What time is the train?

 

A poem by Patrice

 He sat beside me uninvited and asked my name.

I told him and he repeated what he’d heard twice.

When I corrected him he said,

“What’s in a name?”

He talked of the weather and said “looks like rain.”

I looked to the horizon admiring blue skies and clouds like bunny tails,

the sun my witness.

I didn’t disagree - what’s to gain?

He shifted on the bench toward my thigh.

whispered toward my ear - “your place or mine?”

Hoisting my bag I walked  away.

I heard him stand and call my name - the one that was not mine,

For heaven’s sake,

“What time’s the train?”

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

What time the train  by Sarah (16.07.2024)

“What time does the train leave?” asked Thomas.  He was the one who did the deliveries, although today exceptionally there would be no deliveries.
“At 10:40,” said Catherine, the baker.  “We don’t have much time.  But I have something to do first, so you go and make sure Gillian has everything she needs.  I’ve packed her  bag but make sure she’s got some music and things to distract her.  She’s going to need it.”
“But whatever are you doing now?  Isn’t Gillian the most important thing?”
“Yes, of course.  But the next most important is to get somebody to replace her.  I’m seeing some candidates this afternoon, but first I have to add a few items to the contract.”
“What items?”
“Some restrictions.”
“What restrictions?”  Thomas knew that his mother had some odd notions sometimes, but then, as she did not answer he went off to see if his sister wanted to take some music to the hospital with her.  She and he had never had a contract, of course, but they had had a gardener once and Catherine  had put it in his contract that he could not smoke on the premises, not even at the far end of the garden.
“How are you doing, sis?” he asked.
“It hurts,” she said.  “It hurts like--”
“Don’t say it.”  Why was it he had to watch over everyone in the family now that his father was gone?  Gillian had a way of using swear words, and Thomas did not like to hear improper language in the mouth of a girl.
“Well, it hurts bloody awful.”
“There you go again!”
“What’s Mum doing?  Why isn’t she here?  What time is the train?  Why the devil can’t we buy a car?  OK, Dad took the other one, but we aren’t that poor, are we?”
“I’m afraid we are,” said Thomas, “and watch your language.”  But such advice was peine perdue, he knew.
It was bad enough living far from a hospital and the ambulances all on strike, but thank goodness the taxis were working and free immediately, and they could take Gillian to have some x-rays and see what was wrong with her.  She probably had something broken, and it was pretty clear she wouldn’t be able to help Mum with the baking for a while.  By then they could hear the printer’s purring noise, and Catherine’s footsteps coming upstairs.  
“Ready?” she asked.  “Got your music?”
“What music?”
“Thomas was supposed to help you get some music ready.  You might not be coming home right away.”
“Oh, I can’t even think of that now.  Let’s go, please!”
“Thomas, you pick out some stuff.  She’ll change her mind once she’s there and has nothing to do.”
They heard the taxi tooting faintly outside.
“Thomas, get the man to help us carry Gillian downstairs,.  We mustn’t move her too much.”
And from then on they were concentrated on Gillian, who suffered at the least uneven step they made.
Once they were settled in the car, however, Catherine couldn’t help making a remark.  “Why ever you decided to take up soccer, I don’t know.  It’s not a ladylike sport.”
“Mum!”  That was Thomas, guardian of the peace as usual.
“She could have--”
“Mum!  Let her choose her own sport.  She’s eighteen now, you know.  You can’t give her orders any more.”
So Catherine stayed mum, though you could see she was itching to give a lecture.
It turned out Gillian had broken her collarbone.  The doctors were shocked that they had come by train.
“You aren’t aware of the ambulance strike?” asked Catherine tartly.
“Well, she’ll need extra rest now, what with the shock and the strain.  You can count on a week in hospital, at least, and another six weeks’ rest at home.”
“I expected as much,” said Catherine “and I have taken the necessary measures.”
The doctor looked at her, uncomprehending, but then they were saying good-by to Gillian and hurrying off to catch the train home.
“So,” asked Thomas, when they were at last seated in the train, “what additions have you made to the contract?  Besides no smoking.  You can’t just add anything you like, you know.”
“Oh yes I can.  The candidate can accept it or refuse it.  But I don’t want to be caught in a mess suddenly, as I am now.”
“So?”
“I’ve added a provision that none of my employees is allowed to play football or any other game of the sort, even in their spare time.  Maybe you can’t give orders to your grown children, but a contract is a contract!”
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jackie

The kitchen is simple with a small gas stove, a fridge that hums and shudders from old age and a cracked  linoleum floor that hides years of dust from 50 years of use.     He sat in his old wooden chair stained with a life of wear.      He is asleep, or seems to be,  his chin sunk deep into his chest, head heavy, his hands holding a chipped metal coffee mug and just able to read “God is good” .

The television is blaring but he doesn’t  hear.  

 

Far away in his dreams he could hear his wife calling him from her tomb in the nearby cemetry.     Don’t let yourself go dear husband, – don’t forget that I’m here and watching you from above.   Cheer up and get on with life.   We had a wonderful time together – look at the photo album and remember how lucky we were to have had each other.

Sad and unable to gather strength to face another day without her he buried his face on his folded arms on the table and sank into a more profound sleep.

 

It was there that his daughter found him and shook his arm gently – Papa - wake up its midday and I’ve brought you some lunch and also there is an envelope for you.      After consuming his lunch and tea he relunctantly opened the envelope fearing that it was another condoleance letter from family or friend.    

Inside was a ticket – looking closely he saw that it was a train ticket.  Its for you Papa a gift from me to you.    Oh no he said, what is this?  I can’t accept it and anyway where would I go to – I don’t know anyone except from my village and I’ve never even been on a train in all my 83 years of life.     I look at the tv and that’s the extent of my travelling – handing back the envelope to his daughter.    

 

But Papa you need a change after everything that you’ve been through – this will open you up to new scenery and people make friends and see a bit of life.

