Emily

Another Christmas tale - and a love story too.  There is a five letter word to describe Emily, but to state it would give the ending away.

I've noticed that a lot of my stories have an apocalyptic theme and/or feature someone meeting a sticky end.  I suppose it can't be helped for now - it was the PABC that encouraged me to start writing again after all.  I plan to rectify this situation in due course.

The world doesn't end in this tale - or at least not in the literal sense - but the protagonist might disagree.  

(Again...  Is this story auto-biographical?  In parts, yes.)

                                                                                                  

As a child I hated going to church.  Absolutely hated it.  I disliked getting up early on a Sunday morning and being frog marched into town with my parents, especially when it was cold and wet.  The awkwardness of having to parade out for Sunday School after the first hymn.  The incongruous jollity of the vicar when he tried to shoe-horn something funny into the sermon that he had heard on Radio 4 that morning. Not knowing what to do with my hands during prayers, or indeed what to pray about when we were supposed to pray for something of our own volition. And then there were the hymns.  Dreary dirges, every one.  Which was a pity, really.

Let me explain.

When I was in Junior School I had a young and enthusiastic form teacher called Miss Hadley.  I thought she was very pretty; she was petite, she wore her dark hair in a short bob and always wore dresses with a fine flowery print.  I remember once seeing her with wet hair when it rained during P.E. and being utterly transfixed by her (think Janet Leigh in That Scene in a certain Hitchcock movie).  Yes, I admit it - I loved her in that slightly confused, innocent and uncomprehending way that nine year old boys tend to love their female form teachers.  But the thing I liked most about her was the way that she played the piano during school assembly.  Most of the time she was like an over-excited labrador, playing as loudly as she could so that every child in the school hall could hear.  Occasionally she would play quieter, more subtle pieces and I loved to watch her delicate, slender fingers glide over the keyboard, showing that she had a musicianly skill and sense of expression in her playing that belied her usual sturm und drang.

This teacher always - always - played the happier, more modern tunes for the hymns during school assembly.  The ones that would make God Himself want to tap a dignified holy foot in time to the music.  All of this was completely lost on the vicar.  Every time he would announce hymn number 501 - 'O Jesus I Have Promised' - there was a ripple of anticipation in the congregation.  Would the tune be 'Hatherop Castle' (the one Miss Hadley played)?  Or boring, stentorian 'Wolvercote'?  It was 'Wolvercote'.  Every - single - time.  If I was God and 'Wolvercote' had been my worship music I would have made my displeasure very obvious.

I'm sorry. All this makes me sound ungrateful for the church upbringing my parents tried to give me.  I guess it didn't make much sense to the nine year old me.  A few years later, however, it did.  Perhaps not quite in the way that God might have intended.  Or maybe He did, I'm not sure.  ...But something changed and I suddenly wanted to go to church every Sunday, much to my parents' surprise.

Her name was Emily.

Remember what I said about my former teacher, Miss Hadley?  Emily looked like her, played the piano like her, wore the same kind of small floral print dresses as her... Unfortunately she was also completely oblivious of my presence.  I had known Emily since Infant School but I didn't really know her.  Small boys are highly suspicious of girls - or at least I was - so she didn't really register as being someone I wanted to get to know better until I was, well...  Fourteen, I guess.  Unfortunately (again) wanting to speak to someone so absolutely desperately and being able to string together any kind of coherent thought in her presence were two mutually exclusive concepts.  ...So every Sunday between the ages of fourteen and sixteen I would willingly go to church (because I knew she would be there), try to catch her eye across the congregation (and fail), shyly say 'Hello' to her if we met afterwards and then be angry with myself for the rest of the day for my complete inability to talk to the object of my affections.

As you can tell, I didn't particularly enjoy being a teenager.  And I am still ashamed that my near perfect teenage church attendance had nothing to do with wanting to be closer to God.

--

The years passed.  I never did manage to summon up the courage to ask Emily out.  She went to another college in the town for her 'A' Levels and we lost contact.  I went to University in another part of the country and overcame my teenage shyness around women (thank heavens).  When I returned to my home town during the holidays I used to visit the places of my childhood - a sort of morbid curiosity, I suppose.  I wanted to see if these places had changed.  I wanted to see if I still felt an affinity to where I grew up.

--

My parents' church always held an annual carol concert in the week before Christmas.  This was an opportunity to sing all the 'While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks By Nights' and 'O Come All Ye Faithfulls' interspersed with the traditional Bible readings from Luke and Matthew.  I really enjoyed singing these old traditional hymns - still do.  In my opinion it doesn't feel like Christmas until the Holly and the Ivy and King Wenceslas have had a proper airing.

So this is why I went to the annual carol concert the December before my finals.  There had been a couple of unexpected snowfalls in the week before, giving everything outside that chocolate box Dickensian feel.  Unfortunately the snow had frozen into ice; there had been an accident on the ring road that afternoon. I didn't feel safe driving so I walked into town instead.

