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Kate Woodward is telling tales again

The black dog

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Come in old pal, I’ve saved your place
beside me, where your loyal soul will stay,
and leaning on me, comfort find,
while mine all drains away.
I can’t be cruel, I’ll let you stay.
I’ll feed and lavish you with love
and when you leave — pray God you do —
remember where I live.

By Kate Woodward

It was a short lived thing

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You fall fast. Though seated, you know he’s tall. Long, strong fingers, pale against his dark suit, fair, with a hint of curl and that melancholy gaze. And the nose: that crooked, monstrous nose, and you, well, you’ve always had a thing for noses.
It’s rude to stare. You move on past, watch instead the other faces and rest your eyes on the older gentleman, the one with the complacent smile, the jowls and the grey whiskers. You look closer. He has the same name. Time, or the artist, has ruined your nose.
It wouldn’t have lasted. You walk on.

The Beautiful Game

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I don’t count, they think I’m a joke,

the only girl with all these blokes.

But I’m listening and I’m learning,           

reading everything concerning

the beautiful game.

I follow 5Live and TalkSport

and I know who’s been sold and bought,

who’s on the bench, who’s injured

and who’s the fastest winger in

the beautiful game.

I want to share my opinions.

Was that striker worth his millions?

Should that goal be disallowed?

Was the trouble from the crowd at

the beautiful game?

I’m never gonna get heard:

a girl and football – how absurd!

To think that I could care who wins

or know the rules that underpin

the beautiful game.

And yes, I know the offside rule,

don’t treat me like a bleedin’ fool

‘cos, these days, hear what I’m saying:

us girls are on the pitch and playing

the beautiful game.

Death of an ordinary man

There, just across the square, sitting with two small boys and a bottle blonde wife – who’s washing down nachos with a jug of sangria – sits an ordinary looking man. He’s the normal age for a man with two boys, wearing the normal holiday shorts with the usual blue-checked, short-sleeved shirt. He’s clean shaven with a regular haircut; an unremarkable height and weight. There’s nothing, at all, to set him apart from the crowd. Unless, that is, you count the red dot of the laser sight that plays, sometimes on the left, breast pocket of that unremarkable shirt and sometimes, smack in the middle of that plain forehead.
Now you’ve seen it, nothing is normal. You toy for a while with the notion that one of the boys, in their long navy T-shirts, has borrowed, from Dad, the little gadget he uses when he’s making his PowerPoint presentations; but the boys are at some other game involving paper napkins, cruets and the lining up of knives and forks. You turn to the wife, but she’s somewhere, far away, enjoying her sangria fuelled fantasy. You start to look at the other diners, the black-shirted waiters and finally, you look around the shuttered windows that surround you at first and second floor height. All seems normal there too; until a moment of movement, west to your south. A first floor window opens – just enough inches for a nose and lips, and an index finger, held vertically against those lips. Now you’re silenced. The shutter closes, almost completely, leaving just enough space for the barrel of a weapon. Your ordinary man, in his ordinary shirt, slumps, only a little, in his seat, as his wife stares into her dreams and the boys continue their game.
A few seconds pass, maybe a minute, until returning from her brief sojourn, the wife spots the trickle of blood that runs from the hole in her husband’s skull and screams. The police are called, an ambulance. The boys are huddled away. A small crowd gathers, some peering over shoulders, some shaking heads before sneaking away. And just before the police seal off the square, with hastily called in officers and blue and white tape, you too slip away leaving a payment for your meal tucked under a half drunk bottle of Rioja.
You stroll back to your, efficiently small, hire car, making make a mental note to check the newspapers tomorrow: to blunder through the incomprehensible words of the Spanish press, until you find the couple of column inches that describe the unexplained shooting at 11.00 p.m. in the evening of the Day of the Festival of St James of tourist X, who was dining, at the time, with his beloved wife and twin sons at the Café Murada in the Placeta des Verdures. As you pull away from the kerb in the neat little car, that’s when you see, as your hands break the beam, the small red dot that plays across your chest.

