A long way away

Annemarie's contribution

A Long Way Away.

Laden with parasol, tartan rug and her book she navigated her way through the sand dunes, between dense grey-green clumps of marram grass. Already she could feel sand insinuating itself into her shoes and Simon, too close behind, her trod on her heel. Muttering to herself she could feel irritation, both physical and mental, prickling her feet and brain. This was not her idea of a holiday at all she mumbled under her breath. It had been Simon's wish to spend leisurely time on the coast. Glimpsing the beach she was dismayed how crowded it was and only midday.

'Here we are,’ said a jubilant Simon placing the picnic basket down - much too close to a family of five, thought Helen.

On the hot gritty sand she spread out the tartan rug, remarking how worn it was, threadbare and lacking wool like a scraggly cat, ribs showing through mottled fur. The sand would probably come through it. Parasol stuck firmly in the sand, she shrugged off her outer clothes. She lay down on the rug and surveyed her body, the disagreeable bulges of middle age yet another disappointment. She jerked her eyes away and jealously admired two young women turning their  bronzing, oil-slicked, slender bodies like two chickens in an oven perfecting the ideal golden roast.

The children, a bare four feet from them, squealed with delight as they ran up and down fetching water for their sandcastle, which with screams of joy they promptly destroyed. She shut her ears to the noise. It was  their first weekend away since he’d come out of hospital and she was determined to be little kinder to him, aware of her brusque, sometimes sharp-ongued treatment of Simon.

She arranged the picnic she’d specially prepared - asparagus flan, roast beef baguette (organic meat from a local farmer) and tomato salad (from their own home-grown heritage tomatoes). Simon meanwhile opened the bottle of Frascati wine which she watched glug-glugging into the glasses.

    She began to relax, savouring the crisp, citrusy taste of the wine, when a rowdy group of teenagers chased each other, thudding along the beach, barely missing Simon and Helen. She said nothing. She tried to ignore the abrasive crunch in the asparagus tart. She gritted her teeth (was that the sand?) as she bit into the beef baguette. And in the tomato salad - was that Himalayan salt mined from the Punjab region of Pakistan or was that sand sprinkled from the soles of passing strangers?

She sighed and wiping off as much sand as possible from her body, sand which had crept in and secreted itself almost everywhere, she picked up her book. The day was turning out as badly as she’d imagined

“I’ve blown the lounger up for you,” Simon puffed. “I'm going to have a short snooze; why don’t you have a swim and a float,” he suggested. His face was red, whether from the sun or from blowing up the plastic lounger, she wasn’t sure but she grudgingly grasped the lilo and with her book protected in a plastic bag she approached the waters edge and gingerly climbed aboard. Plastic bag balanced on her stomach she back stroked her way over the waves,  away from the other swimmers. She extracted her book and lay on her back for a leisurely, peaceful read which quickly evolved into a sun-induced slumber. She was awoken by a splash of cold water, a rogue wave swamping the inflatable. Surrounded by shimmering waves she shielded her eyes against the afternoon sun; but where was the beach? How long had she dozed? Why had Simon not missed her?   She licked her salty, crusty lips and tried to shout for help but her throat was dry with fear. At the same time she frantically tried to bale out seawater with her damp book. She stared in all directions and as her eyes acclimatised to the bright sun she could just about see the faint hazy blue outline of a coast…a long way away, a very long way away.

Sarah's story

A long way away  4  (the brother-in-law)

Yes, he remembered the last time he had seen her.  In her house—it used to be "their" house, hers and his brother's, but now his brother was dead—and for some reason he had gone to see her.  A bad choice.  He remembered the teacup she had served him his tea in.  He had lifted it to his lips and then just looked at her.  She had looked back, not getting it.  So he had explained to her, "It's chipped."  She had given him a look of such scorn that he knew exactly what she was thinking: "I'm not inviting you back here again." 
"Fine," he had thought.  "I certainly don't intend to come back anyway."
He knew that her children didn't care for him.  Ostensibly it was because he hadn't been at his brother's funeral.  He had flown home and had been there when Richard passed away, but then he had had to get back; it wasn't his fault the man took so long to die.  At the time he was still working, and Indonesia was a long way away.  Now he was retired and home again in his birth country, with his Indonesian wife; they even lived in the seaside town he and his brothers and cousins had spent all their childhood holidays in.  When his parents had died twenty years ago he had taken the old house there on the coast, for his retirement, leaving the apartment in town to the youngest brother Robert, who preferred that; Richard, by his own choice, had taken the investments and with the money bought the old house in the country where his widow Anne was living now.  His widow.  Roger felt a certain smug sense of triumph: he was older than Richard, but his wife wasn't a widow.
He and his wife saw nobody.  Several cousins and their children still had summer places there and even came out sometimes in the off season, but they did not "'frequent each other".  There were times when they passed each other in the street without saying "hello".  They did not even invite him to their mother's funeral--his aunt, after all.  Anne had attended, he heard, and with one of her children to boot.  He, Roger, had got the news only two days after the funeral, on a printed announcement.  He and they were the only members of his generation left; the others were already dead.  Except Anne.
And now she was on the news again.  About to publish a new book.  He had vaguely followed the list of books that had come out in the past years.  One was billed as "a family history" and that had caught his suspicious interest.  "She'd better not write about our family," he had thought and had actually gone out and bought it.  He never went farther than the first ten pages and the table of contents, however, because it was about the other side of the family: hers.
But this time it was "the story of a marriage."  Oh boy, he'd get her this time.  He read the description; it certainly sounded like their family, or at least, his brother's marriage.  He read down farther and saw you could order it online.  It was pre-publication, so you wouldn't get it for another two months.  But he'd get it, and read it, and then he'd attack her in court.
Two months later the postwoman rang the bell at a holiday cottage on the coast.  She rang twice and no-one came.  As she stood there wondering, a neighbour came out of his front door and spoke to her.
"Er, ah," he said.  "There's nobody there.  The owner died last week and was buried two days ago.  His wife, er, his widow, has gone back to her own country."
"Well," said the postwoman, "the book's paid for.  There's no point in sending it back to the publisher.  Why don't you take it?"
The man, whose name was Gilbert, accepted the package with thanks.  Then, as he was retired, he sat down in an armchair and opened the book.  After half an hour or so he called to his wife, "Say, Christine, you should read this.  It has some rather crusty things to say about our ex-neighbour."  She came in and he read her out a passage and they both laughed.  Then Gilbert settled down for a most enjoyable day's reading.