I arrived a quarter of an hour early.  Even so the church was quite full so I had to sit upstairs in the gallery.  I was able to look down on the rest of the congregation and see some familiar faces from my childhood looking slightly older and greyer than before.  Then I heard a giggle and a familiar voice.  A voice that filled me with excitement and a peculiar, contradictory dread.

'Hello?  Is that really you?'

It was Emily.  She looked even more beautiful, even more desirable than I remembered - if that was possible.  Suddenly I was that tongue-tied fourteen year old again, incapable of talking to her.  She laughed then she held my hand.  It was colder that I expected, but she was still wearing her coat and it was cold outside so I thought nothing of it.  We smiled at each other and that angst - that fear that my love for her wouldn't be reciprocated - evaporated.

Like me she had come down from University and was revisiting old haunts.  I asked her the usual perfunctory stuff -  which university she was attending, what she was studying, how her parents were - and then she grinned at me.  It was a grin that I had seen many times at school, but she had never directed it at me before.  I could tell she was going to ask me something mischievous.

'All this stuff about University is a bit boring.  What I want to know is this...  You fancied me something rotten for years when we were at school together, yet you hardly said a word to me yet alone asked me out. Why was that?  And why didn't you pick up my incredibly unsubtle hints that I liked you too?  You were such a silly shy boy, weren't you?  Now shut up and sing - we can talk about this later.'

Well that told me, didn't it?  

The church organ had started playing.  So we sang.

--

Afterwards we went for a drink in a nearby pub and, as promised, we talked. At last, all that longing for Emily seemed worth it.  She was with me, talking and laughing with me, being the friends (and maybe lovers) that I had wanted us to be.  Five minutes before closing time, Emily said that she would need to leave soon - her parents were expecting her - so she scribbled a telephone number on a piece of paper and told me to call in the morning.

Then she kissed me goodnight.

--

I called the number in the morning.  A man answered it.  I asked for Emily and he said no-one with that name worked in the hospital mortuary.  I gave him a quick description of Emily and my name and number and asked him to call me if he heard anything from her.

I didn't hear back from him.  Perhaps it was foolish for me to think that I would.

--

There was an article in the local newspaper a couple of days later.  Two cars had been involved in the accident on the ring road.  The first - an SUV - had been driven by a man in his forties.  The second car - a Volvo estate - had been driven by a man in his late fifties.  There had been two passengers - his wife, also in her fifties, and their daughter who was in her early twenties.  The SUV had skidded on black ice and careered into the other car, killing the occupants instantly.

--

I never did see Emily again.  I miss her, even now.

Christmas, children, isn’t a date. It’s a state of mind

I wrote two tales for the Post Apocalyptic Book Club Christmas Short Story Competition.  The first was Tommo & The General; this is the second.  

The title is a quote by American educator Mary Ellen Chase.  The protagonist in this story - an actor called Nick - would probably agree with its sentiment.

                                                                                                

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick…

--

“Where’s Nick?  Has anyone seen Nick?”

“He must still be in his dressing room.  I’ll go and get him.”

The runner sprinted from the studio floor to the dressing room.  He knocked on the door – no response.  He carefully opened the door.  Sprawled across the dressing room table was a portly, white haired and bearded man in his late sixties, dressed in a Santa Claus costume.  He was in considerable pain; even with the stage makeup his skin looked almost yellow.

“Are you okay, Nick?”

“No…  Please, I need a doctor!”

--

"Here’s the next one."

“Who was he?"

“Don’t you remember?”

--

Holly:    “For the past thirty years my guest tonight has appeared on television and in the movies and he is known –and loved – by generations of children.   He has played many roles, but he is best known for playing Santa Claus.  For many he is that character.  Put your hands together, Ladies and Gentlemen, for Nicolas Christmas!”

Nick:    “Thanks for inviting me onto the show, Holly.”

Holly:   “You’re welcome.  So, Nicolas…  Or can I call you Nick? “

Nick:    “Yes, that’s fine.  I prefer it.”

Holly:   “So Nick, tell us about Santa Claus and how you came to play him.”

Nick:    “I’m sure you know, Holly…  I’ve told this story many, many times before.  Too many times, perhaps!  …But it helps people to understand why I have devoted myself to this role, why my portrayal is the one that people associate with the character.  I’m fortunate that I look a lot like an archetypal Santa.  There’s my stocky build, plus my Scandinavian ancestry, my cheerful demeanour, naturally white hair and bushy beard.  Then there is my name…  Nicolas was my maternal grandfather’s name.  And my surname, is… appropriately festive too, if sometimes... yes.   So I’m ideal Santa material.  …But it’s only when I put on that suit that I feel like I am him.  Suddenly I’m more…  I don’t know…  Jolly?  My grandfather was exactly the same.  One of my earliest memories was sitting on his knee wondering where he kept his reindeer.  I suppose it’s the family business.”

