Evil in the village

 Geraldine's story

"Evil in the village"

 

Trifouillis les Oies is a very beautiful and calm village located in the middle of the Lot Department, which is probably the less inhabited region in France.

Winters are not too cold there, but quite rainy, the spring, summer and automn are just wonderful seasons with the heat in the middle of the summer and early spring features as from March and the most colourful rusty tones as from September.

To-day, the village is very calm : between 300 and 600 people live there, with a peak in the summer, mainly English,  Dutch and Belgian tourists who come for the sun they are sure to catch there. Anyone, with or without a family knows they are going to rest in this old stone village, perched on the top of the hill with the Mairie standing opposite the church, the swiming pool, the baker and a few small shops.

But it hasn’t always been this idyllic place.  If you can get hold of one of the elder ones still alive, you could ask them to tell you about the times when evil was in the village.  It’s an old and frightening story.  So if you’re sitting confortably, I’ll tell you about Trifouillis les Oies when the witch lived there !

Just after Worl War 2^nd, everybody was silent.  People only spoke to each other to say hello, nice day to-day or goodbye.  The Resistance had left a lot of memories and noone was ready to forget how the population had been torn apart between the ones who, closing their eyes and ears had accepted Petain’s authority, and the others who wanted freedom, justice and above all weren’t inclined to give the Jews away.

So, the population was slowly healing from the very traumatic years spent together, with their fears, their food shortage, their compromissions and their secrets.  Life was normalizing and peace and quietness seemed to be back again.

Then, in the automn of 1945 something weard occured ; an elderly skinny woman named Gabrielle settled in an old empty house in the middle of the village.  Nobody knew where she came from nor how long she would be staying.  She was small, with a very fair complexion, greyish long hair, small slitted brown eyes always moving from one side to the other and very thin lips and a hooked chin.  She walked a bit crooked, with a long orange stick that she would wave around her when dogs or cats would approach.  Quite soon, the children felt frightened at her sight and began callling her « Mrs. CHIN ».  They would follow her at a distance when she went out for walks in the forest probably looking for wild bays, mushrooms or herbs. And back home in the village, would tell their parents where she had been.

And this intrusion in this convalescent village stirred up old rivalries amongst the inhabitants.  Who was she really ?  Where from ? Why did she come to Trifouillis les Oies ?  Was she animated by a spirit of vengeance ? And if so, why ?

Some  people said she had hidden in the woods during the war to escape deportation, others thought she had been pursued for some illegitimate action while others thought she could have been a resistant or a murderer or a mole  or, or, or……

And so, unfortunetaly, a suscpicious atmosphere clamped the village once more.  More frowning between the villagers, more questioning, more rejection… When will things calm down ?

Mr. Payrac, the Maire, decided to discretely investigate about « Mrs. Chin » before things became too rough in the village.  He found out that her real name was « Madame Gabrielle Martin ».  She was a widow, her husband having died during the war fighting the Germans in North Africa.  That’s when she decided to volunteer as a nurse for the « Maquis » in Corrèze where she followed the Resistance members  from one place to the other, giving first aid to the wounded and smuggling medicine and drugs for the victims.  She had been wounded herself on one occasion when she was nursing a man injured during an attack on an act of sabotage on the railway line. 

When the war ended, she was still in hospital, due to her bad leg.  Then when she was able to walk again, she was let out.  She had nowhere to go !  She didn’t want any honours or medals for the help she had given during the end of the war to the Resistance.  So she walked out of the hospital without any idea of where she would go to and what she would do next…  The atmosphere in France was deleterious…

She walked from one place to another, gathering food in the orchards, in the vegetable gardens, from hen houses and in the markets at closure.  She stopped at night in religious houses, or when the weather was good enough in the wilderness of nature. 

When she definitely got tired of wandering, she had lost a lot of weight and had turned into a very  exhausted woman.  One evening, when all was quiet in Trifouillis les Oies, she came accross this old abandonned house in which she decided to settle before winter came. She had noticed how the people hardly spoke to one another which gave her the stength to stop there for a while.

Mr. Payrac decided to keep all this information to himself wisely hoping that the adversity towards Mrs. Chin would turn into indifference.  Which is what finally happened.  People would just walk towards her turning their head away and the children found new games to play.

One morning, late November, Mr. Payrac who hadn’t seen her in a while, knocked at the door and, after a few knocks and no answer, walked in.  There, on the table he found this note :

« It’s hard to be disliked and mocked, but even harder to be completely indifferent.  I’ve had enough. Can’t take it any more ».

And walking to the back of the house, he found her dead body on the rudimentary bed that was the only piece of furniture in the room !

 

Paula's story

Nevil’s family moved to the sunny south of France from the bitter cold of northwest England when Nevil was 6 years old. His parents threw themselves into their new country with enthusiasm, and Nevil and his younger brother and sisters grew up steeped in French culture, from the cuisine to the history, and of course, the language. 

 

As Nevil grew older, he became particularly fascinated by the French obsession with food: the fresh ingredients, the rich sauces, the delicate flavors, as well as the French tendency to make every meal an occasion, a chance to gather family and friends around the table to eat and drink and talk well into the evening. He spent many hours in the family kitchen, crafting meals that his parents and siblings and neighbors raved about, and always asked for second helpings. 

 

After a family holiday to Rome and Venice one summer, Nevil became captivated by Italian cuisine: the simple yet perfect salad of bufala mozzarella and fresh Caprese tomatoes drizzled with olive oil, the unpretentious richness of a perfect Bolognese sauce, the unadorned luxury of a plate of spaghetti Carbonara. And the pizza! Nevil had never tasted such pizza as he found in Rome. After his first bite of chorizo and onion pizza, slathered with cheese and a rich tomato and basil sauce, he wondered how the French could even get away with calling their skimpy version pizza.

