Martha Burton has moved to France. Her new life is idyllic. Mostly.

Excerpt One from 'A Life Lived Twice'

‘Don’t worry, cherie.  I will get Christophe and Jean to help us!’

‘Thank you, Michel.’  It was difficult not to cry, all of a sudden, after an afternoon spent going over what had happened and imagining how gullible she had been.  Michel was the antidote to her self-doubt and she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

‘Eh?  I like it!  You must buy an olive tree every day!’ he laughed.

‘Do you think the tree was too expensive?’

‘No!  It is a beautiful tree.  Look at its majestic trunk, its graceful branches.  For this you must pay a higher price, cherie!’

Martha knew that he was humouring her a little, enjoying her weakness and his strength.

‘It is a nice tree, I suppose.’

‘You’ll see!  When it is in its place, it will be wonderful!’  Michel laughed and left her then to change into some old clothes before his friends arrived.

Martha set about making some aperos for them all, for when the job had been done and they could drink and eat together in the garden and go over how they had accomplished such a great task.  She felt uneasy still, but reasoned that soon, she would have forgotten all about her foolish thoughts, as long as the tree looked all right next to the decking, as long as she didn’t hate it.

Christophe and Jean arrived, greeting Michel loudly and slapping him on the back, making jokes that she couldn’t understand.  When they came into the kitchen, their manner changed instantly, as they greeted her politely and with a reverence she found unnerving.

She watched them in the garden, working out how to get the tree out of the pot, laughing and joking with each other and not making a great deal of progress. She wanted to join them; to be the same as them, unconcerned and relaxed.

‘Perhaps we should water it in the pot?’ she suggested, standing with her hands on her hips.

For a moment, the men became quiet, noticing her change of clothes, seeing that she wanted to be a part of the group.  Then, although they were still not as they had been when she had watched them from the kitchen, they let her join them and gradually became themselves in front of her.

‘If we water it in the pot, it will be even heavier!’ said Michel, eventually.

‘Yes, but she’s right, you know.  The soil is dry.  It’s stuck to the pot.’ Christophe scratched his head.

‘We can cut the pot,’ offered Jean, ‘ if you have the right kind of tool for the job!’  At this the men eyed Martha shyly.

‘Oh, he has a very good tool!’ she said, wanting to break the ice once and for all.

At this, the men guffawed and clutched their stomachs, slapping Michel on the back and nodding shyly at Martha. 

After that, it was easier to get on with the job and, surprisingly, the innuendo ceased, more or less.

They watered the soil and, laying the tree carefully on its side, rolled the pot gently back and forth to loosen the roots and tease it out little by little.  Martha brought beers and they mopped their brows with their sleeves, wiped their hands on their trousers, before drinking.

‘Where do you want it planted?’  Michel asked, and they all looked at her, as though this important question should have been broached much earlier.

‘Next to the vine, I think, in front of the decking.  If the soil is easy enough to dig.’  This last comment set them flexing their muscles and joking again, while Martha got out the spades and a large, robust garden fork to loosen the earth first.  She brought a broom to sweep away the pebbles and some shears to cut the special permeable cloth that was supposed to keep weeds from growing. 

Soon the hole was dug and they argued for a while about whether it was the right size to take the tree, while Martha crept off to the house and came back with a tape measure, which she slipped into Michel’s hand. 

‘Perhaps, you idiots, we should measure the hole?’  Michel held out the tape measure and winked at Martha, to hoots of derision from his friends. 

The hole was too wide and not deep enough, but twenty minutes later it was ready.  It took all their strength to lift the tree, cursing and laughing all the while, listening to Martha telling them to turn it this way and that, as she strode around the garden, viewing it from different angles and finally gave them the thumbs up.  They filled in the hole, leaving the tree roots level with the ground, as Guy had instructed, then Martha filled a watering can three times and soaked the roots.  The olive tree would need to be watered regularly in the hot dry weather, Guy had said, until it had established itself.