Holly:   “On the screen we have a photo of you and your grandfather at the start of your career, both dressed as Santa Claus.  Both of you looked very convincing!  So, when did you start working as a Santa?”

Nick:    “It started off small – local kids’ parties, school and church Christmas Fairs, seasonal work in department stores.  Then, some thirty-three years ago in a branch of Debenhams on a typically gloomy December afternoon, a young mum came in with her four year old son.  I gave them my usual jolly Santa, but there was something special there; a connection.  Yes, the child was initially shy but they usually are at first.  …And then suddenly he was smiling, laughing and hugging me.  His mother was in tears.   Later I found out why; the child and his father had been in a car accident the previous year and the father had been killed.  Since then the child had not talked, smiled, laughed or any of the things you would expect a four year old to do.  Somehow I had managed to bring joy back into the life of this little boy.  The mother called it a ‘Christmas Miracle.’ 

This incident reached the local news and I was suddenly in demand – I became the local ‘Go-To Santa’.  Then I met a young, beautiful and vivacious woman from a television production company and one thing led to another…  I was given a seasonal special and she became my wife.  Her name is Mary, though for obvious reasons I’ve always called her by her second name - Teresa.  That combination of her first name and my surname really is… too much.”

Holly:   “What happened next?”

Nick:    “Well, as you know, if anyone has needed a big jolly man with a beard in a red suit then I’ve been there.  There have been pantomimes, television shows, film contracts, charity events, merchandise deals and so on.  I’ve met politicians, royalty, the famous and infamous – everyone.   Of course I’m known for my Long John Silver and Shakespearian roles too, but it is Santa that I keep coming back to – he was my first role after all.   And Holly, I’ve never lost sight of what that role represents.  Yes, I’ve lived well, but most of the money I’ve put into a charitable trust to help the less fortunate.  I know all this makes me sound a bit sappy and mawkish but that’s who I am. I know I’ve been very fortunate.” 

Holly:   “I understand that you have some important news, Nick.”

Nick:    “Yes. I have.  As you know, I was ill while recording my televised Christmas message a couple of months ago.  I’ve tried to keep my health problems quiet but…. I guess I need to get them out in the open now.  You see, Holly…  I have been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.  The prognosis isn’t good…  I have only a few months left.   …But I would like some good to come of my situation.   Please…  If you are watching this – on television, your mobile, online, wherever - I want you to help.   On the screen now there are contact details.  Use them – tell everyone you know about my campaign to find a cure, donate whatever you can.  I know it is already too late for me.  …But please - let us give some hope to others also facing an uncertain future.”

--

“Mr Christmas to see you, Dr. Frobisher.”

“Ah, yes…  Thank you Miss Wright.  Show him in, will you?”

--

Nick walked into Dr. Frobisher’s office.  Behind the leather desk stood a tall, thin and very well-dressed man in his mid-forties.  He was wearing a pin-striped suit with a pair of spectacles perched on the end of his long nose.

”Ah yes, Mr. Christmas.  Take a seat, will you?  And how are you today?  I understand it’s been two years since your diagnosis.”

“Please… Call me Nick.  Well Doctor, I’m fine I guess…  I’ve kept busy, kept my mind off of things.  …Though I realise I’ve been very lucky; I wasn’t expecting to still be here.”

“Quite.  Yours is unfortunately a particularly unforgiving condition.  As you know Nick, there have been many advances in the field of cryopreservation over the past twenty years.  Even ten years ago a client who had undergone the process probably wouldn’t have made it out the other end with their mental faculties intact.  Nowadays a client at my clinic can be revived after several years without experiencing any major side effects.

Obviously it’s not a cure for your condition - it’s more a way of making you comfortable while you wait for one. 

Are you interested in finding out more?”

--

A bright light shone into Nick’s face.

"Mr. Christmas? “

"...Huh?"

"Are you awake, Mr. Christmas?"

"Yes, yes...  Who are you?"

"My name is Dr. Frobisher.   Do you remember me?  Don’t worry if you can’t.  Disorientation is quite normal following revival."

“Yes…  Yes, now I remember you.  Hello again.”

“So, how do you feel?”

”Groggy...  Like I have been asleep for a long time.” 

"You have.  Eleven years to be precise."

"Dear God...  Really?  Oh, my head..."

"The revival process isn't exactly pleasant.  Drink this - you should start to feel better soon."

"Okay…  Wait... You've woken me up!  Did they find a cure? "

"All in good time...  For now have a drink, make yourself comfortable and try to rest.  I'll be back shortly; I'll answer any questions you might have then."

The bed was comfortable and Nick felt sleepy.  He closed his eyes...