 

He had found his mission in life. He bid his family a jaunty “arrivederci!” and moved to Naples, where he had won a spot in the age-old, prestigious pizza academy. And a year later, when he graduated, with honors, he knew he had to bring his knowledge and his craft home, to the French.

 

With a little help from his parents, he bought a broken-down van and worked day and night to outfit it as a mobile pizza truck. He installed a small but authentic wood-fired pizza oven, added two long-handled paddles, extra thick oven mitts, round pizza stones, ladles and pots. A panel running along the side of the van swung out and latched with a special hook on the roof, opening the whole side of the van to customers, who could peruse the hand-lettered menu on a board propped up on the counter. He found the freshest ingredients: local cheeses, tomatoes, chorizo, sausages, basil, pesto, eggs.  

 

All that first spring, he drove from village to village in southern France. He would stay in each village a week or two at a time, and he was busy constantly.  Often, his customers would beg him to stay longer, or to come back as soon as he could. He shared his recipes with anyone who asked, although he warned that without his custom-made pizza oven, their results would be, well, different. It was a happy life, making pizzas, ordering fresh ingredients from local merchants, talking to his contented customers.

 

Then one night, while he was anchored in the pretty central square in the village of Cassis, he had just cleaned his kitchen and taken his menu board inside when the winds began to pick up. He had just enough time to shut and lock his long panel before he realized it was the storied mistral of Provence come to call. All night, the van rattled and shook as the winds blew, with gusts reaching 65 kilometers per hour. The racket was deafening, but he was snug and safe inside. At last, the morning came, and with it a stillness that seemed almost too quiet after the raging winds of the night before. Nevil ventured outside to inspect the damage. Trees in the little village square were bent to the ground, flowered window boxes were scattered everywhere, the Tabac across the way had a broken window. Nevil walked around his van, and luckily, everything seemed in order, until he looked up, above the long side window where his customers stood to make their orders. His sign, which declared PIZZA in all capital letters, followed by the nickname his customers had given him, Nevil in the village, was missing! He searched the square and the side streets, until he finally stumbled upon the sign, leaning heavily against the side of the mairie’s office. It was still in one piece, and bits of leaves and tree branches were poking through all of his carefully crafted letters. And that’s when he noticed: all of the capital letters had blown away in the storm. All he was left with was a sign that proclaimed: evil in the village.

 

Patrice story

Anika ran.  Her breath scored her throat, her shins hurt, but she ran.  She nearly tripped on a rock, uprighted herself, flung her book bag across her back and ran.

 

Behind her she could hear the boys.  It was now only boys, the girls had dropped off when the road became dirt, when their dresses would become dusty, their shoes scraped.  But the boys never stopped until they got what they wanted.

She had been able to avoid them at school.  Her papa brought her every morning and picked her up in the evening.  She stayed inside at lunch -time, not near the teachers because they were just as bad, but inside where she would not draw their attention or their ire.

It had always been this way but when mama died it became worse.  Mama was a force to be reckoned with, and she had something they wanted.  The parents had kept their beasts in check when it came to Anika. 

 

There were others that suffered the fists, the pinches, the name calling, beside Anika, but they learned to submit.  To do as they were told, to let the others do as they pleased.  Anika had never submitted, but in the year since mamma’s death the boys had become bigger boys with more than a beating in mind.  Anika’s reserve, her otherness had made her a different target for the boys. 

The cottage was meters away, the boys, yelping and howling, laughing and swearing slid when they hit the dirt, righted themselves amongst the tangle of arms and legs. They ran in a pack like dogs, salivating

 

Anika grabbed the fence post with her right hand and swung around it, using her weight to throw the gate open. Flying to the front door she burst into the cottage, and in one motion, turned, and slammed down the wood beam that barred the door at night.

She could feel her breath raking through her, her lungs dry and aching, but once in the cottage she could make a plan.

Anika threw her bag into the corner, climbed the stool in front of the stove and took down the shotgun.  She broke the barrel to make sure it was loaded, though she knew it was always loaded.  She backed into the corner, slid down until she was sitting on the floor, the shotgun over her knees, the barrel pointing at the door.

Her hands were shaking, the sweat running into her eyes, but now she was less afraid.  They could get in another way if they thought about it, but they would not.  They would pound on the door, throw mud, piss on the garden, but they were not thinkers – they were beasts, and beasts only acted.

 

In the pause between one breath and the next Anika heard the truck engine and began to weep.  Papa was home.  She pressed her back against the wall to help her stand and made her way to the front window, walking around the edge of the room, keeping her back against the wall. She peered through the bottom edge of curtain and saw papa leap the gate his powerful shoulders making it look easy.  With his hands he grabbed the boys by the back of their necks. Without pausing he banged their heads together in one quick strong movement.  The sound was so loud Anika could hear it inside the cottage.  She put the shotgun on the floor and pulled the curtain wider.

 

She knew all the boys – the village was small and isolated, rare to visitors.  The two boys slumped to the ground in a pile.  Papa grabbed another by the back of his trousers and threw him over his shoulder. The boy landed at the base of the gate in a pile.  The last two boys stood with their backs to the cottage their fists balled, crouching a little.  But Anika knew they would back down.

 

Papa moved forward one foot in front of the other.  He didn’t speak, he was not breathing hard, his shadow crept ahead as if to engulf the boys before he touched them.  She saw their muscles tense. Papa moved toward them, unhurried, intent.  The boys burst into movement as if at the sound of the gun at the start of a race.  They bolted around papa – one to each side and without stopping for their dazed friends pushed through the gate, tearing down the road back toward the village.  The other boys, on their hands and knees, shaking their heads began to crawl away – papa looked at them and turned toward the cottage.