 

Sitting on his seat with a brand new suitcase on the rack above him he couldn’t help feeling a sense of excitement.   Watching the rolling countryside go by he was amazed at the beauty of France, the variety of nature and the rumbling cities he went through.    The train travelled slowly,  he was allowed to absorb everything he saw –landscapes he had never dreamed possible, he met people getting on and off at stops and exchanging news and ideas – sometimes putting the world to rights and wrongs and having a laugh and listening to other peoples lives.    The train ticket was an Interrail Global Pass, allowing him to travel through several countries – stop off or stay on the sleeper.

 

They went through, France, Spain, Portugal and then back up through Italy, to Germany and back 

Feeling rested and a new man he arrived home.   Thanking his daughter profusely for having painted the kitchen, replaced his appliances and made his home welcoming.   

Christmas was coming and he was asked what he would like to do

When is the next train?   He replied

___________________________________

Geraldine's story

What time’s the train

 

Lucy knew she was to go back to her parent’s place in Normandy that Sunday for a very important event.

She had started her Theater course, rue Blanche, in Paris last September and this had completely changed her life.  She had always dreamed of theater since her early childhood, when she would act, as from 4 years old, Snowhite, Alice in Wonderland, the Little Mermaid or even later, boy’s characters such as  Robin Hood or Harry Potter.

She’d lived in the small village in Normandy, where her parents held a milking farm.  Her main friends, as an only child had been the cows she would patt while they were being milked by the machine : she would give them, in turns, armfuls of hay and talk to them in the ear.

The schoolbus would take her to the school situated in the nearby little town.  She would leave quite early in the morning, hop on the bus and greet her friends.  Lunch was taken at the canteen, more classes in the afternoon, and homework started in school. Then, the bus back home and… Mun and Dad and the cows !

Week-ends were also mainly spent on the farm, because as we all know, but some don’t, a milking cow needs milking everyday….  Maintaining a farm is a real vocation.  So week-ends were the time when Lucy could dream of being somebody else.

She was tall and slender, with a body closer to a reptile than an elephant ! She loved playing with her long fair hair, leaving it, in turns, stroling down her shoulders and back in long waves, the next being a casual bun held by pins, or platts roled around her ears.  Her eyes reminded the nearby sea, bluish-grey, big and round making her look as if she was always astonished by something or other.  On the whole, she was a very good-looking young girl feeling good about herself.

These personal small trips into another world were what held her together. She would go for long walks with « Dick », the farm’s dog, usually in the nearby forest with her earphones on, broadcasting rap music, helping her with her pace.  And she would learn them all by heart and play them back home in her room, disguising herself each time into the main character. That’s probably what gave her this deep taste to theater, including French and Literature were also her very favourite subjects in school.

So, after her Baccalaureat, which she succeeded with a « Très Bien » mention, she braved her timidity and presented about 5 or 6 entrance exams to the different theater schools in her Region and Paris, that was not that far away, and got into the well known Rue Blanche Theater School.

At the begining, she so missed the farm, the freedom in the countryside, her parents and her favourite cows, she almost dismissed to run back home.  But her parents who knew farming didn’t have a great future, were wise enough to let her go and then to help her in her first steps into her new life, not to turn round or come back.

After nearly nine months in her new life, Lucy had adapted, had learnt a lot about herself and interpreting the others, and had also met a friend with whom she felt cosy, intimate, and maybe was a little in love…

Back to this Sunday where she has to be there for this extremely important event, we follow Lucy to the station where her train is due to leave at « 3.20p.m.

Lucy missed the first metro from Bercy to Gare St Lazare, and because it’s a Sunday, had to wait for 13 minutes for the next one.  She hopped on and nervously looked at her phone, counting the minutes needed : 12 minutes ! She might make it.  It’s  3.02 pm.

-       « If I get there up to « 3.16 that leaves me 4 minutes to run from the metro to the platform.  Keep near the door, ready to move and run. I should be able to make it ».

But, at Châtelet, the metro stopped for a while when the voice came :

            « For reasons of security, we will de delayed by 4 minutes »

She felt her knees wobbling, her breathing accelerating, she would be missing the train !  That wasn’t possible.

Lucy got her phone and started typing « What time’s the next train for Cabourg ». The schedule came up on the screen : 4.28 arriving in Cabourg at 5.42p.m.  She quickly counted mentally : 10 minutes walk to her village : it’s should be all right.  Her heart beating started slowing down to normal again and she relaxed.

At the station, she had plenty of time to discuss with her friends on the network while   waiting for her train.  Then the train started off to Cabourg and fortunately, which is not always the case, there was no delay.

As she got off, she starting running towards the village with her rucksack shaking on her back and saw the clock on the Mairie showing 5.54 p.m.  Three more minutes…. It should be OK now….

Two minutes before the end, Lucy put the little square bit of paper with, we hope, the right name on it, into the slot, a voice came up saying loudly « has voted », signed where she was asked to, and left the townhall with a feeling that she had, for the first time in her life participated,  in her own country, to he own future. 

--______________________________________________

Paula's story

Here you go.

**************

Deadlines. Appointments. Obligations. Our lives have been constructed and conditioned to revolve around time. It’s time to get up. It’s time for dinner. It’s time to have a baby. It’s time to buy a house. It’s past time to call it quits on the marriage. Or: My period is early; I’m not prepared. I arrived too late; I spoiled the surprise party. “Please be on time,” my mother would always say. “You know your father hates cold food.”

Time seems to govern everything. 

So as I sit on the platform waiting for the train to Paris, I can’t help but wonder what would happen if the train was two minutes early? Or two minutes late? Arriving in the city earlier, or later, than expected — would I meet someone by chance? Would my life take a different path? Would such a small difference in minutes or even seconds result in a metaphysical difference in the universe?

I check the board again. The train is on time. As it pulls into the station, I climb aboard and find my seat, and I feel a little sigh escape my lips. All the what ifs have disappeared. I will arrive in Paris at the appointed hour. Hans will be there to meet me, as arranged. We will walk to his mother’s apartment at noon, as arranged. We will share lunch, until 2 p.m. After lunch, Hans and I will shop for a gift for his friend Alec, whose birthday party is at 8. Hans will want to leave the party before 11. All will go according to plan. My life is governed by time. 