--

Nick awoke on a gurney in a small empty hospital ward.  Everything there seemed scuffed and worn:  the tiles and the paintwork were cracked, the flickering strip lights were slightly discoloured and there was a strong smell of bleach that didn't quite disguise the odour of urine and vomit. 

He saw Frobisher sitting beside him in a red plastic chair, reading.  He didn’t seem the same confident, almost bullish man he remembered.  This Frobisher had a rough beard and smelt of stale sweat; his clothes had not been clean for some time.  He looked exhausted. 

“Doctor?”

“Ah yes, Mr Christmas.  Did you enjoy your nap? Be careful moving – you might feel a bit stiff for a day or so, but don’t worry you’ll be fine.  And I imagine your appetite must have returned by now so let’s get you something to eat.  Here, let’s get you into a wheelchair and we’ll go to the canteen. "

Nick shuffled to the edge of the bed then transferred into the wheelchair.  Frobisher wrapped a blanket around Nick’s shoulders, wheeled him out of the ward and into a small, grimy canteen.  Shortly some people arrived, shuffling slowly.  Most were dressed in pyjamas and dressing gowns with plastic slippers; a smaller number wore white coats over crumpled jeans and sweat-shirts.  All looked thin-faced, grey skinned and tired.  Some were losing their hair; others had sores on their faces.  They sat down at the tables; Frobisher and Nick joined them.  A few minutes later a couple of white-coated men arrived from an adjacent room.  One was carrying white plastic dinner trays and a box of cutlery; the other a large dixie containing a grey, lumpy stew.  They served the food then sat down with the others.

Everyone ate in silence.

--

After the meal Frobisher showed Nick a small re-enforced glass window.  He cleaned it with the sleeve of his white coat. 

“Mr Christmas, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.  There isn't a cure for your condition.”

“So… why did you wake me up?”

“Please, look outside.  Tell me…  What can you see? “

Nick peered out.  Outside was a grey mist.  Immediately in front of him there were a couple of weatherworn bicycles, still padlocked to a rack.  Behind that he could make out a few stunted trees and the shadows of some nearby buildings.  There were street lights; none of them were illuminated.    

“It’s so gloomy - I can’t really see that much.  Is it evening?”

“No…  It’s about one o’clock in the afternoon.”

“Really?  …I don’t understand.  What happened?”

“Six weeks ago there was a …brief nuclear exchange.  Everyone came to their senses and peace was declared almost immediately, but it was already too late.  The fallout fell, the skies darkened...  and it’s been like this since.  Fortunately we have our own generator and sufficient supplies for a few months, though the clinic really hasn’t been as much protection as we hoped and…”

Frobisher looked at the ground, took a deep breath then continued.   

“I’m sorry but we are dying, Mr Christmas - all of us.  Radiation poisoning, you see.  When we realised this we decided to revive our cryonic clients.  We thought, admittedly a bit selfishly, that they would like to spend the time they had left with us.  As expected, most of them opted for… a way out.  A few decided to remain and we were hoping that you would like to join us.  If you do stay you can change your mind at any time.“

“I see.”

Nick stared out of the window.

“What’s the date today, Doctor?”

“25^th December.”

Nick paused then smiled weakly.

“So let’s celebrate.  There is still time.”    

Well, I Guess It Is Something to Do

This Slightly Odd Tale is about petty office politics and unsportsmanlike behaviour.

If anyone ever asks me where I get my ideas...  Well, it's one of the many benefits of a cheese-rich diet.  

Probably more of a side effect than a benefit, admittedly.

                                                                                                                                      

As the Rider regained consciousness, he could hear voices.

'Is everything ready?'

'I think so.'

'Shhh!  He’s waking up. Go!'

'AHEM!  Bonjour, Maillot Jaune.  I trust you have rested well.'

The Rider slowly opened his eyes.  He was lying on a cold, hard bed in a simply furnished hospital room.  He raised his hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the overhead spotlight.

'Where am I?' he asked.

Next to his bed was an athletically built man in his early thirties wearing a black jersey, a white cap and fitted shorts.  He sported large sideburns.

‘You've have been asleep a long time.  Wake up and get changed into your Robes of Office, Maillot Jaune.  I shall return.'  Then someone outside the room hissed 'Allez maintenant!' and he bustled away.

At the foot of the bed lay a pair of Lycra shorts, a grey baseball cap and a tight-fitting yellow jersey.  The Rider stood up, coughed, and dressed himself.  He noticed that there was a plastic sports bottle filled with water beside his bed.  The Rider quenched his thirst, sat on the edge of the bed and waited.

A short while later the man returned accompanied by four severe-looking men.  They were also wearing cycling gear. 

'You shall follow us, Maillot Jaune.  Ralf, Florian, Karl, Wolfgang...  Begin.'

In unison, the men chanted 'Ah! HURRR!  Ah UR HURRR!' and then stiffly shuffled out of the room.  The Rider followed, uncertainly.  