Below

Below

I have fought my bed, this night, for sleep.
Elastic hours that stretched and yawned
have heckled, tossed and heaped on scorn.
And I, in forcing breath to slow, and eyes to close,
have battled bed-sheets, barking limbs
and longed to slip
below,
below.

I have fought my bed, this night, for sleep.
Against my will – a spring armed foe,
swathed softly, trading blow for blow.
And I, in lying, legs just so, must hold the line;
keep back those massing, legion fears
that day break drives
below,
below.

I have fought my bed, this night, for sleep,
and watched the clock count rest’s escape
from pillows pummelled hard as hate.
And I must bid all dreams goodbye; give up the fight,
for night’s sly troops, though fallen back,
are digging in –
below.

Pixar and the woman who fell to earth

This is going to sound a bit sad – not in the sense of tragic – rather in the teenage speak sense of the word. Let’s get it out there: I am a saddo. When Pixar animations celebrated a quarter century of outstanding filmmaking in last year, I hadn’t seen a single one of their films.
I have spent Pixar’s lifespan in a difficult place. Twenty two years spent in a marriage to a man with strong opinions and a dominant nature. In terms of entertainment, what he said went. And I, mea culpa, fell in with that. It was easier to go along with things, than to fight and lose a battle over a little matter of what film we should watch on the TV. I am talking here about a man who could manage a major sulk if I so much as suggested I would watch something else in the other room. I hadn’t been to the cinema above a half dozen times in those years – the last film we saw together was the first Lord of the Rings – and yet I had watched The Long Riders, Deliverance, Southern Comfort, and Master and Commander, so many times that I could walk onto the set of a remake and deliver the lines word for word.
It isn’t an enormous surprise that we are no longer together. His choice, not mine – I’ve already said, everything in the marriage was his choice, haven’t I? The rejection hit me hard; I have spent three years slowly making my way back to being me. I’m at the stage now – the Promised Land that you can’t envisage when a break up is new – of realising that I’m better off without him. I am returning to the real world, and this time, I’m coming as myself.
So back to Pixar. How do they fit in? It’s like this: I’ve got catching up to do; I can’t play in the real world without understanding the cultural references everyone else bats about. I need to know who Woody, Buzz and Dory are, and goddamit, I need to know if anyone ever found Nemo. I have been borrowing DVD’s and enjoying the escapism of some of the things that the rest of the world has taken for granted. Not just Pixar, either, I’ve not been that exclusive. Let’s just say that I now know about King Julian and have a real soft spot for Sid Sloth.
I should have been getting heavy into my exciting new Amazon purchase “The Complete Business Start Up Book” but I discovered that there was a little Pixar gem on the TV. WALL-E was being shown. A five star rating in the paper, 8.5 on iMDB – the book could wait. I had the important business of catching up to get on with.
It’s not exaggerating to say that I watched it with a grin on my face, that in the privacy of my own home I laughed out loud; that I watched awestruck as I saw the destroyed Earth and that I was entranced by the two robots dancing together against a star strewn universe.
As I watched the film, I felt like someone who had been away for a very long time suddenly and unexpectedly finding that what they’d longed to get back to, isn’t a disappointment, but is better than they remembered. I have missed out on popular culture and yet it’s popular because it’s damned good and because it appeals to our very human-ness. We can try and ignore that side of us, think we are above enjoying what the masses enjoy, but we do that at cost to ourselves not to them.
Like the stultified passengers of the Axiom, I’ve been away a long time. It’s taking time for me to get sorted, but watching these movies and seeing why they are so loved and talked about has been great fun and more than that – it’s been a return to Earth.

To mark the wettest January since records began . . .

An Improving Outlook.