As Hans and I stroll back to his place in the 4th arrondissement shortly after 11, I feel an inexplicable urge for a dozen oysters. I can almost feel the salty, tangy goodness sliding down my throat. Turning to Hans, I say, “You go ahead. I’ll join you shortly. I have a brief errand to run.” “At this hour?” he asks, but he shrugs his shoulders and turns toward home. He has always indulged my whims. I head to the St. Paul metro stop. 

Two stops and seven minutes later, I exit at Gare de Lyon, cross the street, and within seconds, I am installed at a table at L’European, where I order a dozen oysters and a glass of chilled Sancerre. I am alone in this alcove of the grand cafe and I am undeniably happy. 

A few minutes later, as I contemplate my nearly empty plate, and my nearly empty glass, I notice a man two tables away. He has the exact duplicate of my meal. He meets my eyes and shrugs, in that French way. We exchange smiles. And then, he is standing beside my table. “Can I buy you another glass?” he asks. He has blue eyes and a shock of brown hair. I realize he is American. So charming in his forwardness. So charming in his openness. So charming.

I let two seconds go by, then nod. “And may I join you?” he asks. “Oui,” I respond. 

For the next hour, time has no meaning. We talk, we laugh, we enjoy our wine. We realize we share a love of travel and adventure, a desire to escape from the world every so often, an urge to experience life by leaps and bounds. The oysters are gone, our wine glasses are empty, and the waiters are standing in a row near the door, watching us. 

Suddenly he bolts out of his chair. “Oh! The train to Marrakesh! I must be late! I’m such an idiot! I’ve forgotten, what time is the train?”

I pull out my phone to check the app. He has 15 minutes to collect his things and sprint for the train, I tell him.  

“Come with me,” he says. “Let’s have an adventure together.” 

Time stands still, for just a moment. And in that moment, I think of Hans, back at the apartment, glancing at the clock and wondering when I’ll return. I think of my life up to now, prescribed by that same clock, the minutes ticking away inexorably in a comfortable world where very little changes and very little matters. I think of what it would mean to not go back to that world, ever, no matter what happens with this stranger.

“Yes,” I say. “Let’s.”

Paula O'Byrne	10:24 (il y a 4 heures)
À moi

___________________________________________________________________

 

No milk no wool

NO WOOL , NO MILK by Geraldine

Candelo is this small town that barely hosts around 800 souls and sits in the South of NSW, surrounded by grazing fields and eucalyptus forests.  A small creek flows through it and a rather large bridge was built in order to help the inhabitants to cross from the left bank to the right one and vice-versa, above all in winter time.  For in the summer you can usually just walk accross the river bed : Australia is well known for alternating heat waves and « no water » situations.

 

It has a big market on once a month that drains a lot of people, even from Sydney which stands almost 500kms North.  You can find everything there, and above all, friendliness, happiness and good vibrations.  The smell of the open air barbecues catches your nostrills, the amount of saussages with onions being cooked on them is tremendous and people stroll along the lanes eating and drinking, listening to the many little bands playing country music and buying loads of unecessary stuff !

                                                                              

But once a year, there is an even larger event in Candelo : the Spring  Annual Fair that drains people from all over.

 

All the people from Candelo and around have drawing and painting exhibitions, vegetable growing competitions, embroidery and knitting contests, make-up workshops for children of all ages, but  the TOP animation is the  sheep-shearing competition where the farmers must shave their sheep in less than 2 minutes in order to win a prize.

 

This activity drains a lot of spectators young and older, who laugh, clap hands and encourage the farmer who is to shear his sheep directly on the ground, not even on a table ! There usually is a band playing live music with a very high rythm to encourage the farmer.

 

Being springtime, the sheep haven’t been sheared for almost a year and their wool is thick, heavy and greasy.  The quality of the wool depends on the age at which the animals are sheared.

 

The visitors had been watching the competition for a while when the next farmer was called to perform.  Along staggered this man, with a thick red neck,  his deep, burning eyes seemed set amongst swollen flesh, for the lids and pouches underneath were bloated. He was belching out incomprehensible words to all, sheep and public !

 

He grabbed his huge sheep, turned her to the ground trying to hold her tight and put his knee on her throat to immobilize her. But the sheep didn’t like the brutallity of this drunken farmer and started trying to escape.  The crowd around was shouting : « be nice to her treat her gentle » !  The man became even reder (if that sounds possible) and started hitting the sheep « sit still Joey (we imagine it was it’s name) I want to win this competition now ! Cooperate ! cooperate !  But Joey didn’t want to be manipulated again by this rough man and started pulling to get away.

The Jury by now was telling the farmer his turn was over and although he hadn’t started the job yet, to move on for the next competitor to show up.

 

As the farmer was trying to stand up on his wobbly legs, Joey pulled hard and managed to escape.  The picture was great : a red fat drunken man holding his fist up to the fleeyng animal eructing « No wool, no milk ! no wool, no milk !

 

And the crowd applauding with such sheer enthusiasm as I wouldn't even have thought possible, then singing to the bands’ sound :

 

No milk today, the sheep has run away

The bottle stands for lorn, a symbol of the dawn

No milk today, you have to stop the beer

Or no wool any more,  or no wool any more !

Sarah's Story

No milk no wool  5  strike
(18.05.2024)

