Tick Tock

 
Tick tock goes the clock, the mouse runs up it and into my head.
 
I open my eyes. Another day, another fucking day. My legs move and my feet put themselves into my slippers. I walk to the bathroom. He’s in the mirror again, the man who looks like me. I smile and he smiles back. I like it that he smiles, makes me feel good.
 
Sunshine from the yellow cloth in the kitchen. I feel good. “I feel good”, I say.
 
Tick tock, you feel good, tick tock you feel good, tick tock. Bloody clock.
 
I sit down at the table, the egg on my plate smiles at me. I smile back.
My fingers want to count the squares on the tablecloth so I let them count. “One, two, three….Let’s go and see”,
 
Time for the window. My green chair is there. I sit, I watch, I wait, I wait, I watch. “She’ll come”, says the clock, “she’ll come”.
 
My head feels tired. I lean into the warmth of the leather. I’ll close my eyes, just for a moment, just till she comes.
 
The clock chimes three, mummy says, “it’s time for tea“.
 
Round the corner she comes, blonde hair swinging, softly singing.
 
“Henry”, she shouts, “Henry, are you there? Are you ready?”
 
Ready? I’m always ready, always on time, bang on the minute.
I run down the stairs two at a time and leap the last three, reaching the door just as she enters it. My arms go round her waist and I hug her to me, breathe the sunshine caught in her hair, kiss her lips. I lift her off her feet and turn with her, turn again and again till dizziness says stop and we fall against the wall, knees weak and pulses racing.
 
“C’mon Henry, we’ve no time to waste”.
 
She straightens her skirt and straightens my tie, a last fleeting kiss and we’re on our way.
 
The hall is full when we enter. The breath of anticipation hits our faces and we are sucked in. Men stand in groups against the walls, spirals of smoke meet in mid conversation, “You alright then Bert?”, “How’s the wife?”
Headscarved women with red lips and painted cheeks pass gossip to and fro, each keeping an eye on a hoped for purchase, careful not to arouse the interest of her neighbour.
 
Suddenly a man enters from a door at the side of the stage and climbs up a small flight of steps into the limelight. A hush descends on the room, breathing seems to cease.
 
The man, his bald head glistening under the naked light bulb that swings above him, wipes sweaty palms down the legs of his chalk striped trousers. He clears his throat and as if to satisfy a long-repressed desire for the dramatic, hesitates just long enough to ensure attention, before starting to speak,
 
“Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls”, said with a quelling glance towards two unkempt children scrabbling on the floor near the stage steps. Their mother bristles and pulls them away.
 
“We are here today for the disposal of the contents of Mere Lodge, the former home of Major Reginald Snough, now deceased”, this last word said in a suitably grave and respectful tone.
 
A few moments of silence tick by. Edith squeezes my hand and an electric excitement runs up my arm. I pull her close and tuck her small hand possessively into the crook of my arm. United we stand against the competition of the enveloping crowd.
 
The auctioneer clears his throat again and announces , Olivier-like “Lot 1”. The crowd stand to attention and the bidding begins.
 
A wardrobe, a hall table, a bust of Caesar….
 
Time and mind drift as we wait for Lot 23.
 
A dog basket, a copper kettle, a slightly used mattress….
 
The hammer falls on Lot 22, the new possession of a buxom Mrs White, and presumably a parrot, of 11 Field Lane.
 
There are only a few bidders for Lot 23, a dining table and six robust chairs that have seen better days and probably better homes than the little flat above the corner shop that will soon be our home. My hand curls round the notes furled in my pocket and we breathe again as the hammer falls. They’re ours.  
 
Our purchase secured my mind is fed by the thought of the steak pie, chips and gravy on offer at the Black Bull next door. Pulling Edith with me I weigh up the possibilities of making it through the batallion of eager bidders surrounding us. A tentative move to the right meets a disapproving glare from a full-bosomed woman in a flowery frock and stilleto heels, platinum hair backcombed into a beehive.
Resignedly we turn our heads back to the front and try to focus on the proceedings. My mind wanders. Only thirteen days to go and she’ll be mine, every naked bit of her. A film of sweat erupts from my collar as I imagine my hands running through her hair, pulling her towards me, entering her for the first time. My mouth dries.
 