 

 

Patrice's story

Long ago and long, long away  (Minford Place)

 

The first apartment I remember, and I can’t say if it is really a memory or something I’ve cobbled together from stories and photograhs from childhood, is the apartment on Minford Place, just a few blocks from Crotona Park in The Bronx, New York.

 

It was a large building surrounded by an iron work fence.  There were Four O’Clocks planted around the outside that I remember blooming with little yellow flowers late in the day.  There is a photograph of me in a playsuit with a pinafore top surrounded with a lacy ruffle.  The bottom is not much more than something to keep the diaper in place with ruffles on the butt. I am holding the railing with my right hand and I think I am about 16 months old.  The look on my face is one that I have been burdened with my entire life.  I am staring at the camera, my mouth slightly open with a wary look in my eyes.  I know it was my father who took the picture with an old Pentax bought – or perhaps liberated – from the PX.

 

There is another photograph, taken around the same time, of my brother Gary, not much older than me but past the toddler stage, hanging onto a tree, his mouth wide open, yelling.  I’m sure it was taken at Crotona Park – part of a series. 

There is another one of me with my mother sitting on a blanket in the grass, me laying on the blanket beside her.  I am younger in that picture – but I think I can still see that look of wariness. 

 

These photos are all black and white, though I know the dress my mother is wearing is a blue silk one she bought before she left for the States.  I swiped it from her when I was a teenager and felt gorgeous in it.

 

My parents met in West Berlin, post World War II.  My mother was 17 or 18 years old-my father an American Army soldier who had escaped Germany with his Jewish family in 1941.  My father was a boisterous rebellious character.  For the older son of a middle class Jewish family to join the military was frowned upon.  But his good German and American citizenship served the military well and I think the discipline – as much as he paid attention to it – served my father well.

 

The story they told once the dust of their divorce had settled enough for them to be in the same room and for them to tell stories, was that my father was having coffee on Unter de Linden Strasse and my mother was walking along, window shopping.  She was noticeably pretty, with strawberry blonde hair, blue eyes.  My father wolf whistled and made a crack in English.  She responded in English and that was the beginning.  He was everything my great-grandmother would hate: American, of German descent, in the military, he would take my mother away – perfect.

--

Patrice A. Naparstek
GypsyDog.info

 

 Paula's contribution

The writing group luncheon was in full swing: wine glasses shimmering around the table, forks lifting to eager mouths, gossip and so much more being shared, a slight breeze ruffling the seemingly casual yet perfect hairdos of the women gathered on the terrace to share food and friendship. As the meal wound down, cheese and then dessert dispensed with, the stories began. Wine glasses refreshed, one by one, the five women read their interpretations of that month’s theme. And as usual, each story was completely  different from the one read before; each story was a wondrous and imaginative rendering stemming from a prompt of just a few words.

 

When the stories had been told, and the praise had died down, it was time to determine the host of the next meeting, and most importantly, the theme. A few ideas were thrown out, but the group could not decide. Finally, someone had the idea of writing each idea on a piece of paper, and putting that paper in front of Eve, who ceremoniously closed her eyes and jabbed her finger onto the page, choosing one of the ideas jotted down.

 

A long way away. 

 

That would be the theme for the next month’s stories.

 

Well, Paula thought, we aren’t meeting again until October 17^th. That’s a long way away. I don’t have to think about this for a good long while. Of course, Paula, whose background was in daily journalism, usually wrote her story on deadline, often the day before the monthly meeting,  sometimes even the morning of. And they usually turned out ok.

 

Jackie, musing on the theme, which was one of her ideas, after all, decided she would have a good long think about what she would write about. She very much enjoyed reflecting on such things as she worked in her studio every day, creating lovely pieces of art.

 

Sarah, walking home across the village after lunch, already had five ideas in mind, and immediately sat down at her computer to begin. By the end of the day, she had written six stories. And so many more ideas were dancing about in her head.

 

Patrice had to think about this. A long way away, she thought. Well, that could be almost anything, couldn’t it? She decided she would sleep on it; something would magically come to her, as things usually did. Besides, she had a habit of ignoring the theme and writing whatever the hell she wanted to, anyway.

 

Annemarie, who was not able to attend the lunch, learned of the theme via the group email that went out after the luncheon, and thought, “Bollocks! A long way away? Whatever shall I write about?” But then she turned her attention to the meal she was making for friends that evening, and she knew that she would eventually find exactly the right words and feelings to create a beautiful story. But not today; she was much too busy.

 

Geraldine, who was traveling and so missed the lunch, read the email with the next month’s theme, and wondered, “What in the world? Oh, well, I’ll come up with something. I always do.” And it would be topical and probably frightening, because Geraldine was the moral center of the group.

 

Eve, driving home from her first writing group luncheon in months, didn’t give it a thought, because she was unlikely to write anything at all. She was just happy to have been enveloped in the love and care of these women she had come to know so well. 