The men went to wash their hands and faces and to get more beer from the fridge.  Martha brought out smoked salmon nibbles, houmous and raw vegetables to dip, prawns with a rosé sauce, and cheesy Wotsits, which Michel adored. There was fresh bread and Camembert too, to satisfy the men’s appetites. And, as the blue of the early summer sky paled, then darkened, they passed the time commenting on the tree, agreeing that it looked very fine where it was and that it would soon fill out and grow new leaves and perhaps some olives for bottling.  They promised to ask their mothers the best way to bottle olives and proceeded to tell anecdotes about their childhood and how it had been so different then, with the allotments and the fresh fruit and vegetables.  How they had helped their grandfathers picking beans and peas and even helped their grandmothers shell and cut them in the kitchen, listening to stories of their own youth. 

The men mellowed with the evening, becoming philosophical, looking up at the sky and watching for the first stars, enjoying the silence as much as the conversation. 

When they reluctantly agreed that it was late and they should leave, they returned a little to their loutish behaviour, joking about what their wives would say they had been up to, shushing each other and promising not to tell, as they moved unsteadily along the hall and carefully opened the front door, trying to keep quiet so as not to disturb the other people in the square.

Michel and Martha stood at the front door and waved to them as they slunk away, holding onto each other and giggling like schoolboys. 

It had been a very pleasant evening, leaving them all tired and satisfied.  The clock in the kitchen said two a.m. and, outside the back door, in the light of the moon, the olive tree looked lovely.  It had been the right decision to buy it, and with this thought, Martha wondered whether she had imagined all the things she had thought about Guy.  He was probably a very nice man, aware that the tree would bring happiness to his new customer.  Martha shook her head – she should beware of reading too much into things.  Life was simple, if you let it be, especially after several glasses of wine and a good deal of fun. 

Michel was already asleep on the bed, his shirt removed but his trousers still on.  Martha undressed and lay down next to him, closing her eyes and thinking of her new tree, alone and mysterious in the night.

More Holiday Fun with Bev and Carol

It wasn’t long before we had got into a routine of getting up late, eating brunch, reading and lounging about for a while, and then walking down to the beach for a swim.

We always went to the local beach, it was nicer than Canet Plage, where we had gone with Luc and his friends.  It was less crowded too.  That meant not many children and fewer children meant less noise and less chance of having sand kicked all over us, or concussion from various kinds of balls.

We set out as usual and met a girl carrying an absolutely enormous rucksack, leaning forward at a worrying angle, and wearing one of the biggest smiles I’d ever seen.  She was not English, you could tell even from a distance, from the colour of her skin and the tee shirt she was wearing with ‘Flugzeug’ written across it.

‘Hallo!’ she said, increasing her pace and looking as though she would tumble over at any moment.

We stopped.  Somebody had to.

‘I look for the Mermaid site!  Do you tell me where is it?’ she said, slowing her pace.

Carol was impressively helpful and the girl, whose name was Ingrid, said that she would see us later.  At least that’s what I think she said.

It was four o’clock by then and perfect for sunbathing and swimming in the sea.  We bought oranges from a man with about a million of them piled up on the side of the road and carried on our way. 

I enjoyed the walk to the beach.  It was rare to meet anyone, and the scenery was reminiscent of those paintings where the sky and the land seem flat against each other and the view goes on forever.  I mentioned this to Carol, curious to have her opinion.

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Just like in Star Wars!’

As I had not expected this comparison, I probed her further.

‘Do you mean the idea of infinity, the amorphous nature of time and the universe?’

‘Nah!  It all reminds me of the intro.  You know!  When the screen is black and the words kind of roll out into the distance and vanish.’

I had no idea what she meant, so I told her so.  She ignored me and continued with her train of thought as though I had not spoken:

‘Trouble was, I could never read the words in time.  What are all those Japanese people doing?’

This really did fox me.  First Star Wars and now Japanese people.  Was Carol experiencing some kind of schizophrenic episode?  Had the heat of the sun eroded her power of rational thought? 

She pointed. ‘There!  What the bloody hell is going on?’