--

The Rider was now inside a poorly maintained mini gymnasium.  At one end there was a ramshackle stage and at the other a worn pastel-coloured sofa.  The man with the sideburns bellowed 'Ah! HURRR!', then pointed at the sofa.  ‘Go!  Speak to Oh, Maillot Jaune’.

There was a slightly chubby African-American woman sitting there.  She waved at the Rider and beckoned him over.  ‘Sit by me, Maillot Jaune’ she instructed. 

At the other end of the room the chanters climbed onto the stage. They began to sing in a sonorous monotone while performing a slow, graceful dance.

L'enfer du Nord: Paris – Roubaix (Tour De France! Tour De France!)

La Cote d'Azur et Saint Tropez (Tour De France! Tour De France!)

Les Alpes et les Pyrennees (Tour De France! Tour De France!)

Derniere etape Champs-Elysees (Tour De France! Tour De France!)…

The Rider sat down on the sofa next to Oh.  Immediately the chanting stopped and the room went dark.  Suddenly the light from a single spotlight dazzled them.

‘Maillot Jaune, I expect you to tell the truth.’ stated Oh in a calm but firm voice.  ‘Did you ever take banned substances to enhance your cycling performance?’

The Rider looked at Oh, confused and horrified.  ‘Sorry?  What did you say?’ he replied.  ‘I don’t understand’.  The Rider could feel himself starting to sweat.

‘Did you ever take banned substances to enhance your cycling performance?’ she repeated, her voice sterner and more forceful.

‘Y-y-yes?’ the Rider replied hesitantly.

‘Was one of those banned substances EPO?’

‘I don’t know.  What’s EPO?’ the Rider replied.

‘ANSWER ME, MALLIOT JAUNE!’ Oh shouted.

‘I have no idea what you are talking about!’  The Rider tried to stand up, but Oh grabbed his forearm.

‘You sit DOWN, Maillot Jaune.  Tell me what I want to know and you shall be allowed to go.  Was one of those banned substances EPO?’  Oh glared at the Rider.

‘…Yes?’ he responded.

‘Good.  Now we are getting somewhere.  Did you ever blood dope or use blood transfusions to enhance your cycling performance?’

‘I guess,’ answered the Rider.  ‘But I don’t see what this has to do with…’

‘SILENCE!  Did you ever use any other banned substances such as testosterone, cortisone or human growth hormone?

’I suppose so… I’m not sure.’

In all seven of your victories, did you ever take banned substances or blood dope?

‘Erm… Yes?’

‘So you admit it then, Malliot Jaune.  SHAME ON YOU!  SHAME!  LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THIS MAN IS A FRAUD AND A CHEAT!’

The Rider looked directly at his interrogator.  He could see the rage in her eyes.   ‘B-b-but I don’t understand!  What is happening here?  W-w-who are you?’ he stammered.

‘You damn well know who I am, Malliot Jaune.  (Oh my me, pardon my French!)’  

The chanters resumed their song…

Galibier et Tourmalet (Tour De France! Tour De France!)

En danseuse jusqu'au sommet (Tour De France! Tour De France!)

Pedaler en grand braquet (Tour De France! Tour De France!)

Sprint final a l'arrivee (Tour De France! Tour De France!)…

Oh gestured to the man with the sideburns.  The Rider felt a blow to the back of his head and he passed out.

--

The Rider awoke on the bed in the hospital room.  He had a headache, but he appeared to be otherwise unharmed.  Beside him was a tattered box file. He opened it.  Inside was a single DVD-R with ‘Lance Armstrong – The Oprah Interview’ scrawled upon it, a brown envelope containing a music CD broken into several shards, an official looking letter and a small plastic case.

The Rider examined the remains of the music CD;  Kraftwerk.  Written on the envelope in small tidy writing was ‘How do you like them now?’

The Rider then read the letter.

 April 20--,

Dear Mr Armstrong,

In the light of current world events and the on-going austerity measures, I regret to inform you that your application for funds to purchase one (1) exercise bike for the Site Fallout Shelter has proved unsuccessful.  Additionally the decision to reduce the Shelter Entertainment Budget by 100% was regrettable, but necessary.  A memo instructing key shelter personnel to bring their own books, films and music will be distributed shortly.

As a personal favour to a fellow cyclist, I have provided alternatively sourced entertainment for you to enjoy if the worst were ever to happen.  I hope you agree that the music CD has several catchy little tunes; even if you cannot exercise on a bike as you originally intended, you could keep your spirits up by jigging about to the music.  Also, there is an important message to be gained from watching the DVD; cheats never prosper, Mr Armstrong. I know what you have been up to and I expect to receive your resignation from the cycle club at your earliest convenience.