She tugs at my sleeve, and again, and I hear her whisper “Look, look…”. I follow her gaze to the lot held aloft by a red-faced henchman in a tight fitting brown overall. The auctioneer clears his throat once more, “….acquired by the family on a visit to the Black Forest in 1936”. His voice tails off into an embarrassed silence. He hurries on “but much older……fine workmanship…in full working order”. Like a stage magician he nods at his assistant. As one the crowd leans forward as the key turns and the ticking begins…
 
“Tick tock”, says the clock. The two hands reach twelve and out pops a brightly painted bird. A brief twitch, a “now you see it, now you don’t” look on the magician’s face and it disappears. The auctioneer opens his mouth to speak and out it pops for an encore. The crowd laughs, a warmth of fellowship spreads throughout the room at the magical performance of the little wooden bird.
 
She squeezes my arm again and stands on tiptoe to whisper in my ear “Please ….let’s..” Her eyes say the rest.
 
Who needs a cooker anyway, or a hearth rug or even a bed, well maybe a bed. My hand shoots up to stake my claim and the fight is on.
Bit by bit, bid by bid I shake off all opponents and streak ahead in the bidding stakes to the elation of success and undoubted penury in months to come. The look on Edith’s face is worth every penny of our future I have pledged in three fast minutes. The fall of the hammer is echoed by her squeal of delight.
 
The clock becomes an eternal voyeur of our domestic life and its tick tock, like the rhythm of a contented heart, measures the passing years.
“Ring a ring of roses, a pocketful of posies, a tissue, a tissue……” . Little girls in party dresses fall to the floor in heaps of giggles, blonde hair and brown, pink satin and white net. The lights suddenly go out and all eyes turn towards the door. A candle lit cake enters the room to oohs and aahs and clapping hands. Edith places the cake upon the table and a little girl with golden curls and the face of an angel, a reflection of her mother’s, clambers onto a chair and prepares to blow. She sucks in her breath and in one quick move the candles are extinguished and the room is plunged once more into darkness.
The cake is cut, pieces wrapped in colourful paper serviettes and each placed with a balloon, ready to accompany the guests home. But first a last treat. Crossed-leg girls sit in hushed expectation as the clock hands creep towards four o’ clock. Tick tock says the clock and out hops the little bird, a little bird who today wears a tiny party hat placed on his head by a very happy father.
 
Our clock, a constant tick in a changing world.
 
“She loves you, yeh, yeh, yeh….yeh, yeh, yeh, yeah…” The sound pours from a red dansette in a corner of the room.  Mini skirted legs twist from fireplace to table, from table to sideboard, long blonde hair swings in perfect rhythm. A doorbell rings. A last glance in the mirror above the mantlepiece assures Claire that her false eyelashes remain spider-like on her pale-lipped face.
 
“Hiya babe”. He drags his eyes from her low cut top and kisses her on the cheek. She ushers him into the little sitting room, warmed still by the hum of music and the coal fire in the tiled grate. He quickly notes the open cocktail cabinet, Dubonnet and cocktail cherries at the ready.
 
“Mam and Dad out then?”
“Yeah, at the firm’s ‘do’, not back till gone midnight, like Cinderella”. Attempted nonchalance, nervous giggle.
 
Embers glow in the darkened room. An empty bottle lies in the grate. Teenage stubble on pale breast. Fingers entwine, hearts beat together.
 
Out pops the little bird “Time to go home, time to go home”. Tick tock.
 
Minutes to hours, hours to days, days to weeks.
 
“You’re what?” . A shout that shatters the mirror of domestic harmony.  
 
“You’re up the duff to that gangly lout?” “My daughter, my daughter pregnant and unwed, pregnant and under my roof?” Anger boils, threats beat their way into broken hearts. A stiff silence fills the little room and the clock ticks. Tick tock.
 
Out pops the little bird in cheerful innocence.
 
“Bloody bird, bloody clock”.
 
Anger hurls a plate and the bird flies, free of its prison at last. The clock ticks on.
 
The house is quiet now. Claire has gone, flown like the bird with Dave the gangly youth and father of the child. Edith has gone too. To her mother’s I think, or maybe her sister’s. Said she couldn’t stand the ticking of the clock.
 
“Wake up Henry, wake up”. A hand roughly shakes my shoulder. “You’ve got a visitor”. “You should be dressed, not staring out of that window. No time for moping”.
 
My feet do as they’re told and walk down the hallway to a room at the end. A room full of people, strangers with names I don’t know, faces I don’t see. I don’t feel good. I say, “I don’t feel good”.
 