 

And at the appointed day and hour of the next writing group luncheon, each woman arrived with their stories in hand, eager to share a meal with friends, to share what they had written, and, more importantly, to share that camaraderie that exists only among people who have a common passion and a common purpose: in this case, putting words on paper to express thoughts and feelings and imaginings without fear of ridicule or criticism. It is, truly, a lovely way to spend an afternoon.

 

 

Geraldine

October 17th 22

It’s a long way away, said the spider to her two new born babies who were looking at the ceiling where they lived, hoping to be able to cross it to the other side for more food catching !

 

It’s a long way away said the hedghog to her husband who wanted to change to the garden on the other side of the road, and so many of us get killed by fast cars when we attempt the journey !

 

It’s a long way away thought the cat who had been displaced by the family who didn’t care to keep him any longer as a pet and wasn’t quite sure he’d be able to find his way back home for another try to seduce them, as he really loved the house and surroudings.

 

Its a long way away to run out of reach of the hunters thought the boar, dashing through the woods at a supersonic speed to keep alive !

 

It’s a long way away one these slippery stones,  said the horse to his wife as they were taking four people for a run in the carriage between the Opera and the Eiffel Tower !

 

It’s a long way away said the salmon as he went to start his trip to spawn on the other side of the ocean !

 

It’s a long way away sniffed the Afghan Hound at the start line when he discovered how long the race would be and remembered he was there to win it !

 

It’s a long way away to walk to school moaned Albert as his parents, aware of environment problems, suggested he would now walk the kilometer between home and school and this would also be very good for his health and would help him grow into a nice independant person !

 

It’s a long way away to go on the college trip to Florence, thought Emily, as their teacher explained to them how they would travel there by bus, crossing the Channel, then France, then through the Alps (highest mountains in Europe !) and finally down the Italian motorway !

It’s a long way away, thought Richard, as he was planning a 4th year University exchange to finish his Degree in California, Silicone Valley, hoping for an interesting job and life after the experience !

 

It’s a long way away to sail around the world thought Amanda when her beloved husband said he needed a break from home and was planning a round trip on his friend’s small sailing boat !

 

It’s a long way away to reach the moon, thought Armstrong as he stepped into the rocket with his pal wondering if they would ever get there and step on the satellite !

 

What about reaching Mars in the near future ?  Is it such a long way a way and will mankind have to consider the possibility of reaching another planet to save itself from destruction ?  After all, Planet Earth would really be better off without us !  And who knows, maybe this alternative is not that far anymore…

 ______________________________

Jackie

 

A long way away

Smoke flies were starting to bite me.   I could feel them creeping up my long sleeved shirt and leaping onto my neck, biting my ankles and jumping onto my hair.   They were tiny,  jumping like fleas but slightly bigger.

I had time to observe them as the service truck coming to pick up my broken down car wasn’t scheduled for another ¾ of an hour.     The sun was hot, boiling hot and I couldn’t shelter in my car as it was parked on the off bay just off the autoroute.  This was the main toll road going West of Lyon towards the Dordogne.    I lent against the shade of the telephone post and prayed someone would answer.

Hallo – vous etes en panne?      Yes, I cried please help.

As I scrutinized the horizon amid pounding trucks, caravans and hooting Saturday voyageurs on their way to or back from their holidays I hoped that the depanneur who was coming to save me would twist his magic wand and the car would start again and I’d be on my way.   It was 11:30 and I’d left home at 8:45 hoping to be at my destination of 650 kms from home  by 4pm.    a holiday much looked forward to and booked way back in January and much deserved to my mind.     

I waited safely on the other side of the crash barrier surrounded by the smell of burnt grass and shrubs which was very strong.   I imagined the fires that had been happening all through the summer in the West of France had got to here – and the worst of the worst I’d be smoked out by the still fuming grass sides of this autouroute n° 71.

 

The fix it man arrived – hooked me up and had my car on the back of his truck in a flash.   Aren’t you going to look at the engine I naievley asked?    What, with this traffic, Madame are you mad have you seen how fast they are going and how dangerous it is.     look just ahead how lucky you were not to have been caught out in the tunnel – then I saw the sign of the tunnel of 1,5 kms long just up ahead.     What a nightmare that would have been to have been caught slowing in a long tunnel.   

The garage he took me too was , well I’m not sure where.   In a small village and of course was a Renault garage.   Oh no, we can’t repair VW’s here you’ll have to wait until Monday and its now 12:30 on a Saturday and we don’t open on Saturday  afternoons.        Can’t you just look I said check the oil, water?  I said hopefully.     No we’re only authorized to look at Renault he declared.    But, he and his wife did very kindly offer to put me up for the night.   I declined gracefully.   

So, the insurance company

Sent a taxi to get me to the nearest Hertz rent a car – he took 1 hour to get to me and 1 hour to get to wherever it was.    The young lady in the Hertz rent a car office told me that sadly the only thing she had left on her books to lend me was a Jumpy van you know the type with no windows in the back and just side mirrors.      I said that I had another 450 kms to do and had never driven a van before – she jangled her diamond covered wrists , flicked her blonde hair over her shoulder and said ;  “Madame, have confidence in yourself”.     Cheeky soul I thought as I climbed in trying to set the GPS.

I did arrive at my destination but only at 9:30 pm. And it was pitch black.

 On the way I must have touched the navigation screen and switched it to little roads and not the motorway.    So I did the 450 kms on tiny switchback roads and pretty villages where you had to slow down to 30kms. An hour.       The place I was going was impossible to find in the dark.   I went round and round having to u-turn the monster van in and out of mistaken roads and paths.    I rang my hostess and she came to get me.   Relief.     I was shown to a lovely room with my own bathroom – I had booked a cheaper room with shared bathroom but the person had desisted at the last minute so I was in luxury.       The other retreaters were already seated at the dinner table (they had waited for me)   how kind … and I had an amazing dinner and welcome by everyone.    