Yours sincerely,

E. M. Armitage

Procurement Officer (Civil Defence­)

Civil Contingencies Secretariat

 --

The Rider sighed and refolded the letter.  Then he noticed the Post-It note attached to it.  It read:

Sorry!  I was a bit rough back there.  You can be Wiggins next time and I’ll be Lance.

Inside the plastic case was a pair of false sideburns.  The Rider smiled.

                                                                                                                                      

Puzzled?  These links might help give you some understanding about what this was all about.  Perhaps...

That Oprah Interview

Kraftwerk - Tour De France

Once Upon A Time There Were Three Bears...

Here is a slightly silly reworking of a very familiar tale.

Okay...  It's very silly.  

                                                                                 

"Granddad!  Granddad!  Tell me a bedtime story!  Please?"

"Eh?  Sorry, dear.  What was that?"

"I've had my bath, Grandma has dried my hair, I have my bedtime milk here and Grandma says that you can tell me a story."  His six year old grand-daughter grinned at him.

"Did she now? Well, come here and crawl onto my lap and I'll see what I can do. Let me see, let me see... ".  He pushed his spectacles up his nose and thought for a moment.   "I know, here is a story about a family of bears that live in a house in a forest and a little girl who comes to visit."

"Oh, Granddad...  Not AGAIN!" She sighed.  "The little girl finds the bears' house, breaks all the chairs, eats all the porridge and falls asleep in a bed.  The bears come back and she runs away.  I've heard this story before."  She pouted at her grandfather.

"No, no, no, dear.  This is a completely different story.  Yes there is a family of bears and a little girl who is an uninvited guest, but this story is very different.  It has a happy ending too."  He smiled benevolently.  "Does that sound like something you might enjoy?"

"Um.  ...Maybe?  Okay, Granddad.  Please tell me the story."

--

Not so long ago and not so far away there lived a family of bears.  There was a Daddy bear - who was big, strong, furry and ever so slightly grumpy.  There was a Mummy bear - was also big, strong and furry and only very occasionally grumpy.  ...And there was a Baby bear who looked quite a lot like your teddy bear - small, not so strong, but very, very cute and fluffy. He might have also been a little bit grumpy too. And they all lived together in the deep dark forest, living on fruit from the trees, berries from the bushes, fish from the river and honey from the wild bees.  They lived in a cave and they were very happy and...  Well, exactly like you would imagine a family of wild bears would be.

Then one day a swirly star fell from the sky and landed near the Bear Family's cave.  To their surprise ...it spoke to them.

"Greetings, Ursine Family Unit.  I bring you salutations and I mean you no harm.  As a sign of my goodwill, I will bestow on you intelligence, speech and opposable digits.  In return I would like to observe you."

("That's very silly, Granddad."
"Yes.  Yes, I know.")

There was a flash of multi-coloured light and Bear family fell asleep on the forest floor.  When they woke up they felt a bit different.  They didn't want to live in their draughty old cave anymore.  ...And walking on all fours didn't seem quite right either.  So they stood up on their hind legs and went house hunting.

Not long after the family had their own cottage in the middle of the forest with pink shutters, a blue door, comfy beds, wooden chairs and table and a small, pleasant garden outside with a shrubbery and a path.  It was very nice indeed - and the Bear Family loved living there.

Daddy Bear took to wearing an undersized green hat with a collar and green necktie.  He found work as an assistant park ranger in charge of picnic basket procurement. Mummy Bear starting wearing a cute blue mini-skirt, putting a daisy behind her ear and going for walks with her parasol.  ...As for Baby Bear - he liked to wear purple bow ties and he spent a lot of his time getting his father out of sticky situations.  The swirly star visited them occasionally; he examined them and asked if they liked their new lives.  Daddy Bear was always quick to point out just how much cleverer he was than the other bears in the forest; Mummy and Baby Bear knew different but they just smiled and humoured him.

--

One day, when the Bear Family were out at a farmers' market buying minute jars of locally-sourced organic honey, a little girl came by their house.  Now this little girl wasn't a very nice little girl.  Yes, she seemed very pretty and pleasant with her long, golden curls, sweet rosy cheeks, sparkling blue eyes and her funny, silly laugh, but unfortunately...  she wasn't.

She walked up to the door of the Bear Family's house and starting banging on it very loudly, without a second's thought for all the other woodland creatures going about their daily business.

"OI!  BEARS!  I'M HUNGRY!  LET ME IN NOW!" she yelled.

Obviously there was no answer - the Bears were twenty miles away licking honey spoons and discussing the merits of blended versus single flower honey in great depth with their favourite bee-keeping artisan.

"RIGHT!  I'M COMING IN!" said the little girl.

She stepped twenty feet back from the house, took a deep breath and charged at the door. "AAAAAAAAARGGHHH!" she yelled - then there was a crash and the door fell off its hinges.  "THAT'S BETTER!" said the little girl.  "NOW...  WHERE'S THE GRUB?"