That was the year there was the milk strike.  The dairy farmers protested, not without reason, that they were not being paid enough for their produce by the retailers on whom they now depended.  Not all the farmers participated in the movement, but most of them did.  The others, a small number afraid to lose their customers, continued to sell at a loss.  But this was nowhere near enough to satisfy the demands of the market, with children crying out for the milk for their breakfast cereal and milk for their evening hot chocolate and the mothers tearing their hair.  But the farmers stood fast, and many people resorted to powdered milk.
Eventually even the powdered milk industry began to suffer, not to mention the producers of infantile formula.  Some intelligent women who had previously been wheedled into bottle feeding decided to go back to breast-feeding, and to their surprise their babies thrived better than before.  Other people, who liked milk in their tea and in their coffee, and others who wanted it for baking, and who were not at all satisfied with the powdered variety, began to protest.  The retail industry, mostly made up of the supermarket owners, surreptitiously began to incite the people to direct this protest against the farmers, but it was the farmers’ wives who then got into the fray and began to appeal to the women, who were generally more susceptible to humanitarian arguments than were the men.  Many women were then persuaded of the injustice of the on-going situation and went around drumming up support for the farmers, but this was not enough.
Lucie Albright campaigned with energy and soon found herself at the head of the movement.  But rapidly the other farmers’ wives began to think she was going off on a wrong tangent.  
“No, no,” she said.  “Just follow me.”
Reluctantly, they did.
Behind the scenes, she began a campaign for woollen goods: sweaters, socks, jackets, caps, touting their warmth, the beauty of the traditional designs, the durability of the fibre, and so on, and soon the public was clamouring for woollen ware.  As soon as the demand began to grow, she went to the farmers’ unions, still largely controlled by men, and told them, “Now you have to stop selling your wool.”
“But you’ve just created the demand!” protested the sheep raisers, seeing their new hopes of a rising market in danger of being torpedoed.
“Solidarity,” she said.  After a hard fight, she finally brought them round.  “Just let me organize it,” she said.
The gist of her strategy was, “Ask them for milk.”  So the sheep raisers association began to put in orders for large quantities of milk.  “Of course you don’t want all that milk,” she said.  “But if we get it, we’ll sell it to the people who want it, don’t worry,”
The supermarkets of course replied that they had no milk.  But they wanted the wool, for the factories that were ready to produce the goods they were hoping to sell.
“No milk, no wool,” said Lucie Albright.  “And if that doesn’t bring you round, we’ll start on the chicken farmers and the egg trade.”
And she was as good as her word.  The retailers tried to hold fast but they were losing customers daily and having to face rioters who insisted on wanting milk, and woollen goods, and chicken, and eggs.  And finally they gave in.  The price of milk at the beginning of the chain was raised, which naturally raised the end price a little but not too much—the retailers wanted no more riots.  People grumbled a little, but they had been made aware of the plight of the farmers and the grumbling was not very loud.
The newspapers followed events closely as long as they lasted, and analysed the phenomenon when it was over.  And for the reporters whose investigation took them into the unions as well as watching things from the outside, the findings were surprising.  
Because the most difficult part of the whole struggle was not, as one might think, bringing the retailers to the bargaining table, but getting the producers to accept the risk and play the game, and above all, to get them to accept a woman telling them what to do.  This story is a fiction, and twenty or twenty-five years ago could probably not have become a reality no matter desperate the situation should have become, simply for the reasons I have just mentioned.  But today things are changing, and who knows now?

______________________________

Annemarie's story

No milk, No Wool.  

   Sometimes I really don’t want to go to school at all but today I was so happy because it was my turn to bring a favourite book to read. It’s the first time Mrs Passman has chosen me. I don’t really like her because she’s always telling me off… even when it’s not me who’s talking. Her voice is very loud and her legs are like tree trunks. My favourite book is by Spike Milligan. Daddy says he’s a very funny man. His book doesn’t have printed letters like all the other books. Mr Milligan has drawn all the letters himself and some of them have big squirls and curls on the end of the letters. Some of the 't's'have little towers on top and he does all the drawings himself. Lots of the pages have come out because I read it or just look at it so many times. Mum says she will buy special sellotape  to mend it. Its called Badjelly the Witch. And I’ve got a book of his poems but the teacher thinks they’re rude because one of the words in them is 'farts'.

    Even though it was quite warm I wanted my special jumper that Granny made for me. It’s not like the other boys’ jumpers which a bit shiny and hard  - mummy says ‘synthetic rubbish and bad for the world' - mine has big stitches and is really soft and woolly and none of it touches my neck so it’s not scratchy. It’s got some holes in it but I still love it. But I couldn’t find it anywhere, not even under my bed in my toy box.

    Today the horrible dog who lives opposite us and pees all over mum’s roses, peed against my leg when I was standing by the gate waiting for my sister. Mummy was ever so cross as she made me change my socks and wash all my legs; she really scrubbed them and I could hear her using rude words about our neighbour, then she said I was never to repeat them. And we were late for school because of the dog peeing.

     When I got to school Mrs Passman wouldn’t let me sit in my usual place at the back of the class with my friends. I was right at the front with the girls so ‘I wouldn’t be a disruptive influence.’ I’m not sure what that means but I think Mum had something to do with it. Yesterday I heard her telling Dad that Mrs Passman had no idea how to control the kids.

     Then a third bad thing happened. Nobody except me and two other boys like the little bottles of milk we have to drink every day so I am usually allowed to finish some for the other kids. Today it turned really warm and the milk which waited outside in the morning turned funny and lumpy and we weren’t allowed any. Most of the kids cheered but not me. I think we will stop getting it 'cos I heard Dad saying that “‘the government was going to stop it altogether. Dreadful woman, Thatcher.” Even though the other kids don’t like milk we sing a song in the playground ‘Thatcher , Thatcher, Milk Snatcher’. I don’t think Mum and Dad like her or Mrs Passman.

     And then Mrs Passman told me off in front of everyone about my homework. We have to write a diary every day and do some drawings. I think my drawing was really, really good,  of me swimming in the pool and Mum and Dad watching but Mrs Passman said I was telling lies ‘cos I couldn’t possibly have swum 20 lengths. In our family we don’t do interesting things everyday, it’s mostly the weekend, so I have to make things up. I don’t think it’s lying,  it’s just inventing.

     But the crossest she was was when she read  my book to the class at the end of the day. She slammed it down on her desk when she she read the part about the « the teacher who had legs like tree trunks with hairs poking out » . Everybody laughed; that’s when she slammed the book and said she would speak to my parents later.

    I told Mummy about my horrible day but she wasn’t at all cross about the book and said it was just ‘a dreadful coincidence ‘ and not to worry and I could help myself to the first strawberries when I got home.

And that’s when I found my cuddly jumper and a chopped Dad jumper wrapped round the  strawberries. Mum said old wool was good against slugs and snails.