For the third time in a week – no, correct that – the third time in six days, the forecast had been substantially inaccurate. The prediction had been for a freshening, north-easterly breeze, bringing a “much welcome dry interlude”; that was the phrase that had registered. Miss Priestley surveyed the sodden land that surrounded her chocolate-box cottage. If she strayed from the pretty winding path, into her “idyllic” garden she would be lucky to emerge with her boots. She watched a parade of fat brown slugs, relishing the conditions; each individual one of the seven she could currently see, mocking her as they munched.

Miss Priestley had been retired since April. Five months, three weeks and two days. One hundred and seventy-six days, on nineteen of which the forecast had been largely incorrect. According to her notebook, those inaccurate forecasts were the output of five different meteorologists, with one man being responsible for eleven incidents – two of which were in the last six days. After a light lunch of soup and crisp-breads, Miss Priestley settled herself at her desk in front of the sitting room window, with its “panoramic view of rolling pastureland” and switched on her computer.

The meteorologist with the poorest record was a man of thirty-seven years, an Oxbridge graduate, interested in football, coarse fishing and good food. Miss Priestley could have found out much more, but the key piece of information came to light very early in her searches – Mr Nicholas Adderley lived in Peterborough. It was the work of a satisfying couple of hours to discover and to graph the relevant data. The picture was clear; on the eleven occasions that the forecast for her particular part of Yorkshire was wrong, the forecast for Cambridgeshire had been close to perfect on nine of them. The remaining two predictions were for heavy rainfall, which had, instead, turned out to be only moderate.

It was good to be working again. Not as many hours as she had put in before her retirement of course; an hour before her breakfast, then another couple of hours after she had finished with the Telegraph. If the afternoon was dry, she would take a walk after lunch; a brisk two miles to the top of Handley Wood and then back to a pot of strong tea, followed by another two hours at her desk before supper. She had always been a creature of habit; routines were critical to her, and although she had told herself many times throughout her life that she could introduce a little variety in her approach, she was truly happiest bound by her own strictly imposed order.

On her afternoon walks she would reflect on this aspect of her nature, and wonder why she had bought the cottage. What was it in the agent’s blurb that had seduced her? Why had she not baulked at the bulging walls and the clearly sloping roofline? She could, she thought, get the path to the door re-laid straight from the gate, eliminating the pointless curves, but then the gate itself would have to be moved; otherwise the angle at which the path met the porch would be out by as much as five degrees. She would speak to Ronald, who would, no doubt, know the best way to approach the problem.

It was Ronald who had suggested Yorkshire. He had sent a cheery e-mail to her before Christmas, dressing up the truth about the loneliness of his retirement in the knowledge that she was fast approaching her own. Ronald had an elderly father, frail and suffering with Parkinson’s disease and Ronald had moved to his childhood home out of a sense of duty, and also because he simply did not know what else to do. Whatever it was he had expected in returning home, the reality had fallen very short. His father, who had coped well enough whilst Ronald was in London, suddenly, now he was in the same house became clinging and needy. Ronald felt isolated, his old friends long gone, his ex-colleagues still in the city. He had been pleasantly surprised when Miss Priestley replied that she was coming up the Dales to view some possible properties; she said that “his e-mail had rekindled some happy memories of her youth, and, well, why ever not?”

They had taken to dining together on Friday evenings. One week at a small hotel near to Miss Priestley’s cottage and the following week closer to Ronald’s home where they were working their way through a list of recommended inns. For both of them, it was their sole evening out in the week, and although they made the pretence of remaining very casual about the meetings, for each of them it was an increasingly important and eagerly anticipated event. It would not be fair to say that this was a fledgling romance – neither of them were looking for that, it was simply a meeting of like minds. During the decades they had worked together, they had always had a cordial relationship, and it would be a pity to lose that as a result of retirement. Dining together was a new development, and a pleasant one at that, although Ronald was still trying to guess whether Miss Priestley would be offended if he took the liberty of using her Christian name.