It was true.  There had appeared, as though from nowhere, a very large trail of extremely overdressed Japanese tourists, all middle-aged and all with cameras around their necks.  They moved as bees swarming, massing together and surging apart, as though breathing, as one.

‘Bollocks!’ said Carol.  ‘They’re going to the beach!’

I didn’t count them, but soon, we had caught up with them.  They filled the path and there was no way past.  In addition to this problem, I wondered whether it might not be the experience we were looking for to be on the same stretch as hundreds of beach tourists who had no intention of taking their jackets off and might never shut up.

‘Come on!’ said Carol, veering off along a path we had never taken before.

It was certainly quieter, and it wasn’t long before we found out why.

‘Does naturiste mean what I think it means?’ asked Carol, standing in front of a very large sign with a very large arrow on it.

I wasn’t sure, but I thought so.

‘I don’t mind getting my baps out if you don’t!’  she reasoned.

The beach was coming up fast and we clutched at each other, controlling our giggles as best we could.  We might have made it, had we not heard men’s voices behind us and looked round to see two bronzed gods swinging up fast.

‘Christ on a bike!’ said Carol, stepping aside and staring rudely.

‘Guten Tag!’

Please don’t stop and have a conversation with us!  I thought.

They passed in front of us and we watched their perfect asses for a while, breathing in for what seemed to be a very long time and, eventually remembering to breathe out.

‘Did you see the size of his cock?’ asked my gobsmacked friend.

‘Well, yes.  I didn’t have much choice in the matter, did I?’

‘Come on!  There must be loads more on the beach…’

I wasn’t sure that I fancied the idea of so much nudity all in one place, but I had never sunbathed topless before, so I was keen to give it a go in an environment where one extra set of, admittedly, perfect breasts would not cause too much of a stir.  To my horror, Carol was untying her bikini top before we even got there and soon it was difficult for me to concentrate on what she was saying as I felt a little seasick in the face of so much uncontrolled bouncing.

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A Bit of Bev and Carol

I hope you enjoy this excerpt from One Summer in France...

Luc lived in a caravan on a neighbouring campsite.  It seemed to be the way things were in the South of France during the summer.  He had two friends, both men, who were quite a lot better looking than he was, but it was Luc who was the life and soul of the party, at all times.  He sang a lot, too.  Even when he was having a chat with his mates, or looking for a pair of socks, he often sang what he wanted to say, so that, in the end, I was disappointed when he didn’t.

He took us to all the places where he sold his stuff, so Carol and I toured the neighbouring villages and towns, free to look around during the morning, and meeting up with Luc and his friends for lunch, which was always lively and fun, and generally delicious too.  I have photos, somewhere, of Carol in her favourite green bikini and me in my yellow one, in most of the places we visited.  We were young.  We didn’t need clothes.  The fact that no one else was wearing swimwear didn’t even cross our minds at the time.

Everything was going well until Charles arrived at the campsite. It made me even more sure that, no matter how much I liked Luc, we would never be more than friends.

Carol said I should tell him how I felt, that he was more serious about me than I was about him, but I was the world’s best procrastinator, so even though my intentions were good, I failed to mention anything until he found out for himself.

Charles started work in the crêperie and Carol and I started eating pancakes at lunchtime and dinner.  He was tall with blondish curly hair, quietly smouldering, and had a smile that could kill at twenty paces.  He played a lot of French rock music on a battered cassette player, which stood on the counter.  The music was not up to much most of the time, but he did have everything ever produced by Jimmy Hendrix. When he wasn’t working, which wasn’t often, he sat around with his friends next to the boules pitch, which happened to be near the tennis courts.

Needless to say, my game became increasingly energetic and unabashedly girly.  It must have been obvious to everyone, except Charles of course, that I wanted to be introduced.  

HAPPY DAYS!

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It's been How Many Years!?