“Come on Henry” says the stranger. I feel her cold fingers on mine. My feet walk towards a table. A woman looks at me, She touches my sleeve. I try to smile but I don’t feel good. The woman’s lips are moving. I like her lips.
 
 
“Where is my clock?” , I say, “Have you got my clock?” “Who are you?” My head hurts, I don’t feel good. I start to shake. A stranger pulls me away from the table.
 
I’m back in my room. Tick tock, says the clock, time for bed, time for bed. My feet kick off my slippers, I lie down and close my eyes.
 
 
Edith sits for a moment longer then quietly rises from her seat at the table and leaves the room.
 
 
 
 
 

The butterfly upon a thread is caught, her wings collapse and to eternity she falls, leaving behind a memory of what once was. If only she'd been free to fly upon the rays of dawn till sunset passed across the sky and all was dark. But no, she let herself be trapped in Man's desire and now she is no more. O foolish sylph to be like you is wrong and not for me. I must be free.

Garden sun

It's the last week in September, it's half past five and I'm sitting in my garden bare arms exposed.
My cat lies with a smile on her face, having dined on sea bream courtesy of a fridge freezer whose prayer to be defrosted was finally heard. Let's just say it took longer than anticipated for the iceberg-like lumps to descend drip by drip into the strategically placed plastic basin.
Soggy potato dauphinoise, the sad half of a Marks & Spencer meal for two cuddles up to a flaccid bag of drippy peas, some have escaped into the lake of raspberry ripple ice-cream that laps the 100% beef burgers - no barbecue for them.
Opaque eyes of vacuum packed fish stare up at me accusingly. They've waited so long to be consumed. My hand hovers over the flip top bin, relents and turns towards the oven. Neatly packed head to tail the silver skinned four meet their 180degree fate. The cat's dish is full, a happy customer.
The warmth of the sun caresses my face with the pretence of Summer but this is not the intense shimmering heat of the Alpujarras, the heat that cried out for a wide-brimmed hat and a loose cotton caftan, the heat that stole away inhibitions and led naked figures into an icy pool, the heat that lay with me all night in my cloistered bed. Nor is it the swallow brought heat of a rare English Summer, a heat given thanks by picnickers who swim in the cool, peaty river and pretend it's not cold, a smoky heat of barbecue skewers mastered by butcher aproned fathers on tidy patios.
No, this heat us the reluctant guest who throws a backward glance as the party bell chimes the midnight hour. A last lingering look and then it's gone.

A washed out world

Today I am lost in black and white, just a walk on part in an old movie. Discordant notes screech across my consciousness; the world is showing it's frayed edges; I am so small. Oh how I long for technicolour.

Imaginary Friends

Today brought no travel except in my mind and on my computer screen. I sat at my kitchen table and entered the world of Brenda. Brenda started as a very small character in a very small story, written during my sojourn at Cortijo Romero. But how Brenda has grown! She and I have become friends and she’s beginning to amaze me by what she thinks and says. I can’t wait to see what she does next.

Have I discovered the writer’s secret pleasure? The world of imaginary friends? One day I hope you’ll know Brenda too.

At home

I'm in Troller's Ghyll. Late afternoon sun holds the chill at bay but I know it's coming. A deep valley, a limestone tomb carved with the hands of previous lives. Shadows of long-dead lead miners fall across the well worn path and I hear the passing of their weary feet as they leave, the day's work at an end. A silence hugs the settling hills and roaming sheep nod their heads in acceptance of a natural isolation. Water is high in the Ghyll. It forces its way through cracks; it eddies, carving shapes for future generations to wonder at. I hear the rush, the power, the freedom. Darkness brings the screech of night time kills, pulsating fear for those not safe at home. I turn with thoughts of fireside warmth drawing me back along the narrow path; passed down tales of the red eyed dog snap at my heels as my imagination walks, then runs before me. Through a gate and onto tarmaced road. Safe.