 

Anika threw the door open and leapt onto her father, her arms around his neck, her face buried in his collar.  He held her for a few moments, stroking her back, making shushing noises, comforting her.  After a bit he put her down, guided her into the cottage, closing the door behind them.  He made sure that she had not been hurt, praised her for thinking of the shotgun, for being brave.

 

And then they began to pack.  They took only what they needed, what was necessary.  Anika packed the photograph of her mother, the little teapot she used to brew her tea in, the shawl that draped the back of mamma’s chair by the fire.  They loaded the truck.  Papa built the fire and poured a line of kerosene from the stove to the door.  He laid one end of the rope in the fire snaking the length along the floor to the puddle of kerosene.

 

In the rear view window Anika could see the darkening sky marked by the flames, masking the darkness that was the village.  She turned forward to see the road unfurl before them. 

 

Annemarie's story   :         Evil in theVillage?

 

There is peace in the village in the valley;

Children play, men and women working happily.

A bundle, damp and crushed, rests in the tailor's home.

 The bale is opened, the cloth pulled out and shaken.

                     There are fleas in the village

 

Drops drift through the air…folk fall ill, folks are dying

Of chills and fever and buboes that are horrifying.

Is the sickness brought by rats or dogs

…Or is it a punishment from God?

                      There must be evil in the village.

 

The rector calls the congregation:

“We'll shut the church, we'll pray outside;

We'll close the boundaries

To spare the people far and wide.”

                       There's plague in the village.

 

Food is brought from neighbouring hamlets

And left beside the village limits.

Money soaked in vinegar is gently thrown

Within the hollows of the boundary stone.

                        There is lockdown in the village.

 

Liza Hancock wraps in shrouds

Six dead children and her late spouse.

The death toll rises; so many bodies placed in graves.

                         There is mourning in the village.

 

Through fourteen months two sixty lives are lost

Before the village outskirts again are crossed.

They'd saved the towns from plague contagion

And earned themselves an heroic reputation.

                          There was courage in that village.

 

The village of Eyam (forever known as the Plague village) in the Derbyshire Peak District put themselves into quarantine for 14 months to prevent the spread of the plague (1665-1666). 270 Eyam villagers out of a total population of 800 died; whole families were wiped out.

 

 Jackie's story

 

Evil in the village

It was 6:30 am and I rose to prepare my lemon water, read the newspapers and get ready for the day.    The dogs knew the routine staying in their beds until 7 am when I went downstairs for good.  Breakfast, shower and out of the house by 8 – they strained on their leashes to be up the hill and sniff out the scents to see what the night had brought.  I am half dragged up the hill,  checking up on the hedge groves and the number of holes the woodpecker had bored during the night.   There were the deer up on the hill grazing in peace as the sun rose.   Turning right into the little wood and out of breath,  I pause from time to time happy that my latest dog is a male and he pees everywhere allowing me to catch my breath from time to time.     

As I reach the first plateau overlooking the village  – I sometimes reflect on the first time I saw this house in this lovely part of Burgundy  – it was the 15^th property we had visited with the agent.    Apart from its very low price due to it being so rundown,  the enclosed courtyard and several levels appealed to my 23 year old self and new husband.    How we bounded up and down the stairs – into the sloping garden admiring the lilac tree and the lovely view from the top of the garden.    We immediately started planning.   We lived in Paris at the time and this was a house for weekends, holidays and long holidays like in the summer.   It was June, the cherry tree was blooming – there was no roof on part of the house,  a garden with an old bread oven  and the other part was collapsing slowly with abandon.   But we loved it.    Soon we started to find bowls of strawberries, a lettuce,  a dish for lunch and some home made wine on our doorstep.        Villages were ready with advice on pruning the roses, cutting ivy and growing carrots.      I spoke zero French and it was difficult for me to communicate,  but my neighbors were amazing taking the time to talk even when I couldn’t reply very quickly.  

When my son Nicholas was born we arrived for a holiday when he was just one month old to find that my neighbor Danielle had decorated the one and only room where we all managed to sleep, eat and wash.   She had put pink roses in old jam jars and had washed the old flagstones until they shone.   She had prepared a babies basket with frilly pink lace and was surprised to see we had a baby boy.     Soft lazy days and then when we acquired our very first dog named “Augustus” I took baby and dog on long walks down to the river and met various villagers on the way.    

Now on my morning walks I look down on this beautiful village and am so grateful to have lived here for all of these years surrounded by kind hearts and wonderful hospitality.   

All this to explain to you that there for sure is no evil in this village.

 

The doorbell

Sarah's story

Doorbell 5 (tea for four)