It's amazing how quickly the weeks fly by.  I didn't notice so much when we first arrived in France. There was so much to do.  So many 'firsts'.  The garden was a jungle and the house, our house,  a renovation project.  There was no time to wonder where the time went, in fact I don't think it even crossed my mind.  I spent whole days digging out a place for the decking, weeding flower beds and visiting garden centres to find out about plants.  Add to this the excitement I felt as a new author: I could lose hours sitting at my desk writing stories on my laptop.  I'd never been an author before!  Then there were the boys' sporting activities:  Football training and matches on Saturdays and Sundays - I loved every minute, standing on the sidelines cheering and enjoying the beautiful rural settings, and knowing that I was lucky.  So many new things to do.

Things began to slow after the first two or three years. Something else took over. There is an urgency that comes with age.  When years pass by and bring big changes; a kind of panic that makes every moment of 'now' more precious.  Because 'now' is very quickly going to become 'then'.  With my daughter about to buy a share in her first house and my eldest son in his first year at university, I'm already preparing for when my youngest will no longer arrive home on the school bus, starving and ready for his cake and milk.  It seems like yesterday when we hooked up our trailer and left home for a family adventure in France.

Half way there.  Tired but excited.

There are psychologists who explain why time goes faster as you get older.  I studied some of their texts at university.  I remember some of the theories put forward, but not the names of the authors.  I also remember wondering what all the fuss was about.  At the age of twenty-two I was having the time of my life: staying up all night talking, falling in love, planning a summer in France, playing netball and doing headstands in yoga.  Life was never dull.  Also, I had most of it ahead of me, with so many things I wanted to do.  The theory?  That life is more boring when you are older.  That there are no more 'firsts'.  And that's how we measure time: between memorable experiences.  Apparently.

I don't know whether it's more boring.  I can't say I feel bored.  But when I clean the shower room for the umpteenth time, or peel a pan of potatoes to roast, or fold the washing again and again, I am aware that time is used up by routine activities more when you are older than when you are young.

My husband and I have just had lunch at the restaurant next door.  He put on nice clothes and a jacket.  I put on a dress, some make up and a bit of jewellery.  We chatted and ate delicious food, drank delicious wine. He said we should take a short break with our son during his school holidays in February.  To Rome, perhaps.

This would be a first.  An important event.  The onus is on me to find the hotel and price the flights.  It would be easy not to go.  After all, there is the washing to do and the potatoes to peel.  The house to clean and the shopping to do.  Oh, and my writing.  I could add a hundred activities to the list of things I've done a hundred times and will do another hundred times before the end of the year.

But I've never been to Rome...

Last year, somewhere in France

Happy Days.

Review Catch Up!

I've been meaning to post these reviews for ages!  You never know, you might find your next read amongst them.  Just click on the links if you'd like to download a free sample from Amazon (I always do), then you'll never download a book you're not going to finish!  

WHAT JENNIFER KNOWS  by Wendy Janes.

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Stories about ordinary people are Wendy Janes’ speciality.  ‘What Jennifer Knows’ reminds me of a kind of contemporary soap opera – plenty of intrigue and tantalising indiscretions!  It is impossible not to get involved in the dilemmas Jennifer faces as she lurches from one problem to the next.  I wouldn’t like to be in her shoes, that’s for sure.  Her husband, Gerald, is a very amusing character and his deadpan attitude is a great foil for Jennifer’s moral wrangling.  I suppose I enjoyed this book so much because the plot is so well handled and because, although I guessed what was happening early on, I was always trying to work out what Jennifer would do next.  With very little ‘wool’, this is an entertaining bedtime read (as long as you are prepared to stay up late).  Janes’ style of writing is fluid and engaging, too.  In fact there isn’t anything not to like!

OCTOBER RAIN by Dylan J. Morgan

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The action takes place on Mars, but all is not well with the planet, and only a small percentage of the original Earth survivors remain, awaiting transport to a new home.  We are introduced immediately to Steele, ruthless, and a cold fish, except when it comes to his wife and child.  His mission to assassinate a list of terrorists provided by the government carries this action thriller along at a cracking pace from the word go.   The author communicates not only the notion of imminent danger at every turn, but also the desperation of a man who longs to spend time with his family and live a normal life.  It’s easy to root for Steele as he faces challenges against the odds, encountering a range of adversaries in some of the harshest environments possible.