The next morning I broke the coffee pot spilling boiling coffee down my thigh then  after having rinsed out my linen pants put them on and they promptly split right up the bum.        This has got to stop I thought ..so from then on I moved very slowly, picking up cups with extreme caution, making sure I did not fall down steps or break my leg or such …. Can you imagine!   No I can’t.   The holiday was wonderful, the ladies amazing and I stitched my heart away for 6 whole days.    The swimming pool was to die for and I highly recommend a holiday like this but if you are driving do check that the rodents haven’t chewed up your wires under the motor of the car.

 

The Greenhouse

 Paula's story

We are a very Catholic family. That’s an important detail for you to know, because it informs every decision that came afterward.

 

My name is Maya O’Malley. I am 13 years old. And in the course of one day, my understanding of my world changed forever. 

 

I come from a big Irish Catholic family. I am the youngest of five; my older brothers and sisters are each two years apart, then there’s a five-year gap, then me. My dad has six siblings, so I have aunts, uncles and cousins almost too numerous to count. Although we are scattered across the country, we are together at every family wedding and funeral, during holidays, and summertime reunions every other year at one of my uncle’s place in Nova Scotia, up in Canada. 

 

Of all the many, many members of my family, my absolute favorite is my cousin May. She’s a lot  older than me, and she is just the coolest. She’s single, and she lives in a loft apartment like you’d see on Instagram or something. She’s a senior analyst at a big investment firm — whatever that means — but she says that’s just to pay the bills. In her spare time she creates the most beautiful collages out of fabrics and ribbons and bits of things she finds, well, I don’t know where she finds all the stuff that she uses to create her art. She is starting to be recognized by local art galleries — she has had a few exhibitions — and I just know she is going to be a famous artist one day. I want to be just like her when I grow up. 

 

Anyway, one summer afternoon, I was home doing a whole lot of nothing — isn’t summer wonderful? — when May came to the house, looking a little out of sorts. She said she was fine, but her hello kiss was a little distracted, and instead of talking to me as she always does, full of questions about my latest crush or what I’ve been doing lately, she just asked, “Where’s your mom?”

 

I told her Mom was out puttering around in the greenhouse, checking her roses and no doubt cooing to her plants. My mom can be weird that way.

 

May disappeared out the back door, and I walked out onto the back terrace to watch as she walked down the path to the greenhouse, then greeted my mom. The two of them hugged, talked, but then they cried, hugged some more, sat down, then talked a long time. By then, I was curious but bored, so I went back inside, and upstairs to my room to read the latest murder mystery in a series set in the Dordogne region of France. I’m going to go there one day!

 

At some point, May must have left, because Mom came into the house, came upstairs, stuck her head in my room and asked me if there was anything special I wanted for dinner. I asked for her homemade Mac and cheese, my favorite.

 

Later that night, long after dinner was over and the kitchen was cleaned, Mom and Dad came into my room. “There’s something you need to know,” Dad said quietly, taking my desk chair, as Mom sat down on the bed next to me.

 

And here’s what they told me:

 

My cousin May was raped when she was 15 years old. Amid all the trauma of that event, she and her parents decided together that she would have the baby and put it up for adoption, because, well, that’s what good Catholics do.  That’s when one of May’s uncles and his wife asked if they could adopt the baby, keep it in the family, raise it as their own child, give it all the love it deserved. May and her parents, not really too surprised at this display of generosity and faith and family strength, happily agreed.

 

About a month before the baby was born, the man accused of raping May went on trial, and my cousin May testified against him. Eight months pregnant, she took the stand in the courtroom, and in a strong and clear voice, identified the man at the defense table as the man who attacked her that night, months ago. It didn’t take long for the jury to convict him and send him to prison.

 

Soon afterward, May’s baby was born, a little girl who had so much O’Malley in her — her eyes, her wide smile, her thick, dark hair —that her new parents could hardly believe it. She took her place in the family, a sweet and happy child who grew tall and strong and smart.

 

Twelve years later — just two days ago! — the man was paroled from prison, and immediately tracked down my cousin May. He called her, and threatened to find the child and tell it the awful secret of its birth, but said he would stay silent if May came up with several thousand dollars.

 

My Irish Catholic family closed ranks. There was no awful secret: every birth is a miracle, and this one was no different. And blackmail is blackmail: it would never end. So the family decided to call the rapist’s bluff, report the attempted blackmail to the police, send the man back to jail, and tell the child the story themselves, in their own way.

 

And that’s how I found out that my adored cousin May is actually my mother, my parents are my aunt and uncle, my siblings are my cousins, my other aunt and uncle are my grandparents.

 

So I ask you dear listeners, to put yourself in my place. Does this change anything? Does it change everything?

 