Lucy—her parents had named her Lucinda but she tried to tell everyone that her name was Lucy—was pleased.  More than pleased, she was what we might call overjoyed.  The paint was dry, all the bright colours that she had chosen and planned out with care, were on the wooden piece, shaped roundly so as to fit a hand nicely, and were now perfectly dry, so that a hand would not get stained by folding round it.  It now needed only a hand.
She went to the front of the house and hooked the piece onto the bell-rope, and stood back to admire the enticing colours.  No-one could resist, she told herself.  She reached out a hand and seized the piece herself and pulled.  A-ding-a-ling!  What a cheery sound!  She tugged again.   A-ding-a-ling, a-ding-a-ling!
She looked up and down the dustless road, along the house-fronts with their dreary brick fronts, their drab-coloured windowless doorways, their gleaming window-panes which reflected the houses opposite but through which never a face was seen, and sighed.  She had rung the bells at those houses many a time, and no-one had ever answered.  She had once put a little hand-printed invitation to tea, a sort of open-house, in each of the mail-slots, and no-one had come.    She was not by nature given to peering out her window for hours on end, but she did glance out from time to time and had on occasion seen people walking up or down the street, and even turning into or coming out of one or another of the houses.  Otherwise she might have had the impression that she lived in a mysteriously uninhabited street.
She had moved here when she lost her parents and consequently her home, because the lease was in their name and the flats were reserved for those on a waiting list, and after that lost her job because she had taken too much time off trying to resolve the many questions and problems related to all that.  She had not known why this particular house was so cheap, but it was the only one she could afford with the meagre inheritence that had come down to her, and though she had not found the neighbourhood particularly attactive she had bought the house without hesitation.  After all, she did need somewhere to live.
It would be an exaggeration to say that she had left all her friends behind on coming here.  She had not really had friends, only colleagues.  There had been too much to do looking after Mum and Dad, who were old when they had her and older still as she grew up and frankly aged by the time she got out of school and got her first job.  First and last job, it should be said.  She had worked there for fifteen years when they gave her the sack.  As for the colleagues, she had never been to their homes and did not know their addresses, and they had never asked for hers.  There had been no going-away party on her leaving, only a note from the management that she need not come in again.
And so the doorbell.  She stood on the stoop in the sunshine and waited a bit, but no-one turned into the street, or came out of a house, and after a while she went in again.  She made a pot of tea and set out some cups and saucers, now should it be two?  Or three?  She settled on four.  She set out some cakes.  Then she sat down.
The clock ticked and tocked, and still she sat there.  The teapot glowed in the afternoon light, which picked out the soft reds, the warm yellows and the delicate  blues of its border pattern.  The tea, however, was going cold.  So she poured herself a cup, put in the milk and still hesitated before taking a cake.  But she was thirsty, so she drank the tea, and to accompany it she ate the cake.  Then she sat some more.  The sunlight slid across the table.  Now the teapot was no longer lit up, the rays touched the second cup.  So she filled it, put in the milk and set it down.  The saucer invited another cake and so she picked one up.  Automatically, she drank the tea and ate the cake, and still the clock ticked.  The sunlight slid to the third cup, and she stared at it dreamily.  Just as the light was about to leave it she hastily filled it, put in the milk and lifted it to her lips.  She took another cake.  When she put the cup down, the last slice of sunlight had left the room, the table and its contents were clothed in grey.  Shivering, she poured the rest of the tea into the fourth cup, and put in the milk.  She shuddered at the thought of another cake, they were too sweet really, but as she put the cup to her lips she thought that there was only one cake left and it would be wasted if she left it there.  She had been taught not to waste.  So she drank the tea and ate the cake.
The whole room was now bathed in gloom.  And she sat there still, comforted and yet chilled by the persistant ticking of the clock.  She sat on therefore for what seemed a very long time, and suddenly she started.  Had she heard it, really and truly?  She sat very still again and listened.  Ding-a-ling-a-ling, ding-a-ling-a-ling!  It was her bell!  It was her bell.
 

-------------------- 

Paula's story

She lived a quiet life, in a stone cottage in a small village in the French countryside.  She lived alone, but she wasn’t lonely. Her days were full: gardening, canning fruit from the trees in her small orchard, reading, listening to music, visiting with neighbors, trying new recipes in her small but well-equipped kitchen.

 

I guess one could say that she didn’t really live alone. She had three dogs, Labrador retrievers all. They were littermates, born to her sweet companion Rosie, who had died of complications after the birth of her pups. In her grief, she found she couldn’t give up Rosie’s babies, so she kept them all. She named them in alphabetical order of their birth. Albert was the oldest, followed by Belle, and finally, the smallest, with the finest name: Cesar.

 

One evening in winter, with the sun setting behind the hills across the valley, she had just settled in front of the fire with her book and a cup of tea when there was a knock at the door. She was startled; she wasn’t expecting anyone; amid the winter’s nighttime chill, villagers tended to stay indoors by their own fires. The dogs lying on the rug at her feet were startled as well, and began a great cacophony of sound. Above their yips and yelps, she could barely hear the knocking, which continued, persistent and powerful.

 

She sighed.

 

“Albert!” she cried. “Stop that infernal barking!”

“Lie down, Cesar. Lie down, now! I won’t tell you again.”

 

She set down her book, threw her blanket aside, and stood, gazing down at the third dog, a veritable clone of her mother, Rosie. She sighed again.

 

“Let’s go see who’s at the door, Belle.”