The only downside?  I didn’t like the ending.  But endings are so personal, and I’m not going to give away any spoilers here!

Suffice it to say that I read this accomplished novella in a couple of sittings, was never tempted to skip ahead, and would definitely read more if a sequel were in the offing.  

SCREAM AT THE MOUNTAINS  by Karenne Griffin

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In the Welsh valleys again I took up the stories of the characters I'd first met in ‘New Voices in the Valley’.  The continuing soap opera of the various and sometimes surprising residents of Allt-yr-Coch (pun intended, I believe) soon became essential bedtime reading.  The author’s style is fluid and the Welsh flavour always evident – Griffin makes full use of the local vernacular!  There is action in the form of a serious terrorist threat, but there is also more down to earth drama with ample scope for the reader to become involved in the lives of the characters.  Wholesome and entertaining, this is definitely one to try if you like real life dramas with an international flavour.

THE RED DOOR by Rosa Fedele

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The main character in this dark mystery set in Australia is artist Maddie who has bought a mansion, 'Rosalind', letting out apartments to tenants. As she completes her renovations, she begins to have suspicions about the tenant in number three, who won't let her in. This is all linked to some local murders that occurred in the 1950s. There are unanswered questions surrounding Maddie herself, too.

I really enjoyed The Red Door.  The language is beautiful, especially in the first third of the book, which includes the kind of descriptive imagery that brings a setting alive – and the setting is unusual in that it centres around a period house in an Australian suburb of Sydney.  Maddie buys ‘Rosalind’ as a renovation project and one by one we meet the people who either live nearby or come to work on the house.  I found the observational style reminiscent of Henry James’ novels – fine detail and expertly written dialogue.  We learn about the people who inhabit Maddie’s world from a variety of perspectives and yet Maddie herself remains rather a mystery until later (we don’t even learn her name until the end of the book). 

The plot is intricate.  We gradually discover the history of the house and its local environment.  A history filled with disturbing tales of child abuse and murder.  Maddie becomes obsessed with finding out what happened to two young girls whose bodies were found in a local park – I was riveted.  The bringing together of the sub-plots is nothing short of miraculous.  

If I had to say what detracted from my enjoyment it would be that the second third of the book seemed to lose pace a little.  But in the final third, the action picked up with a vengeance and I stayed up far too late, reading until the words swam on the page! 

There will be a sequel, apparently, and I very much look forward to reading it.  

THEMSELF by James Kemp

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As a writer myself I enjoyed James Kemp’s experiences of following an OU course in creative writing.  Apparently, these were published regularly on his blog and then integrated into a book, which means that there is sometimes repetition.  But this doesn’t detract from the interest. 

There are helpful pointers for inexperienced writers and useful reminders for those who have been writing for years.  It was fascinating to follow the processes included on the course and to read how the author structured his various writing assignments, which include a number of different genres.

Instructive and entertaining.  

HAPPY DAYS!

How Bev Met Carol - a universal experience...

I stretched up to the ceiling and came down slowly into dog pose.  It had been a while since I’d viewed the world this way.  As the mat slipped beneath me and my calves cried out with an excess of lactic acid, I was aware of a thumping in my head that had nothing to do with Fleetwood Mac’s ‘The Chain’, which blasted from someone’s room below.  Under the bookshelf I noted there was an upturned, greying woodlouse and, more interestingly, what looked like a ten-pence piece.  I reached out and, momentarily destabilised, fell in a heap of Max Wall leggings and Debbie Harry dyed-blonde hair.  I caught sight of my feet, complete with sensational new footwear. It was a moment made perfect for singing along with Stevie Nicks and admiring the cleanliness of my skirting boards.  My stomach muscles flexed in time with the music and I wondered whether I would ever be the kind of girl to pluck my eyebrows, wear chiffon or enjoy bananas on toast.

To my mild surprise, and before I had considered rising from where I had fallen, the door to my private student abode opened and Sue from next door, who had yet to learn the art of knocking and/or waiting, laughed her special one-note exploding laugh and stepped inside. 