So today was not good - no milk , no wool and I had to sit with the girls. I hate grownups but especially Mrs. Passman and Maggie Thatcher. But tomorrow it’s my birthday. Mummy has made me a rocket cake with 8 candles and I saw some sparklers too. I love Mum… and my Dad.

credits

    (Richard, 7yrs)

 

Paula's story

At the beginning of their relationship, Isabelle and Marc would go together to the supermarket every Friday evening, walking the aisles with a list in hand, shopping together for weeknight dinners and weekend aperos, choosing fresh fruits and vegetables, mulling the choices of red and white wines, consulting recipes they wanted to try, and always opting each week for a dozen roses and a bottle of champagne. It was a celebration of their newfound togetherness, and sometimes they would giggle with glee at the very thought of being able to perform such a mundane task together. 

As the years went by, these weekly forays to the market became a matter of routine, and although they still enjoyed the time spent together, it was no longer the romantic outing it once was.  They would reach the expansive produce department and split up: “I’ll get the salad, the green onions, and the carrots,” Isabelle would say to Marc. “Would you choose the bananas, the tomatoes and the limes?” 

Then came the day when Isabelle handed Marc the grocery list and said, “Would you mind picking up a few things at the market when you go to the hardware store? I’ve got a ton of laundry to do, and I can’t really afford the time away.”

As Marc climbed into their car with the list in hand, and drove away from their house, he pondered why he was feeling a little blue. It was then that he realized that he and Isabelle had somehow moved from the intensity of spending every single possible second together, to giving in to the expediency of being apart. He wondered what it meant, if anything. Was this a permanent shift in their relationship that eventually could turn out to be harmful? Or maybe it signaled a little independence from each other, which could be a good thing. (Marc had a tendency to drift into existential crisis.)

Shaking off any dark thoughts, Marc headed to the local supermarket, and glanced at Isabelle’s list. Her handwriting was notoriously atrocious, but he was used to that, and he could recognize everything on the narrow piece of paper. 

Except for one word. 

“That looks like … wool,” Marc murmured, holding the paper close to his eyes and scrutinizing the scribble. The local mercantile store, stocked with yarns, threads, knitting patterns and more, was next door to the supermarket. But still, Isabelle was choosy about the yarns she used for different projects. And the single word ‘wool’ didn’t give him any clues about what she expected him to buy.

So, standing alone in the coffee aisle, he called home. “Hi, babe,” he said. “Exactly what kind of wool do you want me to buy?”

“Wool? What are you talking about?” Isabelle said. “I didn’t put wool on the grocery list.”

“I’m looking at the list right now, and it says wool,” he squinted again at the paper. “Well, not very plainly, but it does say wool.”

“I would never ask you to pick out wool for me,” she said. “Look, take a photo of the list and send it to me in a message, and I’ll tell you what I wrote.”

“I left my phone in the car,” Marc said. 

“OK,” Isabelle sighed. “Tell me everything you have in the basket, and I’ll try to figure this out.”

Mark ticked off for her each item in the basket, and when he was finished, she said, “What about the milk?”

“Milk?” Marc said.  “There’s no milk on the list.”

“Of course, I put milk on the list,” Isabelle said. “You have a bowl of cereal every night before bed, and we’re running low on milk.”

“Milk? No milk. That makes sense, but this says wool.”

“No wool. Why would I send you to buy wool for me? Does it include the color, the weight, the amount?”

“Well, no, “Marc admitted. “But this clearly is the word wool, not milk.”

“Look,” an exasperated Isabelle finally said. “Just buy a liter of milk and come home. And bring that list with you. I want to see the word that has confounded you.” She paused, then said, “It’s weird, but I really miss you.”

Marc smiled, and said, “I miss you, too. I’ll be there soon.”

 

I Thought it would never end ...

  

Sarah Page story

I thought it would never end  1 – sky my husband
(28.03.2024)

When my friend Milla suggested we go to the Franco-English literary conference, I said to her, "Not on your life!  I've been once, and that's it!"
"Oh, Sharon, don't you want to meet some French people?  Don't you want to see what people are writing these days?"
"I would have loved to find a person to talk about books, English-language books," I said.  "It's the French I don't want to meet."
"Oh!  That's harsh."
"It's because of last Thursday evening.  I was there at the opening."
"And it disappointed you?"
"That's not the point.  Because I speak a little French, Mrs Carruthers asked me to take a French writer in tow for the evening.  I said I don't know French that well.  But she said, oh no, this woman has a wonderful command of English, she carries a dictionary around with her everywhere and she works at it constantly, so they say."
"What's so bad about that?" Milla asked.
"Yes, but I hardly understood a word she said."
"She spoke only French?"
"No, it's her English that drove me up a wall.  And indeed, she refused to speak anything else all evening."
"Well, that really doesn't sound too difficult, Sharon."
"Wait till you hear.  I have an excellent memory and though I hardly understood a word,  I can give you our conversation almost verbatim.
"First of all, she whispered to me that she was not in her plate1  and hoped she would not be bearding2.  I must have looked puzzled, because she immediately explained that she had a little the cockroach3 and gave me a wink.  When I didn't reply, she said she hoped she hadn't done a hook4. I must still have looked rather blank, for she hastened to explain that she was afraid a certain man she had met there once before was going to bring back his strawberry5, and then she said we were not out of the inn6 because she could see him already.  'There, she said, see the guy on his thirty-one over there7, fifty brooms8?" She said she had a tooth against him9.
"'What?' I said.  I was lost already.
"'He has dog10, has he not?' she said then, beaming.  'Of course he's a big vegetable11.'  
"As I had no idea what she was talking about, I merely mumbled something non-comittal.  'You don't think so? she asked.  Look at his costume12, is it not of good invoice13?  A mantle14  like that does not run the streets15.  But of course, she continued, I am very old game16, and at first I saw only blue17.  There was a dance and I was afraid of making the tapestry18, but he came up and asked if I would like to go out and break the crust19 at a little place he knew.  He seemed such a have you seen me20 and it was a time of dog21, but he said he had a car.  I saw he was a little buttered22, but I had nothing to polish23; I was ready to take my foot24.  And yet, it was big like a house25, as soon as he put in step26 the motor.  He pushed on the mushroom27 and I thought I was going to pass the weapon to the left28.'  
"'Wait, stop!' I said, but she only smiled at me more archly," I continued as Milla listened, rather perplexed. "She must have thought she was doing a great job, impressing me no end, because she became even more animated, as she went on with her story.
"'He picked up another man, she said, they were friends like pigs29, but the place they took me to didn't break bricks30.  They suggested we eat at the map31, but I was rung32 when I saw how much they were ordering, especially when the other man said, at my nose and my beard33, she's the one to helmet.34  The waiter touched me a word35 and I soon had the flea at the ear36: they were hoping to make the bomb37 at the cool of the princess38.'  
"I interrupted again, 'What princess?'
"'Me, she said, I am the princess.  By now they were round like the tail of a shovel39 and I could see they thought it was all cooked40, that I was going to pass in the pan41 and all.  But it's not tommorrow the day before42 that I will settle for something like that.  It is not pie43 to fool me and they were going to fall on a bone44.  They were going to make white cabbage45.'   
"'Stop, stop, stop!'  I said, 'I don't understand a word you're saying!'
"'Oh, she said then, you are hard of the leaf46?'  
"By then I'd had it with this mad conversation.  I thought it would never end.  But she grabbed my arm and went on with her tale. 'But I am passing some, and of the best 47 !  He had the hands going for a walk48.  In fact, he only thought of that49.  That was the end of the beans50!  But I had a map51: I said I had to do my needs52, you dig into me53?  So I went to the little corner54, and when I pulled the hunt55 I made myself the suitcases56 and out the window I went.  That corked them a corner57!  I had made to them wrong jump58!'"
Then my friend began to laugh, in fact she was soon holding her sides.  "Oh, Sharon, good lord, don't you get it?"
"All I got was that she was mad--"
"Hammer 59, you mean, stamped60 in fact."
"What?  Now you're as bad as she was."
"Sharon, you just don't see it—she was a walking internet translator.  Taking every expression literally, using any old word that comes up in the dictionary, and of course it all comes out nonsense.  But if you want to know what she was trying to say, I've got a little book for you—have you never read it?  Sky my husband61, by Jean-Loup Chifflet.  Try it out, it's lots of fun."
So I got the book, and she was right.  It's just like internet translation!