An Artist's Eye

Flashing by
A Payne's Grey sky
Umber furrows
Rabbit burrows
Cobalt seas
A line of trees
A pebbled shore
Vermillion ore
Sienna sand
A waving hand
Jacob sheep cream and Umber
Ochre piles of new sawn lumber
Hung out washing
School boys crossing
Magenta station
Wild elation
Journey ending
Lovers meeting

St Andrews

St. Andrews: Grey skies. Neap tides. Bunkered Links. Chapel bells. Grassy aisles. Cloistered quad. Empty wynds. Rhubarb pies. Ghosts in corners. Bookshop browsing. Tide out harbour. Pier meanders. Red gowns. The old town.    Home

She'll be a coming round the mountain

At 1600m I can imagine I am on top of the world or at least on the 25th floor - not made it to the penthouse yet but ever hopeful. Snow capped peaks reach for the sky and I have a Toblerone moment -sweet, oh so sweet, but with the background knowledge that I'm near the end of the bar. 'You can always buy another' I hear you say but life isn't like that, is it? The taste is never the same twice. The recipe contains the same ingredients, in the same quantities but perhaps it's what it follows, where it is eaten or even the mood of the moment?
A mirror image of where I walk is scattered with what looks like rockfall - a cluster in a shaded patch of green, another clinging vertiginously to an upper slope. The tinkling of bells, carried to my ears through the clear air tells me that the ricks are in fact cows put out to Summer pasture. I am in the cliche that is Heidi.
A speck enters my periphery and passes close enough for me almost to feel the velvet brown wings of a small bird of prey, a kestrel perhaps. Is he concentrating on lunch running far below or is he too just enjoying the moment, sweeping and soaring for the sheer hell of it? I like to think so.
I thank the Pilates exercises for the strength in my core that keeps the strain from my knees as I take the steep path down. Before me lies a giant's bowl of broccoli like fir, every inch taken. The smell of forest draws me into it's cool shade. Dampness pushes it's way through my sandals and caresses my toes. I can hear the ice-coldness of burbling streams, preparing their voices for the roar of snow melt to come. I pass the well-named Chalet Silence, windows shuttered. I'm sure it sighs in it's sleep as I tiptoe by.
Round a corner on a small plateau that juts out into the valley, cows are being milked. Six at a time calmy chew in rhythm to the pumping of their udders whilst the waiting queue patiently await their turn. Big brown eyes, eye lashes any girl would die for, smiles of contentment. I think of contentment filtered into milk and I buy a litre, still warm. I look down into the creaminess and I see my mother spooning the 'top of the milk' onto my childhood porridge. Thank goodness some things do not change. No DEFRA rules here!

What we do for fun

More sunshine -can I bear it? Today I've been on the golf course at Avoriaz in the French Alps. I can almost hear the grinding of teeth of those of you back in Blighty and maybe even back at your desks. So I'll tell you this as it really is. A golf course it may be, views to die for certainly but, and here's the downside - in Winter this very golf course is a series of ski slopes.So what were we doing? We were chasing a little white ball up and down blue and even red runs that you would never dream of attempting on skis in anything other than a downward direction. The sun was blazing and some of the party were carrying bags full of essential clubs (I think 40% are actually used). Of course this doesn't affect me anyway-I'm a one iron gal -number 7 sees me tee off and make my slow way to the green (then a putter does come in useful I admit). 
What we do for fun.