“What on earth are you doing?”  she asked.
It crossed my mind whether someone who wore home-knitted sweaters, flat shoes and no makeup had any right to ask such a question.

“Yoga.”  I smiled.  Naturally.

“In those?”  She indicated my recently purchased, beloved platform shoes that rocked, quite literally.

“Did you want something?”  I asked, propping myself up on one elbow and remembering jumbled quotes from works of genius by Oscar Wilde. 

“Oh, yes.  Yes… I did, actually.  I don’t suppose you’ve got any coriander?”

She was right.  “Clean out of fresh herbs today.  I’ve got Heinz tomato soup, Heinz Big Soup and Ambrosia rice pudding.  Any use to you?” 

Sue had a mouth that froze easily.

“No good?” I wiggled my eyebrows.

“Not really.  I’m making curry.” 
Sue was always making something. 

“Sorry,” I said.

“That’s all right.  See you later.” 

“Probably will.”  I smiled my sweetest smile.

It was lunchtime.  I’d have to walk on to campus or open a can.  I’d gone for the fully-catered option as I knew I would spend any available cash on clothes or books, and could not be trusted to budget for essentials.  At least this way I wouldn’t starve. 

With netball practice at two o’clock, I’d have time to check out the boys in the union building, get a boring salad at the canteen, and still be in time to meet the girls in the sports hall.  All of this duly came to pass. 

The sports hall echoed with energetic voices and smelled of sweat and rubber.

“No kit?”  Belinda bounced up and panted at me.

“Haven’t got round to buying one.”  And, I fear, I never shall.

Belinda laughed and slapped me on the back before she passed the ball to Andrea and sprinted forward. 

I was wearing a tennis dress and good pants.  My trainers were pink.  Most of the others had on track-suit bottoms sensible tee shirts and boring footwear.

“What have you come as?”  It was Carol.  We’d met and taken tea and toast together in her room.  Real butter on hot toast – Carol had talked me through the importance of both.  I hadn’t worked her out.  I liked her a lot.  I was woefully struck dumb by her candid question.  I had come as myself, obviously.

Carol was blonde, like me, but without the aid of chemicals.  All that would change, but for now, her hair was thick and curly, symmetrically styled and smelled of flowers.  Carol was sporty, with proper thighs and square cut shoulders.  She could run, jump and barge for England.  She was wholesome. 

We took our positions and the whistle went.  I prowled the edge of the goal area, fending off my opponent, and took a vicious ball to the midriff.  The goal-attack swept it up (the ball) and scored. 

“Dozy bat,” said Carol.

I fumbled the next pass too, and began to sweat.  Then, catching a sly bounce with unexpected alacrity, I took aim and shot from the edge of the circle.

Jaws dropped at the swish of the net.

“Stone the crows!” said Carol.

It was my only moment of glory for the next forty minutes.

At the end of practice, I looked for my muscular friend but she’d already left.  I was bereft.

Back at my hall, I knocked at Jackie’s door, eager to prove to myself that I was a nice person, who deserved to have friends.

“Oh, hi Bev.  Do you want a coffee?”

“Tea, if you’ve got it.”

Jackie was a large girl.  I listened to what could only be her thighs rubbing together as she walked across the landing to the kitchen.  It reminded me of my younger self, when I had been an undeniably overweight schoolgirl. On her bookshelf there were volumes on psychology, a tin of Quality Street, and a photo of two very hairy dogs.  Her desk was tidy.  A man’s dressing gown hung on the back of her door and a pair of Charentaise slippers protruded from underneath her bed, which was made.  I wondered whether I could make a run for it. 

     “Hope you like Earl Grey.”

“Lovely.”

Jackie had thin, silky hair, glasses that made her eye-lashes look like enormous spider legs, and a perfectly formed cherubic mouth.  When she smiled, it was like a blessing.  A blessing I didn’t deserve. 

“Are you working?”  It was a little late to ask.  And one of the dullest questions known to Man.

“I’m just finishing an essay.”

Don’t ask what it’s about!  “Oh, what’s it about?”