-------------------------------------------------------

Tina's story 

THE DOOR BELL.At long last, Steve has gone to football, and the kids have gone to the mall, so it’s my time now, time to take it easy, I have run a beautiful bath with lots of bubbles, lit my candles, and as an extra treat, I bought myself my favourite chocolates. Oh how I have waited for this, so here goes, hanging my old dressing gown next to my husband’s eyes only negligee, I slowly lower myself in, oh how wonderful, and am I going to enjoy this.So I am laying there, popping a chocolate now and again, relaxing beautiful, then, what happens, the door bell rings, what the, no, no, I am not getting out of my bath, so I go back to relaxing.It didn’t seem any time that had gone by, then, yes, it was that B door bell again, now I am getting annoyed, but I keep saying to myself, no I am not getting out, just go away.So here I go again, but this time I was just dropping off, when, I don’t think I have to tell you what happened, that’s it I say shouting, if it’s the blasted kids from up the road, I will not be held responsible for what I might do.I stepped out, well nearly jumping out of my bath, grabbed my dressing gown, and stormed down the stairs, shouting, ok, ok, I am coming for gods sake.I got to the door swinging open saying what do you want?Looking straight ahead, to my horror, there stood our local priest, he then with a screeching voice and the paper that was in his hand, now covering his face, and moving backwards down the pathway, saying, oh Mrs Oliver, I will call again, hopefully at a better time, I am so very sorry, for disturbing you, ah ah, good day to you, turned, then started to run down the road. Well, what was that all about I said to myself, I have never know the like, and I got out off my lovely bath for that? what the heck. Shutting the door, and taking out the batteries from the door bell, I turned around and started back to my, probably not so warm bath, muttering, all I wanted was time to myself, no kids, and no husband, asking for this, and asking where is my? and what’s for dinner mum?, I know, I know, it’s was a big ask, really ?As I am walking along the landing, I glanced at the big mirror on the wall, then coming to a stop, I took a couple of steps back to look properly, oh no, oh no, I didn’t, did I, oh yes you did, and there facing me was the horror that might give me nightmares for life, yes I did, you know what I did don’t you, not funny, but yes I did, instead of putting on my old dressing gown, I had grabbed my for my husband’s eyes only,negligee. The poor Priest I don’t think that I will be able to go to church ever again, but not only that, I would have to explain to my husband why, panic set in, and my head started spinning with what I could say.Needless to say I never got back to my bath, I dried myself off, got dressed, went downstairs, into the kitchen, and poured my self a very large glass of wine, then just sat in the front room, waiting for doomsday, when I would have to tell all.So ladies, if you are going to take a bath, two things you should check on, one make sure there is somebody else is in the house so they can answer the B door bell, two,if you are in the house on your own, take the batteries out of the door bell. And never say you were not warned, hahaha.Oh yes, before I go, I will tell you what happened when I told hubby, and at church.As I was telling hubby what happened, he had his back to me, and his shoulders started to shake, oh darling, I am so sorry, please don’t cry, I said, it won’t happen again, I will be more careful, please, please, stop crying, I love you. And as he turned around, me shaking, I saw that he was not crying, he was B laughing, and he laughed and laughed, and we ended up on the setteelaughing and crying together, oh what a great husband I have.The day came to go to church, I knew that I would have to go, but I was absolutely terrified, but all went well, the priest, smiled at my husband, who winked at him and smiled back, me, we just grinned and let out a little chuckle.All was well, and life moves on. Don’t forget now ladies, you have been warned,Take care.

 

 

Annemarie's story 

Doorbells

Well, my first house  didn’t have a doorbell. I inherited from my parents an ancient  Tudor house with an elderly but  venerable oak door. The oak is silver-grey with age and in times past it had been  lime-waxed as was the tradition to protect wood from inclement, or clement, weather and wood-boring insects. An antique Italian bronze knocker guards the grizzled oak entrance, a knocker of majestic size which my parents bought on a whim at the Porta Petesa flea market during their Roman holiday, ooh, it must be at least seventy odd years ago. I always found it quite frightening as a child - the green man, I think they call the design. Huge, thick eyebrows tilted upwards, frowning in anger; below his moustache (which as a child I always thought resembled two blobs of snot from his nose) he holds, between bared bronze teeth, a huge bronze ring as big as his face. No ears or hair but instead leaves sprout in all directions from around his face.

Now when I arrive home I love his familiar face, almost black in the crevices and burnished golden ochre on the bumpy bits. 

  In the back garden, however, it was impossible to hear the knocker so my greenman knocker had a second-in-command in the form of a bell with a Westminster chime. I live on busy road at the bottom of the hill and I cannot tell you how often that doorbell chimed it’s dings and dongs and I hurried to the front door, trowel in hand, treading mud into the carpet and scattering weeds over the floor, only to find door salesmen with kitchen products, any number of people collecting for this, that and the other or someone wanting a few minutes to chat about God. 'Trick or treat' night the chimes rang out non-stop (oh! the bells, the bells, Esmeralda!). It was so much easier for the hawkers etc. to target our road than walk up the steep uphill roads.

   After a brief flirtation with a doorbell that burst into ebullient birdsong and sent my three cats scattering in excited expectation around the house, I decided to have the latest vision, no, I  think they are called video, doorbells installed. I was recommended an electrician who has recently moved into the same road, a little further down from me and, coincidentally, was who busy updating the neighbourhood with these new vision, I mean video, doorbells.

  Jeff, the electrician, has been here this afternoon poking out the old defunct bell, drilling careful holes in the doorframe, sticking wires through and fitting my new doorbell. I meantime  have whiled away the time in the kitchen doing some baking, listening to the local radio station; I do like local radio; being on my own I like the mix of chat, music and news - it's as if there is someone with you and I sing along with old favourites.

  It's getting dark and Jeff has finished fitting my new video doorbell. He explains the workings of the bell, how I can get a signal on my mobile phone, even if I am out somewhere, in the garden or out shopping and I can see  who exactly  is lurking outside my home. Now, he says, I  can lock myself and feel safe and stop treading soil all through the the house

Afterwards I  sit companionably at the kitchen table getting to know Jeff, my newest neighbour, over a cup of tea and slice of home-baked Victoria  sponge, radio playing in the background when the music is interrupted with a newsflash.

“What's Boris up to now?” sighs Jeff

“ We interrupt this broadcast with new information regarding the attacks on elderly women in the region. They all lived alone and had recently all had new video doorbells fitted…

 

---------------------------------------------------------------------

 

THE DOOR BELL

 

 by Geraldine

They  all felt so cosy sitting around the fire place that Christmas Eve !

They had come back from church and Eileen had prepared sausage rolls and mince pies that they had eaten together.  Michaël, the father had congratulated his son James and his daughter Jane for having decorated the house so beautifully and for having done so well at school during the first term.

-       Thank you Daddy.  Do you think Santa Claus will appreciate and be generous, asked James ?

-       And do you think he’ll bring me the animal farm I’ve been wanting so long added Jane ?

-       I don’t know said Eileen, but you sure are nice kids and have done everything the right way this year !  So, He should take this into account !

The two children had made paper bows with red and green crepe paper and their Mum had helped them hang them to the ceiling.  They had then placed silver Christmas balls all along the tinsel. It was magical !