 _________________________________________

Jackie's story - based on a conversation I overheard in a café in Dijon some time ago.   Where is he? I can’t imagine  why he’s not here Did you see the time? He said he’d be here at midday and its well past Yes, almost 5 minutes past now Where could he be Where is he? He should be here by now I asked him what time he’d come And he said at midday So where could he be then I don’t know, perhaps he went to see his mother Yes she must be in quite a state After what happened Something awful, so terrible that... I can’t imagine anything worse Do you think he s forgotten to come No he never forgets anything His father called him   “elephant boy” his memory was so good Well then where can he be Did she find out what really happened? She must have done,  with all the police and enquires and everything After 50 years of marriage she must be feeling quite lost Wouldn’t you? Yes, I guess so, and such unusual circumstances That’s for sure It was in the newspapers you know No I didn’t know My neighbour showed me the article And I cried when I read it Pass it over I’d like to read it too Oh dear,  what a tragedy So awful …. That’s why I’m wondering where could he be? I hope he doesn’t do anything silly Where is he? Can you look outside to see if he’s coming down the road No nothing yet I just wonder what is going on Such terrible news especially as they wanted one so badly His mother always had it on her wish list, but never expected one and then that to happen Boom ! – Just like that His father was inside and keeping himself busy Very sudden it was – I guess life is like that one day you’re here and the next ….gone! When did they say it happened? just the other day An accident?      No – a bolt of lightening came out of the blue  –  struck during the storm and everything  exploded with the force of it – scattering the roof into tiny shards and started a fire … Completely destroyed it was What ? Well the greenhouse of course His mothers new greenhouse with his Dad inside Devastated the boy is He said he’d come by Well I don’t know I wonder where he has got to ? Picking up the pieces Iguess   ___________________________________________________________ Annemarie's story As the first fine droplets of drizzle caress my cheeks and hands I make my way through the arched doors of the greenhouse. Not any old greenhouse but a teak, metal and glass temple. The rain is pattering on the roof, splashing from a drainpipe, barely audible, on a leafy shrub, drumming on the lawn. Rivulets tumble down the glass bouncing off the iron framework. I gaze at the slender copper-coloured beams of teak supporting the intricate framework, elegant blackened metal arches and circles connecting the side and quirky curved metal struts undulating across the panes. No green beneath my feet in this arid region of deserts but flagstones and gravel and metal grids beneath which water is trundled through the arteries of iron pipes. Beside me plants with downy foliage and flamboyant flowers.  Here you can marvel at the large blooms of the South African king protea and wonder at the bottle brush-like flowers of Australian Banksia.The stone plants and bear paw succulents from South Africa  fascinate, as do the Australian kangaroo paws and grass tree which bears its exuberant head of glaucous hair on a thick wrinkly trunk. In the dry gravel are succulents with fleshy leaves, globe or barrel-shaped to maximise their capacity to store water; some with  spines but no leaves  to minimise evaporation, and ferocious spines to to protect them from predators and deter grazers. Fibonacci spiral patterns appear in the whorled leaf arrangements, that channel rainfall to the roots. Segmented, gnarled or twisted this motley crew of cactii have stories to tell; strange, misshapen or just plain rude these shapes are sculptural.       I pass through another modest door into the hot humidity of tropical rainforest, the dark forest floor an intense competition for light giving rise to the high dense canopy. Coffee, kapok and  bananas with leviathan leaves, bromeliads clinging to stems of trees collecting moisture and nutrients from the debris in their upturned reservoirs. Twining its path through the trees the wonderfully named Strongylodon macrobotrys, its racemes are covered in inverted, jade coloured claws which flower in spring and can reach 90 centimetres in length. The showstopper of the tropical pool is a giant Santa Cruz waterlily, whose leaves unfurl to reveal ferocious spikes on the underside, leaves like enormous green pie dishes, performance platforms for birds. The flowers of this plant last only two nights turning from female to male during that time. Carnivorous pitcher plants and cascading passionflowers with fluttering purple stamens add to the diversity. Another wooden door and inside the aroma is enticing. Mediterranean herbs assault the senses. 'Are you going to Scarborough Fair?   Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,' I hum quietly to myself  recalling an old English song, 'remember me to one who lives there…'. Here the plants are more familiar but I marvel just the same. I see blue skies through the old glass panes and realise the rain has ceased.  I hear the hum of insects, see butterflies flitting from flower to flower, testing and tasting the nectar. What better way to spend a rainy afternoon travelling the world through a sea of plants. Emerald, celadon, jade, chartreuse, mint, olive, citron, pea, bottle… there must be more than fifty shades of green and you can see them all in the Cambridge Botanical Garden Glasshouse…the Greenhouse!   A story from Patrice Louisa and the Bear Louisa sank lower into the tub encouraging the bubbles to foam up over her breasts to her chin.  The tiny scratches on her arms and legs stung for a moment then subsided.  She snaked one long brown arm out from the bubbles to lift the wineglass sitting on the edge of the tub.  The glass was beaded with condensation.   She sipped the cold wine and held it in her mouth for a moment before putting her head back and swallowing.  She felt it slide down her throat and into her stomach—the contrast between her internal and external temperatures was so great that it gave her a jolt.  The hot water melted her tired muscles – she hadn’t know picking berries would be so strenuous but she was pleased with her loot -- three large bowls of shiny ripe blackberries.  Two and half bowls were already in tidy zip-loc bags stacked in the freezer like a miser’s money against real and imagined hard times.  The last half bowl sat on the kitchen table with a plate over it.  The heavy cream was in the fridge, a whipping bowl cooling in the freezer compartment on top.  She hoped Hank would be back by the time she finished her bath because she wasn’t going to wait for him to festoon those berries in home made whipped cream and eat them on the deck in clean pajamas while watching the sunset.     On the way to picking berries she’d had a close call with three hysterical deer that burst from the tree line and danced madly around in front of her—long legs poking up and down like pistons.    One had headed dazedly for the grate of her car.  Louisa slammed her foot onto the brakes and turned the wheel giving the deer enough time to come to its senses –what little it had – and follow the rest of its herd into the woods. Her heart had pounded for a while afterward and she drove more cautiously the rest of the way, scanning the tree line and the fields to make sure they didn’t sneak up on her again.   The day before she had seen a mother black bear and two cubs walking across the road north of the farm as if off to attend The Teddy Bear’s Picnic of her favorite childhood song. It was the first time she had seen bears and she was delighted by how much they looked like picture book bears with their rounded shoulders, big paws and shiny coats.  She’d had an almost overwhelming desire to follow them off into the woods but some atavistic good sense kept her from doing so.  That and the notion of how embarrassed she would have been to have to tell Hank how she’d wound up in a tree too scared to come down until he found her.  Louisa felt a tingle of pride over the things she had learned these last few months. Even this morning after losing a few of the ripest berries to the long grass underneath the bush she had figured out how to cup her hand beneath the berry and pick with her index finger and thumb creating a cup for the ripest berries to fall into when she jostled the bush.  While she still found living so far in the north at times daunting and occasionally lonely she relished the life she had, the stark beauty of the landscape, the encounters with nature and animals, time to read and write and most of all, the time with Hank.  For a moment she listened to the rumble of his voice in her head and hoped again that he would make it home in time to join her for berries and the sunset and her smelling like bubbles and clean pajamas.     Over the sound of NPR in the living room she heard movement in the kitchen and was pleased that he had arrived just as she was thinking about him.  She yelled out in a fake French accent, “Henri, I’ll be right out.  Don’t touch those berries”, then stood up in the tub with islands of foam dotting her body.  She rinsed off with the hand held shower being careful not to dilute her wine.  There was a crash in the kitchen that she attributed to the breadboard falling over, which it did with irritating regularity. “Are you okay?” she yelled.     When she opened the bathroom door she was wrapped in a bath towel with her hair turbaned into another one and holding her glass of wine.  Clouds of fragrant steam poured out from behind her.  She was disappointed for a moment that Hank wasn’t sitting on the couch, she knew he would like the picture she made and maybe she would wait for the berries with the right enticement.  She padded into the kitchen calling his name.  She was smiling already wondering which of them would unwrap her towel first when she saw Hank sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor.  Only it wasn’t Hank.  It was a black bear who had knocked her bowl of berries onto the kitchen floor and was snuffling them up, leaving trails of black raspberry juice as he chased them along the floor.       Louisa was outraged.  How dare he eat her berries, she had labored for them like a farm hand and she had the scratch marks on her arms and legs to prove it. He should pick his own.  Then the bear looked up and while he still looked like a story book bear he was quite a bit larger and her startled yell when she noticed made him startle in turn and for a moment the both of them looked at each other round eyed and still.  The stillness passed and suddenly the kitchen was a tumble of portly black bear looking for his escape scrambling and sliding on the slick vinyl while Louisa flapped her bath towel and shouted.  She was shouting, “Those are my berries, I have the scratch marks to prove it, you’d better get your stinky bear hide out of my kitchen right this instant before I turn you into a rug to use in front of my fireplace that doesn’t exist but so what?”  The bear, in his confused tumbling for escape, luckil, found the door and helter-skeltered down the back stairs before Louise incensed - started flinging at him the cast iron pot and empty tea kettle that had been sitting on the stove.  The bear skittered over the field, his rump bump-bumping for the trees as fast as he could with Louisa losing ground rapidly but still flapping her towel and shouting at the top of her lungs stopping finally, stark naked where the driveway met the field.     She hadn’t seen that Hank’s pick up was also in the driveway and that he stood one leg in the cab and one out on the driveway watching in astonishment.   Louisa turned toward him realizing quite suddenly that there had been a bear in her kitchen and she was standing, naked, in the driveway.  She began to cry with belated tears, belated fears.  Hank came up to her, wrapped her in his arms, holding her head against his shoulder and listened as Louisa snuffled out that the bear had taken their berries and scared her and made a mess of the kitchen and she was fine but from now on they would lock the door wouldn’t they?  He kissed her head, her cheek.  Tried not to laugh quite yet and asked her if there was any whipped cream left.