+ 1015 wds


Glossary:
1 ne pas être dans son assiette       to be out of sorts
2 être barbant            to be boring
3 avoir le cafard            to have the blues
4 faire une gaffe            to make a blunder
5 ramener sa fraise        to show up
6 ne pas être sorti de l'auberge       to be just at the beginning of one's troubles
7 être sur son trente-et-un        to be dressed up to the nines
8 avoir cinquante balais        to be fifty years old
9 avoir une dent contre quelqu'un    to hold sth against s.o.
10 avoir du chien            to be sexy
11 un gros légume            a V.I.P.
12 costume            suit
13 de bonne facture        well made
14 manteau            coat
15 ne pas courrir les rues        to be rare, not easily to be found
16 vieux jeu            old fashioned
17 n'y voir que du bleu        not to suspect anything
18 faire tapisserie            to be a wallflower
19 casser la croûte        to have a bite
20 un m'as-tu-vu            a conceited person
21 un temps de chien        bad weather
22 être beurré            to be a little drunk
23 n'avoir rien a cirer         not to care
24 prendre son pied        have a blast
25 gros comme une maison        obvious
26 mettre en marche          to start (eg. a motor)
27 appuyer sur le champignon         to accelerate
28 passer l'arme à gauche        to die
29 copains comme cochons        great friends
30 ne pas casser des briques    to be not much to talk about
31 manger à la carte        to order from the menu
32 sonné                stunned
33 au nez et à la barbe de quelqu'un        right in front of s.o.'s face
34 casquer            payer
35 toucher un mot            to mention, or to hint
36 avoir la puce à l'oreille        to suspect
37 faire a bombe            to paint the town red
38 au frais de la princesse        at somebody else's expense
39 rond comme une queue de pelle    completely drunk
40 c'est tout cuit            it's in the bag
41 passer à la casserole        to get laid, or, to be killed
42 ce n'est pas demain la veille que je ...    I don't intend to ...      
43 ce n'est pas de la tarte        it's not easy
44 tomber sur un os        to meet up with a problem
45 faire choux blanc        to fail utterly
46 être dur de la feuille         to be deaf
47 j'en passe, et des meilleurs!       that's not all!
48 avoir les mains baladeuses         to have wandering palms    
49 ne penser qu'à ça        to think only of sex
50 c'est la fin des haricots        that's the last straw
51 un plan            a plan, or a map
52 faire ses besoins           to go to the toilet    
53 piger (slang)            to understand
54 le petit coin            the toilet
55 tirer la chasse            flush the toilet
56 se faire les valises        to leave
57 en boucher un coin à qqn    to knock s.o. for six, to amaze/confound s.o.    
58 faire faux bond à qqn        to stand s.o. up
59 marteau            crazy, nuts
60 timbré                round the bend
61 ciel, mon mari!            Good lord, it's my husband!

_____________________________

Paula' story

After a long Bourgogne winter of unending gray skies, rain and sleet, it was a joy to see the sunlight stream into the house through the front windows, to walk onto the deck out back and bask in the warmth of the welcome sunlight. To be able to spend most of the day and evening on the deck: reading, eating, drinking, conversing with friends, daydreaming, watching the stars: what a gift the late spring and summer bring to this hilly, green countryside.

But let me count, now. It has been, ummm, let me see, 137 days of straight sunshine. The constant glare and the heat are killing me. I have been suffering with headaches from the intensity of the sun on my windows, in my kitchen, when I drive to the grocery. I am tired of all the laundry that piles up because we are sweating through our clothes every day. My plants and vegetables in the garden are shriveling; I cannot keep them watered enough to sustain them.

I find I huddle in the house most days. Take a walk? What? And trudge through the hot, dusty countryside protected only by a pair of sunglasses and a straw hat? The glare and the heat make me so uncomfortable I want to scream. Go work in the garden? Are you crazy? There’s no protection whatsoever there from the sun, and I soon feel every bit as limp as the plants I am trying to save. Eat lunch outside on the deck? Who are you kidding? Even underneath the umbrella, the uncomfortable heat of the sun finds its way to me, and the brightness and overwhelming glare make the pages of my book so shiny that I can’t read the words.