Jackie bathed me in joy and more blessings.  “It’s to do with The Stanford Prison Experiment.”

Don’t ask what that is. Why not?  It sounds interesting.  “What’s that?”  I sipped my tea.

“Well…the essay is entitled Analyse the Impact of Situational Variables on Human Behaviour.”  She paused, and took a moment to fix me with a spidery stare.

I considered choking and/or spilling my tea on her nylon rug.

Half an hour later, having learned a great deal about power, dominance and how important it is to avoid social experimentation, Jackie asked me whether I’d been bullied as a child.  It was then that I realised I was the prisoner and she the guard. 

Don’t tell her you were an overweight schoolgirl with facial scarring!  “I…”

There was a knock at the door.

“Bev?  Are you in there?”

Jackie’s silence made my own throat constrict.  I would not be able to answer.  My body felt weak.  Had the tea been drugged?

“Jackie?”  And, thank the Lord and praise the angels, Sue turned the handle and opened the door.

“Oh, hi.  I just wondered whether either of you had a colander?”

Jackie had, I hadn’t.

     It was becoming obvious that I would not find my university soulmate unless I went out and sought her out.  Doing my best Trikonasana, taking as much care as I could not to pass wind, all I could think about was Carol.  There was something about her.  Something that was so frank and real.  Something stable.  If only I could find out whether she had a sense of humour. 

     I sat at my desk and wrestled with an excerpt from Beowulf.  Losing focus, I stared out at Sue trying to reverse her Skoda into the last remaining parking space.  The Skoda had over a hundred wiper speeds and a heating system fit for Siberia.  It was a most ugly-exotic vehicle.  Sue loved her Skoda. I watched her mount the kerb in a third attempt to perform a parking coup, and found myself wondering at how easily I could be distracted from my work.   I forced myself to concentrate.  Three hours passed.  I knew not where they had gone, nor where my mind had been.  I had finished my reading and my essay had written itself.  In truth, I had dozed off and dribbled on a battle scene.  All that fighting and slaying.  And no jokes.  I couldn’t wait to move on to Chaucer and his bawdy tales. 

Head down, I got on with my work, promising myself a celebratory bowl of rice pudding and a dollop of strawberry jam when the final full-stop had been placed. 

Where did I leave the can opener?

Assignment completed.  Pudding bowl scraped clean.  It was time to go out.  There was a band on in the union.  It was cold outside but I was more used to severe weather than most, having spent my formative years on a mountaintop on the Welsh border.  She was only a flying instructor’s daughter but she certainly knew how to …

Walking along in the darkness with the alien trees whispering desperate warnings of rapists and blood-thirsty mythological beasts, it was easy to regret wearing a mini skirt and high-heeled boots.  I tried to finish my hilarious ditty:  how to…use her joystick;  how to…soar the ridge; how to…set the trim.  No, it wasn’t working.  I laughed anyway, lost in a world of nerdy glider-oriented humour. 

Wait just a moment! Could it be true? There was a figure up ahead, moving towards me.  This focussed my attention nicely.  I had a key in my pocket that could take out an eye, a ring on my finger that could double as a knuckle duster and a ten-pound-note I could use as bribery.  Just then, a bicycle came alongside and slowed at my side. I screamed. 

“Hi gorgeous, it’s only me.”

“Shit! You scared me!”

“Want a ride in?” Ian was lanky, unkempt and pronounced his vowels in a way I’d never heard before, but he was friendly and knew how to maintain his bike.

“Sit here and I’ll go in front.”

With Ian’s buttocks in my face and my legs akimbo, I dangled, gripping my rescuer around the waist, and felt the full punctuation of a saddle made specially for men.  It was a short ride, so I kept quiet until we got to campus, mapping the potholes with my coccyx.  The doors to the union building stood open and I could hear tuning up coming from the first floor.

“Thanks.  Are you coming in?”  I dismounted à la Olga Corbett and took a bow.

Ian grinned then looked as though a thought was taking him over. “Maybe later.  Got a game going on.”