A travelling Blogger

After soaring the heights of a chocolate and all 'things that are bad for you' free week I tumble to Earth through a deluge of fat ridden snack foods, sugar laden coca cola and chocolate. The fault of course is Ryanair and Easyjet's. Cheap flights they may be but if you count the most expensive pastime in the world - hanging around airports and the nullifying effect on expensive gym membership (and the cost of the associated Lycra) then I'd have been as well flying first class with Cathay Pacific. But then I'd have been stuck in the bubble of a 1st class lounge and would have missed the great diversity of human life that's passed before me. Ms 'I'm 60 but God how I wish I were thirty' in tight leggings (White rather than the usual black in a nod to the season), teetering gladiator S&M sandals and a boob tube top that clings to drooping breasts like a very good friend. Botox, in helping to iron out the ravages of time and too many vodka and oranges has left a constipated expression. She hangs on the arm of a could-be 60s train robber-done time on the Costa del Sol, possibly more of a sentence than the Scrubs. The gold tiled, chunky gold bracelet and neck medallion have proved good investments in these precarious times. Always good to put your cash, or someone else's cash, in gold.
Mr and Mrs Home Counties are standing in the queue at Starbucks waiting for a cooling Frappucino. He's nattily turned out in pressed (I'd go as far as to say knife-edged pressed) beige shorts -the only indication that they haven't graced the golf course during his two weeks away being the pocket on the thigh - that makes them 'Cargo' not Wentbridge. A pink Crew Clothing polo shirt worn outside the shorts and well polished brown leather deck shoes complete his ensemble. Pro, his wife sports pristine White Capri pants - Capri not cropped - a Matelot T shirt from Boden and a cashmere sweater swung about her shoulders (even if it is 25 degrees in the shade). She wears pale blue loafers and ladies I have to tell you, yes they are genuine Todds. No rucksack hand luggage for her. She's in holiday mood with Cath Kidston.
And then whilst searching for that little lady sign (I feel as though I've been three times round the board without passing go never mind passing water and I feel as though I'm going to pass out) I trip over the gap year set who seem to spend a lot of their months of helping muck out in elephant irohanages in Sei Lanka or building schools in African villages lying on the floors of airports (avoiding the many free seats because the floor is the place to find real travellers. 
As I climb over cinnamon stick like limbs and dusty back packs that look larger and certainly heavier than their bearers, a waft of the souk mixed with unwashed youth enters my nostrils and stirs memories in my brain of when I was grasping at the adventure of new places and people -and that was just last week. Sun bleached tresses beaded into corn row plaits atop earnest faces that mothers can't wait to kiss.
A family passes, mum, dad, two little children, two teddy bears, one double pushchair, umpteen bags of paraphernalia that goes with those early years. A child cries and strains to escape and slide on the vast marble floor of the departure hall. But mum knows best-tearful maybe but at least she knows where little Jonny is. She delves onto one of the overstuffed bags and produces a stick of carrot. Surprisingly it seems to do the trick and the crying stops. Toddlers seem easier pleased these days than I remember. 
And what about the woman in the White linen dress, the one with the self-satisfied smile and an almost drugged demeanour as though she's been at the most estful place on earth for a week, who looks as though laughter and camaderie are her best friends, who walks the long way round between terminals at Barcelona airport just to squeeze every last second of sunshine out of the picture perfect sky, who's just bought an expensive Lancome lipstick because she thought it was the very shade of pink to show off her tan and then mentally debated whether 8 euros for a sandwich could be justified or should she starve, who's now writing on the tray liner (succumbed to the sandwich) because she's packed her notebook, who's going to look very silly at Geneva airport scantilly clad and with beaded flip-flops - oh yes, that"s me.

People cluster in the duty free shop, bored at the endless wait. They walk like sleepwalkers round the glitzy goods on offer and do their best to avoid temptation. Some throw caution to the wind and swap their last few euros for bars of over priced Toblerone (which will probably melt anway before they get home but granny won't mind). Glazed faces listen uncomprehendingly to unending announcements, straining to hear the familiar name of their destination. Panic subsides when they do -the flight does go from this terminal. 
Queues start as Gate numbers are called. No sheepdogs needed here, not for these cooperative Ryanair passengers with unallocated seats. A competition then to get on first and grab the best positions, whatever they may be. The seasoned travellers of course  advertise their credentials by remaining seated in the lounge and then strolling nonchalantly through the Gate at the very last call "It's not as though it's a bus and we're not going to get a seat" a little bit of smugness perhaps. They climb the steps and run the gauntlet glares  of those with luggage stowed (in the overhead lockers or beneath the seats in front of them as directed by the charming air hostess now cabin crew who tries to imagine she is on long haul in first class, or at least business class . A feeling of resentment at being kept waiting is almost palpable.
Safety instructions are studiously ignored-let's face it we all know that if the worst happened the last thing we'd be thinking of is removing our shoes before sliding down that yellow plastic thing into freezing cold water. Women and children first, Titanic style? I think not. It would be worse than a queue for an Austrian ski lift- the best man or best pusher would most definitely win. And of course someone would insist on opening the overhead locker to save that souvenir they spent hours haggling for. It's to be hoped that the plane isn't perilously positioned at this point or my earlier passage over sleeping bodies in the lounge may seem like a walk in the park.
"Please do not remove your seatbelts until the plane has come to a standstill and the captain has switched the seatbelt sign off" is of course ignored. Those so anxious to get on first are as keen to be off before the luggage has left the plane so they can stand longer round the carousel complaining at  how long they have to wait "couldn't organise a piss up in a brewery". Unlike good old Blighty then where airports teem with stag night inebriates.
And now let's complain about the weather. Let's act surprised that it's no longer 30 degrees when we emerge on an English evening into rain and a chill. Why are we cold? Why are we wearing the beach wear that should have been packed away with the memories of balmy evenings    and Sangria? Why indeed.