Pins and Needles

 Paula's story

Marjorie was a regal woman of means in London, traveling to and from her friends’ country homes for long weekends of games of tennis and gin rummy, followed by long, sumptuous candlelit dinners served by uniformed staff members. At home during the week, she would sweep down the stairs every morning after being clothed and perfumed by her ladies’ maid, to breakfast alone at the massive dining room table, to read and answer her letters in her sun-filled library, and to walk out to the private, flower-filled park across the street from her townhouse, a beautifully ordered garden to which she owned the only key.

Most mornings, after her toilette, her breakfast, and her letter-writing, she would put on one of her many beribboned hats, take up her ruffled silk parasol, make sure her elegant calling cards were snugly inside her bag, and sail out into the street, bound for any of a number of townhouses similar to hers where she would be graciously admitted and where she and a friend would share tea and gossip. What was Lady Haffling thinking, wearing that atrocious get-up to the opera the other night? Is Lord Tinkle really stepping out on his wife, and with the chambermaid, at that? Who is the handsome new barrister in town, and is he looking for a wife? And what on earth could have gotten into Tilly Madison, bobbing her hair like that? It’s quite unseemly, they agreed.

When all topics had been exhausted, and all sweets had been consumed, she would say her good-byes, adjust her hat and her frock, and walk the few miles home, to be greeted by soft music, a soothing bath drawn for her in the perfect temperature, a satin dressing gown, and a light meal, taken in her rooms upstairs beside the fire. 

One afternoon, hurrying home as a light rain began to fall (thank goodness for her parasol!) she passed a tiny girl, dressed in rags, sheltering in a doorway. As she passed, the child called out to her, “Madam, buy some pins?” and held out a paper packet filled with straight pins. Marjorie ignored her, and passed quickly, her skirts rustling.

That evening, as she climbed into bed after a very satisfying meal of a perfectly broiled lamb chop, cheese and toast, accompanied by a glass of fine red wine, she turned off her bedside lamp and settled comfortably into the crisp cotton sheets. But the comfort was short-lived. Suddenly, she felt as if her hands were being pricked by a thousand tiny needles. She rubbed them, she washed them, she spread lotion on them; nothing helped. She tossed and turned all night, and when dawn broke, the pain disappeared. She examined her hands; they looked perfectly normal, and they felt perfectly normal. She wondered if perhaps she had had some kind of reaction to something she ate, or drank.