Then, they had put up the crib on the mantelpiece.  An old shoe box had been painted green, then covered with fir branches and Jane had drawn , cut-out and painted gold a 5 branch star to put at the top of the crib’s roof : this would guide the Three Kings with their presents to the new born baby.  A  bit of straw had been placed in the middle of the crib and they had layed Jesus on it : behind, the ox and the donkey were set close enough so as their breathing would keep the baby warm.  On each side, stood Mum and Dad, Joseph and Mary, exhausted but happy that, beware, the circumstances, their child would live and grow. 

Michaël and Eileen had bought a rather imposing Christmas tree, and there, again, the children had decorated it with glittering tree lights and tinsel from top to bottom.  On top, of course, they had put another star, made by James this time.  Then, the Christmas balls were hung up as well as silver painted fir cones.  It was superb !

-       Well, children, after this lovely evening it’s time for bed now.  Let’s just sing another Carroll and get sleeping fast : it’s almost midnight, time for someone’s visit soon.

-        

« Jingle bells, Jingle bells, jingle all the way

O what fun it is to ride in a one-horse open sleigh,

 Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way

O what fun it is to ride….. »

Dring, dring, the door bell rang…..

They all jumped,  wondering who that could  be, in the middle of the night. 

Eileen told Michaël : «  don’t open without making sure who it is ! »

Michaël got up briskly, and started  walking slowly towards the main door.  Then he looked through the keyhole.  All he could see was and old shaby raincoat, but he couldn’t really make up who this could be.  He turned towards the family and said : « I don’t know who it is ! Maybe someone got lost ! »

«  O !  maybe it’s dangerous to open to a stranger ! What do you think ? »

« I think it’s snowy and cold out there and if somebody needs help we should give a shelter and listen to what he wants »

At that moment, the door bell rang again, not as loudly as the first time, as if the person on the other side was hesitant.

Michaël quickly made up his mind : No evil on Christmas Eve.  This must be serious.  And he opened the door.

There, in the snow, stood  an old lady, shivering, dressed in a warn out raincoat, with torn light shoes.  Her face was long and sad and her white hair looked yellowish in contrast to the snowy landscape.

« Can I help you ? »  You look very cold and tired.  Come in for a little rest and comfort »

-       Children, time for bed.  Up you go now !   James and Jane looked bewildered at the old Lady, kissed their Mum and Dad and ran upstairs.

Then Michaël and Eileen made some tea which they offered the old lady with a few mince pies.

« How come you are out and lost at this time !  Where are you from ? What’s your name ?

Oh !  this is a long story ! Just call me Maam !  But I’m feeling warmer and better now.  And what a lovely Christmas atmosphere here in your house !  It reminds me of the old days when I used to help him through the night.

« Help who ?  What did you do at night ? And why are you alone now ?

Maam had tears in her eyes and  looked so terribly sad.  Michaël and Eileen really didn’t know what to do. 

« Would you like to sleep here for the night ?  We have an extra bedroom down here, the Blue room,  behind the kitchen.  You could recover from the cold and  you would certainly feel better tomorrow morning.

« Oh ! no, I can’t accept such an offer.  I’ll be bothering you tomorrow morning when the children will get up all excited and wanting to see their presents ! »

« If that’s you’re only reason not to accept, don’t worry.  Our children will be happy whatever happens !  So, Eileen, are there any sheets on the bed ?  Yes, Michaël, the bed is always ready, just in case ! »

So they showed Maam to her room and the bathroom, made sure she was all right and delicately went upstairs to their own room for the night.

The next morning, the children woke up very early and all excited when they saw the smaller and bigger boxes under the tree.  They were already playing with the little yoyo and ball they had found in their stocking.

When Eileen and Michaël got up, they went straight to the kitchen hoping Maam had slept well and there, on the table, they found this little note written in a febrile handwriting :

 

« THANK YOU FOR YOUR WARMTH AND HOSPITALITY « I’LL BE OK NOW !

« When HE found me here, he decided to take me back (after a 20 year separation he wanted to divorce, I didn’t)  and I’ll be delivering the toys with HIM to all the good children. »

They saw a signature, difficult to decipher at first, but looking at it closer  they read : Mrs Santa Claus.

 

---------------------------------------------------

Jackie

The doorbell

I could feel his hot breath on my neck.     For sure he was gaining on me.   His feet pounding the road behind were kicking up gravelly bits,  stones and sand that stung my legs and whizzed past my ears .       From the corner of my eye I could see his emerald green coat – he seemed to have a large head with gold eyes flecked with orange and the flamingo pink flames coming out of his mouth warmed me up a little as it was cold. The dragon was larger than life and chasing me down my own street.  

I was running as fast as I could,  just like a chicken about to be beheaded in fact,  but I managed to check on his progress from time to time – trying at the same time to manoeuver big cracks in the pavement and avoid a grossly overweight black bear with a trilby hat who appeared from time to time at a crossroads.   I think it was a Grisly bear as it seemed to have grey hair coming out of a large nose and runny eyes – probably of a certain age.   He looked a little like my grandma.

  The bear was reading a book, I could just read the title that had my name written on the front – oh I thought I’m famous,  my novel has been published at last.  

My shoes felt several sizes too big, seemed heavy and full of water as I was almost floating in them – if I bent down I could perhaps learn to swim.   But then, I didn’t have my swimsuit with me.

 I could of kicked off my shoes but the stones or the chewing gum on the pavement (that people seem to spit out with no regard for other peoples bare feet or shoed feet for that matter )– would stick and prevent me from running away from this monster with wings and incredible crimson claws.    A dragon who painted his nails?

I was running but something was slowing me down – the effort of moving my legs didn’t seem to bring any results – I wasn’t able to move, my muscles were tied together in knots and it was such a feat to get them to unfold.