On an early October Friday, Miss Priestley, quite unlike herself, arrived ten minutes late, just at the point where Ronald was starting to become to get seriously concerned. She looked flushed and excited, her hair not quite restrained by the tortoiseshell combs she always wore. Her dress on Fridays was usually impeccable, but on this particular evening her blouse looked creased and was barely tucked into her skirt. Placing a small stack of notebooks on the table she sat opposite Ronald and unable to contain herself any longer, before any “Hello” or “Good evening”, burst out, ‘Ronald, you simply must see my numbers. It’s so exciting.’
‘My dear Miss Priestley, do sit down for a moment and catch your breath. Let me get you a drink. Then you can tell me all about your interesting news.’
When he returned from the bar with a gin and tonic for them both, Miss Priestley had smoothed her hair, and secured the blouse back into her skirt. She looked less like an Elizabeth now, much more a Miss Priestley. He passed her the drink which she placed un-tasted on the table, and sat down by her side. The notebooks were now open, displaying columns of figures, lists of dates, observations, percentages and names.

It didn’t take Ronald long to hone in on the facts in front of him. True, the sample size was small, but he knew the results would still be significant. He had forty years’ experience of working with data like this in the Statistics Service and a year’s retirement hadn’t dulled his senses. Pushing the notebooks away from him, he leant back on the Chesterfield, picked up his glass and raised it in salute to the remarkable woman at his side.
‘Well old girl, I’ve got to hand it to you, this is very interesting indeed.’
‘Thank you, Ronald. Actually I’ve enjoyed doing it and I don’t mind saying it has quite perked me up. It’s been fun to get back to what I know.’
They were sitting by the huge stone fireplace, before going through to the dining room. The menus that Ronald had collected as he arrived were still closed – dinner could wait, this was far more exciting. In the firelight Miss Priestley looked younger, softer somehow. She was a tall woman – long angles and jutting bones, and he remembered her as the gawky new graduate who had joined his department, how she had jarred on everyone’s nerves with her rigid attitudes and her insistence on precision. But it was these qualities that Ronald admired. Even so, it took him a number of years to begin to feel relaxed around her. Miss Priestley was flicking through her pages of data.
‘This is particularly striking; let me find it for you.’
‘Miss Priestley,’ Ronald began, ‘do you have any idea, of the power of this information?’
‘The power?’
‘The effect it would have if we were to go public.’
‘We?’
But Ronald missed the inflexion on the “We?” and began to explain the potential effects of the information if it was sent, by some method, to the press.
‘There would be uproar, industry – construction in particular, agriculture, most definitely, tourism of course. I think the whole Bureau may have to be re-modelled. Those people we all rely on would be exposed as charlatans, biased beyond our fears, self-serving’ – he broke off, this would be the right time, he could sense it – ‘Elizabeth? Would you mind awfully, if I called you Elizabeth, after all we have been friends for many years now.’

He had misjudged it and everything about her said it. Her spine had straightened, the slight smile had gone; the knees were drawn together and twisted away from him. In her hands, those large capable hands, the black covered notebook she held was closed and moved with its companions away from Ronald. Miss Priestley wasn’t an insensitive woman; she saw Ronald’s optimism drain out of him and she hadn’t the cruelty in her to demand he keep to the name he had used for so many years – but it wouldn’t matter anyway. She would not have the problem for much longer and a little delicacy of touch was a small sacrifice if it would buy her some time.
‘Ronald, I think I’d like to do a little more work – particularly on Scotland – the Highlands and Islands in particular. There wasn’t quite enough sample data and I would hate for us to cause the scandal and our figures to be proved less than perfect.’
‘But of course,’ he raised his glass to her again, ‘Elizabeth, my dear, you are a marvel.’
‘Thank you Ronald. Shall we decide what to order?’

It was the last time that they dined together, and although the rest of the evening was not unpleasant, Miss Priestley could not put out of her mind what Ronald had suggested they should do with her data. Where his mind had seen chaos, inquiries and ruined careers, hers had seen something completely different. So what if there was an indisputable bias in the Weather Bureau? If their forecasters were, almost without exception, statistically more accurate when predicting the weather close to their home town, then that simply meant one could get a more reliable forecast by exploiting that knowledge.