Soon enough, she forgot the episode, and continued on in her daily routine. Each afternoon, as she walked the same route home, rain or shine, the same child would venture out from the same doorway to plead, “Please, madam, buy my pins,” shakily holding out the paper packets. And each afternoon, she rushed past, muttering under her breath, “As if!”

And each night, as she climbed into bed, the thousands of pricking needles under the skin of her hands would begin, and she would spend the night in pain and agony. And each morning, as her hands returned to normal, she would forget what had happened.

Several days later, as she strolled home from a most satisfying tea of scones and jams and a most satisfying talk with Sally Dearborn (Lord Tinkle was indeed having an affair, and conducting it in a very public, disgusting way!) the ragged child stepped out of the doorway and pleaded, “Please, madam, buy my pins? I can’t go home until they’re all sold.” This time, Marjorie stopped, and a look of enlightenment replaced the glance of disgust that was there just a moment before.

She stared at the tear-stained face of the little girl and said, “I’ll buy them all, every single packet.” It cost her 10 shillings, but it was money well spent. That night, she drifted off into a dreamless, needle-free sleep for the first time in weeks. 

And every day after that, she stopped and bought every packet of pins from the disheveled child, and every night, she slept like a baby. She left it to her ladies’ maid to figure out what to do with the thousands of pins found in her bag.

 

Annemarie's story

He knelt on the rickety chair, elbows on  the dining room table as he watched his mother deftly extract a pin from her mouth and pin her latest creation. Sometimes she said something her lips pursed together over several pins. He never understood what she said wondered how she didn’t swallow any pins. Chop, chop, chop…pin, pin, pin… try it on, then sew, sew, sew …and from flat pieces of fabric she'd made a dress or a fancy costume or even the tiniest blue-striped pyjamas for his teddy bear. When he was four she let him remove the pins which he then carefully replaced in her antique pin cushion, a slightly battered silver hedgehog, that only finished looking like a proper hedgehog once the pins were carefully pushed into the soft velvet body to make the prickles.

   Her ingenuity with needle and thread had provided her with enough income for the two of them and him with a fascination for needles and pins. The only time he remembered his mother being remotely angry with him was when she had a rush job for a film costume and she discovered her pins were rusty and they snagged the delicate thread in the patterned satin fabric for Queen Bess's  ivory cloak.

   He had used the pins for his first experiment. It entailed spreading the skin of a recently skinned, small snake on a long piece of balsa wood, pinning it all round with his mother's best sewing pins and rubbing salt all over the skin. She had not appreciated the fact that he’d returned both the pins and the salt after curing his snakeskin! When he stuck safety pins through his awkward adolescent nose and pushed needles through his tender teenage ears she had gently admonished “just make sure the pins or needles are sterilised first.”

    Twenty years later he sat at the same old oak table, his black eyes flashing with anger remembering her most recent work for a well known couturier. All over the newspapers and on the tv news were photos of the dress - a slinky black number held together with safety pins, worn by a famous actress  for a first night. It was just a year after his mother's tragically early death and the couturier was taking all the credit, with absolutely no mention of his mother who had spent hours looping and pinning the slippery fabric.

     He bent over the table, a tiny sculpting hook in his hand and finished fashioning the clay figure, accurately carving the thin lips, aquiline nose and bushy eyebrows and he regarded it; yes, his mother would have been proud of the likeness.

     He picked up the dented, silver hedgehog pincushion and pulled out -  not a fine pin for delicate muslin, not a flower head pin for thick velvets but a strong nickle-plated steel pin, 1⅜” length, and not bendy - and stuck it firmly into the hand of the clay figure. He pulled out a second strong pin and stuck it in one eye, then a third for the second eye. He vehemently stabbed the clay couturier until it bristled with steel pins and he could almost hear it shrieking; on the table the silver  hedgehog gazed at him, lifeless, it’s faded velvet body deflated and devoid of feeling.

 

Jackie's story

 

There I was in fluffy bedroom slippers wearing a colourful décoltée nightdress with spaghetti straps in poppy red attending “the” social event of the year in the advertising world, surrounded by very fabulous, very chic and so so very influential people. 

I arrived in France at the end of 1971 as an au pair girl,  I was 19.    I went to work for a family living in the new suburbs of Paris.    Cute little pretty houses with 30 year olds and young children, garden lawns and a train  station to central Paris ½ an hour by foot from their house.  It was a little too twee for me and also didn’t live up to my idea of being “in” Paris.   I moved to work for a family closer to the city and met my future husband, Anthony, who was half Greek, from London, and had just got a job working for an advertising company in Paris.  

     In my suitcase as an au pair girl I had brought with me two pairs of jeans, a few tops and warm sweater and a coat.   I had two pairs of shoes though;  a pair of well worn favorite sneakers and a pair of black Mary Jane shoes you know the kind with round toes and ankle strap.     Nothing very suitable for an evening in the very grand Conciergerie of Paris.   We had been invited to a party in this famous Paris monument as part of an advertising agency product launch – we needed to be in evening dress.    But it was a dilemma for me as I was housed and fed as an au pair plus had a little pocket money but I had no such salary as such to afford a new outfit.

 

At a friends house they suggested I try on a pair of pink fluffy slippers, they had feathers sprouting all over the front and were a little too small for me.  I couldn’t possibly wear slippers to this big event but in the end,  if I walked slowly they might just do.   The dress part was a problem but I was able to borrow something.   It was an itsy-bitsy nightdress.    I was young though,  it was long enough but it was certainly not the kind of thing I normally wear, even to bed.    A little torn, unwashed and the colour red was faded but it would have to do.    We found a box of pins and needles, quickly patched up the dress as best we could.