Finally, on the 138^th day, a sprinkling of heavenly rain arrived, and I gasped with anticipation of another gray, rainy, gloomy Bourgogne winter. Because, quite frankly, although I had been so looking forward to summer, I thought it would never end.

 ________________________________________________

Jackie's contribution

I thought it would never end

I couldn’t put it down – 600 pages of romance, family reunions then squabbles and then the fall -       The death of the matriarch ruined and broke up the family home – personality’s changed and everything fell apart   The father, heartbroken, checked himself into a nursing home and never went back

Two of the boys left the family home – one to NY one to Rome and the third son stayed behind to manage the farm.    A classic story – an intriguing romance between the boy who had stayed home to farm and the local politicians daughter a beautiful spiritual child of 18.    An angel haloed by light with beautiful blonde hair cascading down her back – you know the scene she wears flowing gowns and silk dresses with delicate stockings and velvet shoes.            

The passion grew and developed between the farmer boy and this young girl – a beautiful couple – forbidden to see him, she sneaked out in the dead of night and he hid in his hayloft avoiding unwelcome visitors from the said family.  

The young beautiful girl is being terrorized by her rich politician of a father who could only see his own future at stake – his daughter to marry a local farmer?– the worst nightmare he could imagine.   She was destined to choose from a number of wealthy eligible men in the region and thus help him on his social climb;   but no she had to choose a local famers boy.    Ugh.     There were also three brothers protecting this girl – threatening rugby built boys who were afraid of their father’s wrath who, at the slightest contretemps, would raise the roof of their mansion and threaten to cut off their inheritance if they were disobedient.

The farmer boy, covered in hay and wearing rubber boots went to ask for her hand in marriage.    Driving up to the immaculately kept grounds in his tractor – lawns, flowers flowing into the distance and tall tall trees swaying in the wind the gardens matched the immaculate mansion   – he presented himself at the front door and the butler greeted him with disdain … the father refused him his daughters hand  …  He wasn’t good enough for them.  

Humiliated and sad he learnt that that the family had sent the young girl away – to where he wasn’t told and vowed there and then to find her.   His one wish was to hold her in his arms forever and build a family that he felt he had lost  

– the pain and passion bled off the pages into my heart making it unbearable to even think of putting the book down even for a while.

The story grabbed your tears and poured them into a mountain of  Kleenex tissues, part of me was the young girl I imagined being in the situation and it was totally absorbing – it  made me keep turning the pages and propelled me into a romance-devouring gluttony that lasted every moment of each day …..    my guilty soppy secret

Then the story moved on and the girl and the boy married eventually and had several children – he developed into the most powerful farmer in the region and thought about becoming a politician …. The children were under his thumb and he thundered and shouted in the house…..again I was gripped and entered into the story …

Wait a minute, hold on, this is starting all over again

It was then I discovered that this was a trilogy I was on a roller coaster of repeating passion and when would it ever end ?

_________________________________________ 

Annemarie's story

I Thought it Would Never End

Moho wa' Kepiro, a Gikuyu medicine man, once prophesied that “ the colonialists would bring an iron snake with as many legs as a monyongoro (a centipede). This snake would spit fire and would stretch from the big water in the east to another big water in the west of Gikuyu country.”

And so it happened.

 

I am six years old clutching the Spanish dancing doll, still in her presentation box, the present from my parents for my first day going to school. I am hiding in the compartment; the  moquette seats have a rough velvety texture I had never experienced before. In fact I had never seen a train before, let alone the monstrous steam engine at the front. This is the E.A.R.& H. mail train which will take us on 250 mile journey to our boarding school. Going at 25 - 30 m.p.h. it takes a minimum of twelve hours - if no unforeseen hiccups occur.

I don’t know any of the other girls or boys who are all hanging out of the windows,  waving wildly and shrieking goodbye.  The wail of the whistle blares as  the train rumbles and chugs off from Kampala station - clunkety-clunk, clackety-clack, a rolling cloud of steam blowing in its wake. There are no barriers where the rail line crosses the roads. Through the dusty windows I can see women in brightly coloured clothes, bandanas round their heads which are topped with baskets of fruit, bananas and sweet potatoes. They  scatter and jump out of the way, the dust swelling up around their bare feet. I look at my new sandals bought from the Bata  shop and at my blue-checked frock and  sleeveless pullover (for the cold evenings). This what I will wear all the time except at weekends when I can wear the dresses mum made for me.

We cross over the Nile on the iron bridge and some of the boys are hanging out of the window with homemade balsa wood propellers which whizz round and their hair blows back leaving open, breathless faces.

As we go round a bend I can see the engine far away in front dragging our carriages and slower and slower as it chuffs up steep inclines At every country station the train stops to take on water. The brakes hiss and screech when the train slows down to a stop.  The verges and platforms are crowded with hawkers shouting and selling their wares, baskets of naartjes (tangerines), bunches of sugar cane balanced on their heads. The two escorts (generally two mums) accompanying us, shout at the giggling  boys who have made water bombs to throw at the hawkers. Early evening, the sun sliding quickly behind the fields of maize and grazing ankole cattle with their huge arching horns and big dangling flaps under their throats. It iis time for  the compartment to be transformed into four beds. I get the top bunk, held in with a webbed fence. I am numb, with no knowledge of where I’m going, when will I see my mum and dad, my brother and sister again, this clunkety-clunk, clackety-clack journey …I think will it never end? Silently sobbing I hold tightly the hard Spanish doll, feeling it’s swishy, shiny red tarantella dress and the long black nylon hair tied in a sophisticated bun.   Some of the girls get tubes of condensed Nestlés milk out and start sucking the thick sweet cream leaving dreamy looks and sticky marks on their faces. They are making fortune-telling paper games and playing hangman until the escorts tell us to go to sleep. I will learn these tricks on future journeys.

 The train arrives at Kaptagat station at 5.30 in the morning; I don’t know where I am and I'm still so sad and sleepy as we are driven off to my new boarding school. I thought it would never end. But… the girls are friendly, the teachers, mostly, kind and in twelve weeks I will be back on the train going home! Hooray!

