have had exactly the same choices. But let’s look at those choices, at the twists and turns that have brought me where I am.
If I hadn’t decided not to continue French as my major, I would probably have become a mediocre French teacher, like most French teachers across the ocean, never speaking the language correctly, with only a smattering of knowledge about “French life”. Someone my present-day snobism would look down on and pity. (Perhaps I haven’t changed as much as all that.)
If I had not decided to do a double major, and take on a full course of literature as well as my major in writing, I would not have had all those wonderful courses in Renaissance drama and Neoclassical poetry and Dante and what have you, and could not have gone on to my next choice. Which was, where to go from there.
For if I had not listened to Caroline Tate, our writer in residence, who told me not, absolutely not to go to writing school but to go on in literature, which was the best teacher, I would not have applied to Berkeley, and been accepted there. And had all those wonderful courses on Sydney and Spenser, on Pope and Milton, on the Romantics and the Victorians, on Old English and Beowulf and 15th-century poetry. And of course, I wouldn’t have forgotten all about writing, as I did, becoming totally engrossed in Medieval literature and in preparing a career as a university professor. And I would certainly have missed out on something else, for Berkeley opened my eyes to politics, to alternative life-styles, to the contradictions and deceptions of the world.
But Berkeley was important for other reasons. I was tempted by two seminars, Bronson’s on the popular ballad (which I absolutely wanted), but also Muscatine’s on Chaucer. If I had not decided to break with tradition and sign up for both (never telling either professor I had also signed up for the other), then I would never gone to work as an assistant for Professor Muscatine, and I would not have become interested in medieval art. And if I had not applied for a Fulbright fellowship, as he suggested, and encouraged me to—I would never have dreamed of it on my own—I would not have come to France.
And if I had not met Martine at the Bibiothèque Nationale, and if she had not insisted that I have a party and promised to get some French students, and if I had not met up with one of those students a few days later in the manuscript room at the Bibliothèque Nationale, I would never have decided not to go home. To live in Paris, and then to marry and have children here, to go and live in Mexico for two years, to discover Burgundy and buy an old house here. In short, to have a more adventurous life and to remain in France forever.
Which was a very good thing. If I had gone back to America, what would have happened? One can guess. It was the beginning of those crisis years in which positions at universities were suddenly very scarce, where people with advanced degrees ended up working in automobile garages and such. I might not have got a job, or not a good one. I might have become a high school teacher, married another high-school teacher and settled down to a comfortable but bland existence. Or I might actually have got a job at a university, lost myself in research and never married, never had children, never remembered about writing at all, except for scholarly papers.
If, if, if … I could go on and on, chalking up the milestones in my long and frequently changing life, but I will skip most of them until just a few years ago. If I had not met Paula, and if I had not, at her 4th of July party, met Monica, I would not have joined the writing group and thus at long last returned to writing. Thank you, writing group all! I had taken a wandering path, and then I met you, and it has made such a difference!
+ 800 wds