In the kitchen there was a cupboard filled with jars of honey and jam, loaves of bread and pats of butter; the little girl helped herself.  ...And she had a little bit more.  Then a little bit more and more and more until there wasn't a scrap of food left in the cupboard.  '"HEY!  I'M THIRSTY!  WHAT DOES A SWEET (burp!) LITTLE GIRL LIKE ME NEED TO DO TO GET A DECENT GLASS OF MILK ROUND HERE?"

("Oooohhh.  She's very rude, isn't she Granddad?"
"Yes.  Yes, she is.")

Meanwhile the Bear Family were making their way back from the market.  They had just bought a second hand car from a rather hairy gentlemen who had a animal skin coat and a rather nice line in monomania when he got over-excited.  Daddy Bear wasn't sure if a vintage camper van was really appropriate for his family, but the man had wielded that club of his very, very persuasively.  Those three young ladies of his were also, very, um, attractive too and he could tell Mummy Bear didn't approve.

Back at the Bears' house, the now not-so-little girl was now looking for somewhere to sit down.  Or maybe sleep; the kitchen floor seemed a good enough place as any.  She closed her eyes and within a couple of minutes she was snoring loud enough to rustle the leaves in the trees.

Some time later the Bear Family pulled up outside.  First they noticed the door, or rather the lack of one.  Then they got out of the car.  Then they noticed the muddy footprints leading from the front door into the kitchen.  Then they noticed the open, empty cupboards, empty bread wrappers, emptied jars of honey, broken glass, puddles of milk and - in the middle of the room - a rather mucky looking, rotund little girl with honey, butter and jam smeared in her curly blonde hair and on her frilly white dress.  ...Who was snoring, loudly.  The Bear Family went outside, got out the lunch they had bought at the market and began to eat.  And why not?  It was a warm, sunny day; confronting their uninvited guest could wait.

--

("Granddad!  What are you doing?  Where's the bit about 'Who's been sleeping in my bed?' gone?"
"I thought you said you didn't want that?  No, these are polite, friendly bears who don't go around frightening small children, even those that invite themselves into stranger's houses and then eat everything in the house.")

--

The little girl woke up, her hair sticky with honey.  "Ooohhh, I don't feel well!" she said.  "Ahem!" said a gruff voice behind her.  In front of her were the three bears.  "Uh oh," she said, nervously.

"Hello? Little girl?  Care for a sandwich?" said Daddy Bear, offering her the open picnic basket.

--

As I said, this is a story with a happy ending.  The little girl apologised for raiding the Bear Family's house.  She mended the door and cleaned up the mess in the kitchen.  Finally she helped the Bears replace the food she had eaten by helping Daddy Bear set up a hive in the garden and by cooking some scones with Mummy Bear and Baby Bear.  ...And do you what?  They all became friends.  The little girl and her family became very close to the Bear Family - which they remain to this day.

And the little swirly star?  He was very happy too, and so were his superiors - he got his promotion.  "And it's about time too, " said his boss, Mr. Warner.

--

"I liked that story, Granddad.  Thank you. ...Though I don't quite understand that last bit." said the grand-daughter.

"You're welcome, my dear. Now, it's time to go to bed.  Say good-night to Grandma and we'll see you in the morning."

--

Later the grand-parents were sitting in their living room.

"That story just gets sillier and sillier," said the grandmother.

"I know, I know."

He paused.

"...But it is all true, isn't it?  We did all become good friends, didn't we?" he answered, resting a paw gently on her hand.

"True...  But I don't remember ever being that rude.  And my mother had to wash my hair three times before she got all the honey out.  Did you know that?"

He laughed.

"I know...  Hey, are you sitting in my chair?"

"Oh, you silly.  Good night, Baby Bear."

"Goodnight, Goldilocks."

Woman Driving, Man Sleeping

There is a song by Eels called, yes, 'Woman Driving, Man Sleeping'.  You might recognize echoes of the lyrics in this story.  You can listen to the song here: Eels - 'Woman Driving, Man Sleeping'

Before you ask 'Is this story autobiographical?', let me say this...  Some of the emotions are but the scenario is not.

I believe the story benefits from a certain economy of words.  I hope you agree.  

                                                                                 

Man Driving:

It had been suggested with the best of intentions.  One of her friends had offered the use of a cottage in the middle of the Welsh countryside - miles from anywhere - for a long weekend.  'It’s nothing special, but it would do the two of you a lot of good - to get away - to spend time together.  ...Just the two of you again,' she said.

We both knew that her friend was right.  Life had been tough recently - she had lost her father, the children were still fairly young, we had both been working long hours.  We had tried our best, but yet...  There just hadn't been the time to really let ourselves be the people we had once been. Something similar had happened to our friends - marriage, mortgage, kids, responsibility, careers - it was just part of life, wasn't it?  You hit your late-thirties, early forties, and that's what you do, isn't it?  Everyone does it.  So you just get on with it, muddle through.