Looking back, the going-to and coming-back train journeys from school were one of the highlights of the school term. In 1999  when we had a family holiday in  Africa. I wanted to take the family on a nostalgic trip on the Lunatic Line. However the infrastructure was down. The railway line, administered by a single body, the East Africa Railway and Harbours, became non-operative when the East Africa Community broke up. The break-up meant each country ran its own railway systems. The railway, which had now been expanded to span three countries - Kenya, Uganda and Tanzania, - had slowly collapsed in each country. From 1970’s the Uganda line deteriorated so far that the service barely existed, the route was unusable, vandalised and tracks were buried.

In 1893 a plan for an exorbitantly costly railway from the coastal port of Mombasa in Kenya, to the inland towns of Uganda was conceived.This metre-gauge railway became known as the ‘Lunatic Line’, so named by the British politician Henry Labouchere. He considered the line directionless and an irresponsible use of public money, money which was granted following a campaign that portrayed the line as necessary to the aims of the British Empire. Between 1895 and 1903 a total of 36,811 workers were recruited, mainly from India. During the construction between 1895 and 1903, out of these the Indians, 6,500 were badly wounded, 2,500 died of malaria, black water fever and other tropical diseases and an estimated 100 were dragged from their tents and devoured by the Tsavo man eaters, two male lions.

 The number of Africans who died or were wounded was never recorded.

_________________________________________

I THOUGHT IT WOULD NEVER END

by Geraldine C.

 

We had been sitting in front of the chalet watching the sky, trying to guess where and when the next thunderstorm would hit, and hoping for it to clear as there was this lovely walk to the Refuge above that we had planned for the afternoon.

The chalet we were staying in belonged to friends who had fell for it, just as they had had a small heritage from the latter grandpa.  With this little sum of money, they could easily have bought a bigger place to live in for themselves and their 3 children, or acquired a better car that wouldn’t break down every now and again, but they fell in love with the little « alpage chalet » in the Alps.  And that was also bliss for their friends…

It was one of these places that you could only attain by walking at least an hour on a small narrow path : if you were invited, you would come with heavy rucksacks with warm clothes for the evenings and nights, duck feather sleeping bags and a lot of fresh food : meat, charcuterie, cheese, butter, eggs, vegetables, fruit and so on.

Alain and Christine, the owners, would have all the other stuff heliportered at the  beginning of the season : gas bottles, booze, coffe, tea, chocolate, flour, canned food, lentils, tinned sardines, potatoes, corned beef….and don’t forget the matches and candles as there’s no electricity up there.  It was a place for Heidi or « The Small House in the Prairie » kind of « you all do it by yourself ! « 

The cattle would be moved up there as from the end of May and stay for 4 months without fences,  grazing the wonderful grass and just looked upon by a local herdsmen who would also climb up for a very frugal but fullfiling life during the summer months.

The little bench in front of the chalet was just the most wonderful place to sit, watch, hear and dream.  You could hear the water dashing down nearby, see, if you were lucky, the chamois hopping here and there and, sometimes, way accross, a Royal Eagle would fly in the distance. The sky was mainly deep blue except on this particular day where big white cumulus were coming and going without either settling or bursting.

I had proposed to Claire and her friend Mary, both iddle 14 year old teenagers not knowing what to do with themselves, to take this walk to the Refuge on the top which meant a 3 hour run which would help them use the energy they couldn’t really cope with…  A few loud rumbles came accross and the sky finally cleared.  So, after a little pow wow and scanning the horizon, we decided to set off. 

You couldn’t really see the Refuge from the chalet, but it was upwards and that’s where our steps took us.  As we climbed, we left the trees below, came accross more grass and the smell of the mountain flowers was strong.  The grasshoppers were happily chirping and dancing around us. We had taken a solid pace trying to avoid the muscular cramps that usually assault you when climbing.  We were breathing in unison, looking up from time to time and when the Refuge appeared in the distance, against the purple sky we knew we weren’t far and hasted the pace.

Like in a film, the Refuge became bigger and bigger as we approached : it was a large wooden lodge made with logs, surrounded by a wide wooden terrace with bright red geraniums hanging down from it. The big large groundfloor room was a place where you could shelter, but also order fresh drinks, hot drinks, icecreams, and a few treats.  And apparently above were the dormitories where the hikers could find elementary beds to soothe their bodies and feet and spend a night.

As usual, when hiking in the mountain, we were happy to get to the top, knowing the return would be steeper but faster.

The view from the terrace was fantastic with all the peaks  to bee seen in the distance.  We couldn’t see our chalet, but could easily guess where it stood.  We were quietly sipping our refreshing drinks when we heard rumbling and rumbling again. And within seconds, the sky became anthracite and lightenings started popping up all over.  Everybody dashed into the Refuge’s main room, all commenting how sudden the storm was on us… and how lucky we were to have reached it in time.

The place quickly became damp and humid, with armpit smells, dirty socks, wet fleece jackets scents in the air.  And the rumbling and lightening kept on with their show for such a long time I thought it would never end.  By this time, my two teenagers were frightened and looking exhausted !  We still had to get back.

A lot of people in the Refuge were making bets : « shall we stay, or shall we leave » !... Each time we thought the storm was leaving, a few would take their chance and come back running 5 minutes later.  Too dangerous.

But finally after a desperate end game, the thunderstorm moved away and we could consider leaving the place and running down to the Chalet.  We watched a few people taking leave : they didn’t seem to be running back.  So after a while I told the girls it would be allright now and off we went.  The grass was wet and slippery and the slope quite steep. After no longer than 5 minutes, a huge drum roll cought up with us : the storm was back.  Fortunately, a small shelter with holes in the roof was just in front of us and we quickly sheltered inside : well, the roof had many leaks but it was better than outside ! And we felt better being in when we heard the loud tap tap of the hailstones on it. Another 10 minutes stop and we decided we’d had enough and were going to run down the hill as fast as possible till we’d reach our chalet.
And that’s what we did, a lot of it sliding down on our bums,  and maybe that’s what decided the storm to definitely find another place to hit.

This happened almost 40 years ago, but whenever we talk about going for a walk with Claire, she still asks : is it going to be worse than the one in the mountains !