Walking into the magical palace on the ile de la Cité, the medieval residence of French kings and a prison during the French revolution I was in awe.  So many beautiful people, ladies with beehive hair do’s and fabulous dresses and wafts of expensive powders and perfumes.   Taffetas, silks and velvets flowed past in and out of the beautiful venue.    And the men;  so dark, so handsome “so very French” in their evening clothes.      My so-called dress was politely admired and I remember being looked at closely from time to time but I kept my head up high I managed to keep my feet in those “evening shoes”.   I declined dancing though as that could have been catastrophic. To this day I don’t think I realized just how daring it was to turn up to an evening like this in a nightdress and slippers but it remains in my memory and was the very happy beginning of a fabulous time in Paris. 

Geraldine's story

Kathleen was a fine dressmaker and her main skill was cutting and sewing evening gowns, wedding and bridesmaids dresses.

 

This early spring day, at the end of Tuesday morning,  she received a young woman in her workroom who was very upset, nervous and told her, almost in tears :

-       Oh ! Please, please, can you help me.  I’m invited to a very important party next Saturday and I haven’t had time to think of what I was going to wear.  The man I secretely love will be there and I really need to look good.

-       Well, dear Madam, what’s your name ?

-       Judith,  answered the woman.  Her long dark hair lay casually upon her shoulders.  Her complexion was  dark, her almond eyes slit – she could well have been from Asia – and her slender figure reminded one of a reed bending in the wind.

-       Well Judith, what kind of dress would you like and do you have the fabric.  You’re only giving me 3 days, which would make it a fantastic miracle if I succeeded.  By the way, my name’s Kathleen.

-       Judith opened a rough plastic bag out of which she pulled a beautifull vivid orange organdie cloth.  From the bottom of the bag she brought out  a selection of pearls, buttons and beeds of all sorts.  Here she said, still sniffing a bit, do you think you could make someting with this !

-       Well, lets see : is there enough material to  get a dress !  She unfolded the orange organdie and lifted it in front of Judith.  If you don’t want sleeves, this will be all right.  Have you any idea of the style you would like ?

-       No, I havn’t had time to think about it but maybe you have some kind of idea !

-       Well, just stand still and I’ll take your main measurements !  Leave it to me and come back on Thursday morning : we’ll try it on then.

Judith almost kissed Kathleen with relief : her face had calmed down, her tears had dried and oh ! what a lovely woman though Kathleen.  I surely will do my best to make her happy.

As soon as she had left the workshop, Kathleen looked at the organdie, buttons and all and took a pencil and paper and started drawing.  She started designing different shapes, imagining what Judith would look like and after a while, set her choice on the one model she believed would be the best.  Then she looked and the buttons, pearls and beeds and started drawing them around the collar band, the waist and down the skirt at the top of the pleats. 

Then she cut the dress, started  assembling the different parts and getting an idea of what it was going to look like.  By the time she got all this done, she left it all on the table, had a light meal and warned out, went to bed.

On Wednesday morning, the weather was fine, the air transparent, the birds singing and the sun rising quickly above the horizon.  She went downstairs, had a quick coffe and a bowl of cereals and walked straight into the workshop.  As she got nearer the table, she looked at the the dress and oh ! surprise ! it was all basted with a yellow thread.  She was extremely puzzled, as she couldn’t remember going through this stage yesterday.  She thought « Maybe I have a guardian angel » or…

 

Well, let’s not try and think too hard and just take things as they come.  This is a supreme surprise and leaves me a bit of time to do all the other things on my plate.

Again, after a very busy day, Kathleen had a light dinner and exhausted, went up to bed.  Judith was due to come and try the dress next morning.

She woke up feeling good, went down to breakfast and after cleaning up the kitchen, walked into her workshop.

To find what ?  Another surprise !  There were two rows of pearls and buttons around the collar of Judith’s dress, which made it look so smart.  They had been so meticulously sewn on the organdie fabric that, even looking at it closely, you couldn’t see the stitches.  It was as if no pins or needles had been used!

-       Well, this Guardian Angel is just too fantastic.  I wonder how he got in !  Lets wait for Judith to try it on  and see how it fits !

And around 10 o’clock, in walked Judith, looking much happier than the first time.

-       Hello Kathleen, how are you ?  Are we going to be able to try the dress ?

-       Here it is.  If it fits, I’ll be able to sew it.

She pulled the dress over Judith’s head, and they both looked at her in the mirror.  It was just perfectly cut and suited her fine.  The contrast of the orange and her complexion was fantastic and the way the collar was underligned with the mix of pearls and buttons was gorgeous.

-       Ok. My dear.  This is perfect.  Just give me one more day to get it finished and come and fetch it tomorrow around tea-time.  It should be ready by then.  Judith just couldn’t believe how quickly and smoothly it had all gone and didn’t know how to thank Kathleen.  So, she just gave her har largest smile and left.

In the afternoon, Kathleen gathered pins, needles, sewing-machine and spent 3 hours working on the dress.  What if my guardian angel would still be around to help me ?  So, she left the dress on the tabel once more overnight.  There was still a lot of completions and embroidery to do, but, who knows, maybe tomorrow morning will be another one with a surprise ?

Again, up she went to bed, had a good night’s sleep and woke up in the morning feeling good.  She didn’t stop for breakfast, too impatient and dashed in to the workshop.  And there hung the dress, completely finished, looking tremendous ! 

Yes, the Guardian Angel had come once more to help ! It was the first time in Kathleen’s life that such a thing had happened !  How come ?  She couldn’t make out for it, but remembered a story her mother used to tell her when she was a child.  It was called « The Elves and the Shoemaker » .

So maybe helping a tearful woman, giving her priority and just being confident and resilient are the right ingredients for a « little miracle » !

When Judith walked in at tea-time, she was handed over her beautiful orange dress, greeted with a cup of tea and a few scones and made the happiest ever damsel.