Woman Sleeping:

A beach.  The sound of waves.  Warm sunshine. 

You feel that, don't you?  Calm.  Tranquility.  I want to stay here.

Man Driving:

We dropped the children off at my parents' on the Thursday evening and arrived at the cottage Friday lunchtime.  Her friend had been right.  The cottage had been simply furnished yet comfortable.  And secluded?  Oh yes.  The nearest farm was a good ten miles away.  The friend had joked that the mobile reception was pretty poor around those parts.  Pretty poor?  Not a single bar. Work couldn't contact me here.  In fact no-one could.  It was just me and her - just like it had been before.  It had been kind of, well... liberating.  I remember loving that - I'm incommunicado.  I'm free.

She's still sleeping.  Good.  It's been a long weekend.  Too long.

Man and Woman Awake:

'Would you like me to drive now?  You need to rest.'

'Okay.  Let's pull over at the next service station, get a coffee and we'll swap.'

Woman Driving:

I had enjoyed the first day or so with him.  We hadn't spent that much time together recently, so it had been pleasant to just potter around, enjoy the countryside, curl up on the sofa by the fire.  I saw some of the man I once knew, yet...  The doubts remained. I had hoped that being there would make them vanish, but no.  They remained.

Sunday morning.  We had been sat down at breakfast, exchanging small talk, like we always do.  Then I said it, just like I had rehearsed in my own mind too many times before.  I told him that I loved him, yet...  Not now.  Not in that way.  His expression changed - his usual calm, amiable manner vanished.  He sat there, looking down, a small wedge of butter balanced on his knife, never quite touching the toast.  He said he was sorry, got up, put on his coat and walked out.

I didn't see him for the rest of the day.  He returned in the evening, wet and cold, still in a state of shock.  I ran him a bath, made a cup of tea and we held each other.  We tried to make love, but...  No.  He slept on the sofa.  I regretted feeling this way about him, but he needed to know.

Man Sleeping:

Once I came home from work early when she was out.  The house seemed big, empty.   It had never felt that way before.  There was obviously something missing, goodness knows what it was but, My God, I needed to find it.  I opened all the doors, checked all the rooms.  I still couldn't find it, whatever it was.  I left the house, defeated.

Woman Driving:

He's just turned over in his sleep.  At least he can sleep.  Why did I tell him?  Could I have carried on pretending?  It's too late to think these things now.

Man Sleeping:

I came back later.  She was there in the living room, sat on the sofa using her smart phone.  I greeted her, asked her what she was doing.  No response.  I wanted to grab that phone from her and smash it, crush it.  Then she would pay me attention.  Oh yes.  Then she would.

Woman Driving:

This morning we had a long talk about what we would do next.  The children, the house, what we would tell friends and family.  ...Or at least I did.  He just sat there, blank faced, apparently not quite comprehending what was happening, what I was saying.  He asked if I would consider marriage counselling; I agreed.  We hugged after our chat.  Yes, I was physically close to him at that moment, yet I had never felt so distant.

Man Sleeping:

It's summer.  Sunshine.  I'm meeting someone.  I can't wait to see them.

Woman Driving:

It's getting dark.  Both of us need to be at work tomorrow morning; we should have taken another day off.  We are going to be exhausted.  I don't think we'll feel much like working but we have to get through this, don't we?  We have to get back.

H'mmm...  No-one around.  Full beam it is then.

Man Sleeping:

I can't believe that I hadn't noticed her before; she had been sitting two rows in front of me in the lecture theatre all year.  Then one day she turned around and smiled at me...  At that point I just knew.  It took me a good week or so to summon up the courage to ask her out for an ice cream.  Why an ice cream?  Oh I don't know; it had been warm and it was the first thing I managed to blurt out.  I couldn't believe just how nervous I felt.  She said 'Yes', thank God. 

...And here she is now.

Woman Driving:

What's that?  No!

Man Sleeping:

She takes my hand, kisses me and I can't express just how ...happy I feel.  

I'm so glad that she is here, with me, right now.

Woman Awakes:

Where am I?  What happened?  The car?  There was a deer... Oh my God, is he alright?  Is that blood?  Oh my God, there is so much!  Is he alive?  He's breathing!  Ambulance!  Where's my mobile?  OhmyGodohmyGod.  Crap!  Crapcrapcrap no signal.  NO SIGNAL!  WHAT DO I DO NOW?               

Man Sleeping:

We are lying on a blanket in a park, under the shade of an oak tree. Her head is resting on my chest; she's playing with the sleeve of my t-shirt.  She's laughing; I'm laughing.

Warm dappled sunlight.  You feel that, don't you?  Calm.  Tranquility.  I want to stay here.