She had picked four forecasters who had high levels of accuracy and by drawing overlapping circles around their homes she had found that the place in Britain likely to get the most accurate meteorological predictions was a small town in Wiltshire. There was an estate agent in the town and she telephoned and arranged viewings of three neat, square built houses. By the following Friday, her own house in Yorkshire was on the market. She left a message for Ronald at the Handley Arms Hotel where they were due to meet. It seemed harsh, even to her as she wrote the note, but quite simply, she could not face being called Elizabeth again; even if it was by her oldest and dearest friend.

Jack and Vera, and Rose.

Jack and Vera, and Rose

I went to see our Rose yesterday, you know, as I always do on a Friday afternoon. I think she’s getting worse; she seemed a bit more confused than normal, and then all of a sudden, she’d jumped back years, straight back to 1960. I’ve not heard her talk about anything from back then for ages. It’s a good job our Jack decided to stay home yesterday – the only thing Rose got right was the one thing she’s not supposed to mention.
When I got back Jack was as happy as Larry – well, he always is when he’s spent all afternoon in the garage, tinkering. He was stood at the sink, up to his elbows in Swarfega, looking out at the afternoon, and he says,
‘Vee, love, it looks like it’s going to be nice tomorrow, shall we have a little run out?’
Now, I’ve not been married to him for fifty years without working out what “a little run out” means. He’s after a new motor. There’s nothing wrong with the Civic, if you ask me. It’s only three or four years old, at the most, but once he gets an idea in his head, it’s only a matter of time. I knew what it’d be – park up at some beauty spot, tea and sandwiches, and then he’ll suggest stopping off somewhere, “seeing as we’re in the vicinity” and I’ll spend the rest of the afternoon bored out of my tree while Jack talks cam shafts with some slimy salesman. Thank heavens for the Daily Mail – they’ve got a really good puzzle page.
So this morning, after breakfast, and a quick hoover round, I knock us up a bit of dinner. I’d a bit of that nice ham on the bone, so I made sandwiches and I put plenty of hot mustard on some of them for Jack. I made a flask of tea, and I’d got some of those Mr Kipling slices on a bogof from Asda. At those prices it’s not worth baking your own, not with the gas and all. Jack’s supposed to be watching his cholesterol, so I’ll take the other box for Rose on Friday. Jack gets his driving gloves out, takes it all very serious, he checks the oil, and water and fiddles with the tyres even. I keep telling him you don’t need to do all that with these modern motors, but he doesn’t listen. Well, not to me anyway.
He was spot on about the weather though, just like he said, chilly first thing and then glorious. Made you feel glad to be out and about. He drove right up onto the moors and we even got out and had a walk out to those windmill things that they’ve put up; I thought they’d be bigger somehow. There was a chap up there, with one of those ugly dogs, and him and Jack got talking about gearing and rotor shafts. I talked to the dog, but if I’m honest, it wasn’t much for conversation, so I wandered back to the Civic, let myself in and poured some tea. It was quite nice in there; I got the Mail out and cracked on with the Sudoku. I balanced my tea on the dashboard but it fogged the window up so I wiped myself a little port-hole. I should have known better, Jack was all cross, when he saw my finger-marks on his windscreen. He didn’t say anything though, just went at it quietly with his special cloth, tutting to himself.
I’ve got to confess, I got proper mad myself. Just who did he think he was? He was acting as though I was a child, and the more I thought about it, the madder I got. After all’s said and done it it’s half mine, the Civic is. But even though he must have sensed the pressure building, he started on at me…
‘Vera, I do wish you wouldn’t …, Vera, I should have thought… Vera this, Vera that…’
And I thought, I know just what’ll shut him up, and so I opened my big gob.