  We came to a black hole and I started to fall –clutching branches and grasses in vain as it seemed a long way down.     This would stump the dragon I thought as I was tumbling several feet downwards,  he’ll give up the chase now.    There was a strong smell of the sea – the iodine and seaweed smell from past summer holidays.    

Perhaps I’d find a forgotten bucket and spade on the seashore and make a big enormous sandcastle that the dragon and I could live happily ever after in.    I’m going to see the sea I sang but joy soon ended as I realized it was cliff rocks I was falling onto and sharp ones at that.    The grisly fell first then the dragon and being heavier was broken into a thousand pieces on the rocks  – purple blood stained foam gushed in and out with the tide causing the fish to dive straight to the bottom of the seabed frightened out of their fishy wits.     

One of the larger fish opened his mouth and as I tried to detach a hook from his fin attached to an annoying bell that kept on ringing he tried to swallow me whole like in the movie Jaws and as I was travelling down the tunnel of his throat …

the doorbell rang and I woke up.

The Naked Man

PAULA's Story

The naked man stood at the window, high above the village square where the weekly market was in full swing. No one below paid him much mind; he stood there every Saturday for a few minutes just before noon. You could practically set your watch by him.

 

Meanwhile, in the busy square below, Mathilde was busy at her family’s booth, stacked with colorful jars of homemade jams and jellies and compotes. As usual, she wore a yellow gingham apron over her jeans and pullover, her auburn hair swept up and caught in a barrette. As she made change for one customer, another walked up to peruse her offerings. 

 

This customer, a man, was a few years older than Mathilde, perhaps in his early 60s. He wore a thick wool plaid shirt tucked neatly into his jeans. His cropped gray hair framed a nice face, Mathilde thought, a face that had been places and seen things. Laugh lines around his eyes, creases at the corners of his mouth. A kind face, she thought.

 

She caught his eye, and he smiled. A nice smile, too, she thought. “Have you any raspberry?” he asked. “Yes, certainly,” she replied, and gestured toward the jars at one end of the table. He chose one and handed it to her. “Thank you,” he said. “It’s been

a long time since I’ve had homemade raspberry preserves.”

 

Something else caught his eye, and he peered up, toward the man in the window. He turned to her with an amused smile. “What the heck?” he asked. “Oh,” she said, with a gentle blush. “He’s there every day around this time. He’s blind, you see, and I think he can get an idea of the weather by standing close to the window like that, so he can figure out how to dress. Plus,” she added, “I think he forgets people can see him.”

 

“Well, that makes a kind of sense,” the man said, still smiling. “By the way, my name is Jake.” Then he walked away, holding his raspberry preserves close to his chest.

 

Jake became a regular, finding her every week at the market, and as the days got colder, he would stop at the café on the corner and buy two coffees, bringing one to her. They would talk, about books, and films, and life. They became friends. 

 

One day, in early November, he arrived at her stall with two coffees, but instead of his auburn-haired beauty, there stood an old man, leaning heavily on a cane. Jake was bewildered for a minute, thinking the old man looked a bit familiar, and then it struck him. He was the naked man in the window high above the square. 

 

“Where is Mathilde?” Jake asked the old man, not naked now, clothed in a down parka and thick twill pants. “Oh, Mathilde,” the old man said. “My daughter. Why do you ask?” 

 

“Because she is my friend, and she is usually here,” Jake said, a bit confused. 

 

The old man smiled, turned, and pointed up to the window high above the square.

 

Jake looked up, and there, in the window, was Mathilde, clad in her gingham apron. Until suddenly, she wasn’t. 

 

The old man pressed a key into Jake’s hand. 

Jackie.

It all started over a bowl of spinach.    I was washing the green leaves in a bowl of water and then as I always do after rinsing well put them in my wok with olive oil and garlic to cook quickly  – the spinach remains tender and the vegetables are soft and not overdone – retaining their green parrot like color.   He, who was watching corrected me insisting that I was wrong, proclaiming that they should be thrown into several liters of boiling water  –then the soggy leafs squeezed out of their minds like old socks ….and served up as green mush looking like seaweed after the tide has gone out

The argument progressed to minor ways as to how I kept my kitchen clean, the traditions of French entertaining (you never serve spinach this way at a French dinner party)  and why did I set the table like this and not that …  and me finishing off by saying lets just check with the cookbooks and see who is right.      So as in many times before we had a bet.   

Such a silly gamble.      

Now, a bet is a dangerous thing to do with the man in my life – as he always wins – I owe many bottles of champagne, a trip to New York and a cruise in the Seychelles.      Never having the financial possibility of honoring these bets they have never materialized.   Thank God.     Once again though he launched a bet that once again seemed improbable.  

So to recapitulate:   I say spinach is pan cooked or fried in  little or no water  he says spinach is to be boiled to smitherines in a large pot of water.

If you win, which I doubt that you will, he said, I shall put up a photo of myself on Facebook and I shall be the Naked Man.    If you win you will do the same.   Horrified -  prudish me I didn’t wish to see myself naked on Facebook or any other place.

He lost –ha ha -  the next day for all to see there was indeed a picture of him naked on his facebook feed but it was slightly disappointing taken as it was from the back.

 

Annemarie's story:

The Naked Man

The chaise longue is traditional, green velvet, buttoned and very comfortable;  I lie semi-reclined propped against softly-submitting cushions  with my left arm casually draped over my knee.  Beneath  droopy lids my eyes travel down the length of my pallid, pullulating body, over the twin bulges of my flabby, faded chest from where sprout several fugitive hairs. My chest partially shelters the puckered furrows and flabby folds of my stomach. My belly sags sideways towards the outside of the green velvet, obscuring my view of my manly parts (droopy, reduced, insignificant). One long, stretched out leg, the colour an ombré of milky white to faded salmon; the other knee bent, offering support to  my pulpy white hand with its elegantly draped fingers. My feet - pale but still  strong and straight, nails hard, yellow and inclined to curl.