‘Jack, I’m not Vera, I’m Rose. I’ve been Rose for the last seventy years. You married me, Rose, not Vera. Our Vera got cold feet…she didn’t want to get wed, but it was too late, so I said I’d ‘ave you to save you from being jilted.’
And do you know what? He never said anything. He just looked at me for a moment and then got out of the car, and started wandering off. I watched him for bit, he’d gone right back to that fella with the dog, and I thought, did I Imagine that? But he turned back and climbed back into the driver’s seat. Didn’t say anything, just started the engine, and never glanced at me. We set off down the road, and I’m sat there and I just didn’t know what to do.
We’d gone a mile or two, that’s all, when he pulls over at the side of the road.
‘You’re joking, right?’
‘No Jack, I weren’t joking, but I didn’t mean to say it, I don’t know why I did. I’m sorry, Jack, if I’ve upset you…’
‘”Upset me! Up-bloody-set me”. You tell me, out of blue, that you’re not you, that you’re your sister. What did you think?’
We’re sitting in this lay-by, and all these cars and lorries are thundering past, and all I can think is that no-one knows. No-one knows about our little drama, and I want to turn the clock back, to un-say what I said, and we’ll drive off and go and look at a new car and I’ll be Vee, and he’ll be Jack, and it’ll be Jack and Vee, like it’s always been.
He’s gone quiet, and I look at him, and I think he might be going to cry.
‘Why, Vee? Why?’
And right there, in the Civic, in that lay-by, surrounded by rubbish, I tell him. Finally, tell him the truth. How no-one could tell Rose and me apart, even our Mum had trouble, especially if she’d been drinking, which most of the time she had. I don’t blame her, widowed at her age, with twin girls, can’t have been easy, and Rose and me, well we didn’t make it easy for her either. Kept mucking about, the pair of us did. We shared clothes, friends, even jobs, I’d go in one day, Vera the next. And then Jack came along, smart as anything, a college lad, with prospects, and good looking too. We both liked him. But he started seeing Vera properly, and next thing Vera’s flashing an engagement ring, and they’ve sorted a flat and the banns have been read. But right before the wedding, the day before, our Vera gets proper strange, moping about and quiet like; not like her at all. And then she says she can’t go through with it, and will I go round to Jack and tell him, and I say “no, I can’t” and besides the church is booked, Mum’s spent a fortune on the cake and the dress is the nicest one I’ve ever seen. And I say,
‘If you won’t have the lad, I will!’
And our Vera, says,
‘You’re on’
That was it really, I became Vera, and Vera became me. Nobody knew. I think Mum might have thought something odd was going on, but she never said anything. I don’t suppose she could.
It was very quiet in the car. I wanted Jack to say something, anything. Finally he did.
‘Have we got any of them sandwiches, or has a man got to starve around here?’
I’m so relieved that’s he’s talking, I start fussing, pour him some tea, pass it to him, offer him the Mr Kipling’s, anything really to get back to normality. I can’t think beyond the picnic, daren’t, just in case. He swallows the last of his cake, opens the window and flicks the dregs of his tea on to the verge. Then, he gets out of the car again, and wanders away up the lay-by, out of sight. But he’s back again in a couple of minutes, and I realise with relief that he’s just snuck off for a piddle.
‘So, why’ve you told me?’ He asks when he gets back in.
‘I don’t know really, I guess it was on my mind, our Rose was rambling a bit when I saw her yesterday. I don’t think that medication’s helping at all. But she kept calling me Rose and I thought it’s going to all come out, sooner or later.’
He seemed happy enough with that, started the engine again, and we set off into the traffic. He didn’t say anything much else, until we pulled into the car dealership. He parked the Civic next to a row of shiny Toyotas. He asked me if I was going to get out and have a look round with him. I must have looked less than keen, because he leant across and said quite deliberately,
‘…because if you’re not into motors, I know a cracking lass who is, well, used to be anyhow. Looks a lot like you as well. I might just see if she fancies a run out, sometime.’

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