Without moving my head I  raise rheumy eyes to survey the forest of easels and heads bobbing up and down like so many derricks in an oilfield - looking up at me then down at their easels -  scratch, scratch, scratch, the rubbing of charcoal and pencil on countless papers, rub, rub, rub as they blur the lines. They call it a life class and me, a naked man and  nearly dead!  I briefly close my eyes and  I am transported back through the centuries to 1492 when I was just a young man.

   I am in Milan in a workshop; tables covered with drawings and plans; an intricate drawing of a dead bird with one outstretched wing; shelves bearing all manner of objects, half- sculpted heads, leather-bound books and ancient vases. There are assistants making brushes from boar’s hairs, preparing glues and grinding  pigments in marble basins,  mixing gesso, creating plaster and preparing canvases and pervading the air the smell of linseed oil and turpentine; and in a room removed, the master himself. I am his latest project. It is the first time I have modelled nude. First I must stand within a square he has constructed in his studio, my arms stretching horizontally to touch the sides. He has a string fixed from the midpoints of each side across my navel. One foot turned sideways, one pointing forwards, my head touching the top of the square, every part of my anatomy measured, calculated. Then I stand arms reaching upwards, legs apart reaching the confines of a circle. A good head of crinkly hair, a strong expressive face, well-defined muscles, sinewy robust neck, rippling carves and thighs, determined as I hold the pose. The perfect  body (so my master said) I barely recognise myself in this long-remembered reverie.

   A gentle tap on my shoulder startles; my naked flabby flesh wobbles as I take the mug of coffee proffered by a student. No, I will not peer at any of their drawings; I will remember the Renaissance days with Leonardo da Vinci and you, the world will remember the static portraits of the naked man of perfect proportions, the circle and square  superimposed and I am a moving, living man forever. 

 

Sarah's story:

 

 Naked man 4 – ("Taking control")

(08.11.2021)

 

"Hello, Mother," said Nicholas over the phone.  "Would you like to come by for dinner tonight?  We've just received a paquet of lamb from Ewan, and Mariam is going to fix some abgoosht."

"Oh, I'm sure that will be nice," his mother said.  "But tonight I'm already booked."

"Really?" Nicholas was less disappointed than surprised.  His mother didn't go out that often in the evenings.  In fact, Mariam had suggested the invitation partly to give her a change.

"I'm going out to the Naked Man."

"The what?"  He wasn't sure of having heard correctly.

"The Naked Man," she repeated.  "It's a pub, in Drayton."

"Are you sure that's the name?"

"Quite sure," she replied tartly.  "I've been there before."

After he had swallowed his second surprise, he asked, "Who are you going with?"  Perhaps he should keep a stronger control on his mother.  She was getting on in years.

"With Harvey and Alice," Catherine said.  "There's some kind of special something on tonight."

Oh well, he thought, that was all right then.  Must be pretty harmless if those two were going.  Probably some sort of seniors fête.  Mariam, when he told her, only smiled and said that she thought indeed that this was good news.

"Time she got out doing things more," she said.  "Since her accident she's been too often alone in the house of an evening."

So, although Nicholas felt in some ways he should become more of a parent to his elderly mother, he was reminded by the sight of his son Jafir that one day he would be in his mother's shoes, so to speak, and Jafir might start wanting to monitor his behaviour.  No, no, better to let things be.

 

Still, when he called his sister, to ask if she and Jake would like to come that evening to a homemade abgoosht dinner, he asked her if she knew of The Naked Man.

"The what?" she asked, just as he had done before.

"According to Mother it's a pub in Drayton.  She says she's been there before."

There was a short silence and then Ellen laughed. "Oh, that!  She's mixed up the name again—she keeps doing that lately.  She called the bookshop the Mental Block instead of the Writer's Block."

"So it does exist?"

"Yes, but it's called the Wild Man."

"Then why ...?"

But she laughed again and answered before he could finish his question.  "It's the new sign.  The old one, which was rather like a Green Man, needed replacing and the new one ... well, it's more like a gorilla except that it has the face of a man."

"And ... ?"

"Well, it has a penis in full view, and that's probably why she made the mistake."

"Good God." 

Should he ... ?  But once again, he said to himself, "Let things be."

 

A few days later he ran into a friend of his at his own regular pub. 

"Saw your mum the other night," the chap said, with a sly smile.  Oh no, he thought.  He should have taken action.  "She was having a great time," the other added.

"Er, where was that?" he asked, although he thought he knew.

"She was singing karaoke at a pub in Drayton."

"Karaoke??"  If there was anything he despised, it was that.  "Er, are you sure it was her?"  He tried to imagine it and felt the heat rising up his neck and into his cheeks.

"It was her all right.  I know your mum."

Good lord, why hadn't he taken control while he still could?

"She was really good.  Amazing, in fact.  You must be pleased your mum's still at it.  Mine does nothing but sit in front of the telly all day, and goes to bed at eight."

 

When he told Mariam, she laughed aloud.  "Good for her!" 

That made two.  Nicholas stood there, perplexed.  And if Ellen took the same stand?

"What are you thinking?" asked Mariam.  "Aren't you pleased to hear your mum's having a good time?"

He stood there still, as he did when the little cog-wheels turned in his head, shifting ideas about.  It was time to take control, of that he was sure.  But an idea was dawning and he caught hold of it before it slipped way.  After all, Jafir was already telling him he was too old to play football and that he didn't like to see his dad making a fool of himself.  Yes, he, Nicholas, definitely had to take control of the situation.  If he didn't set the right example, it would n't be long before Jafir in his turn began laying down the law.

"Absolutely!" he said, with the firmness of true conviction, as Jafir looked on with rounded eyes.  "I couldn't be more pleased!"

 

+ 786 wds