I nodded.

“Poker.”

“Right.”

“Five of us.”

There was nothing more to say.  First year boys had a lot to learn.

After a quick visit to the Ladies, I checked my pigeonhole and found the usual university propaganda, rolled up and likely to stay that way until found by one of the campus’ pyromaniacs. 
I slipped off my treasured shag-pile jacket and went up to the bar. 

“Hi Bren.  Working tonight?”  Bren was a mature student, and skint.

“Needs must.”

“Can I leave this?”

“Sure.”

I handed her my jacket.

“What can I get you?”

“Special Brew with blackcurrant, please.”

“Right.”

I joined a group of people I knew and found out that a boy in my English tutorial group had been kicked out of his digs by a maniacal girlfriend with an elaborate imagination and a concise vocabulary.  Apparently, she threw his snipped up belongings onto the street from their first floor apartment because he was ‘too much of a twat’. 

“You don’t mean Sean?”  I was vaguely interested, I’ll admit.

“Yep.”

“He the one who likes to read up on phallic symbols in Virginia Wolf?”  This from Erudite Elise.

“The very same.”

“He’s not bad looking,” said Rebecca.

I licked my lips.  Sean was a dish.  And, phallic symbolism aside, I liked the intellectual type.

“Claire’s got her eye on him,” said Bonnie.

“But she’s got Greg!”

Greg was even more of a dish than Sean.

The conversation was circular, based on hearsay, and ultimately unrewarding.  My friends were birdbrains, picking at tid-bits.  I was a birdbrain too, but of a different variety, with less straightforward appetites.  I was looking for beauty, literary truth and the kind of exotic romance only Brian Ferry would understand.   I took a gulp from my purple drink and raised myself to my full height.

“I’m going to have a look at the band,” I said.   “Anyone coming?”

No one was.

Past the notice boards and a couple of shabby postgrads with beards and frightened eyes, I pushed open the doors to the main hall, which was in darkness, apart from where five swaggering young men were about to start up a new song.  I knew immediately which one I would be dancing for when the time came.  Long blond hair, tall and skinny with a great voice.

When Carol came and stood beside me, I barely noticed until she spoke:

“Want some cider, you lovely tart?”

Carol was dressed in a full-length kaftan and had a pink flower behind her left ear.

“Sweet or dry?”  I asked.  Please be my friend!

“Dry, of course.”

“Then top me up!” I sound like my dad!

It turns out that Special Brew and blackcurrant with a Bulmer’s top is a mix only the more discerning amongst us would appreciate.  Carol was obviously impressed by my adventurous nature.

“Can’t ruin a drink you’ve already ruined,” she observed.

The music was loud.  Several fanatics took to the dance floor.  After a few minutes Carol joined them, eyes closed, with the smuggest smile I’d ever seen playing mind tricks in the flashing lights.  I siddled up.  It always took me a moment to get over myself when I ventured onto the dance floor.  I was a Sister Sledge kind of girl, or a Police fantasiser.  Heavy rock required a degree of grunge I had not thought to bring with me on this particular evening.  Smoke rose from the front of the stage, caught in my throat, and before I knew it I was struggling to breathe.

“Where’s your inhaler, you absolute cretin?”

I pointed and mouthed, “Bar.  Bren.”

Carol was back within seconds and I was saved.  Carol, my guardian angel.

 

“More cider?”

The music drummed in my bones, the Salbutamol bathed my constricted alveoli and I knew I’d found someone I could be myself with.

Confirmation, if confirmation were needed, came in many forms that first term.  I was a literary addict with little use for critical commentary by people who knew better than I did the subtexts of Shakespeare and Racine.  Bold and blonde, my raw, young mind absorbed exquisite lines from Wordsworth’s ‘The Prelude’ and scoffed at Virginia Wolfe’s promised visit in ‘To the Lighthouse’.  I lived in a wonderland of imagery, and dreamed of beautiful boys with long noses and pretty hair.  I liked fluffy jackets, tight tee shirts and stretch jeans, worn with platform boots.  Carol understood maths, budgeting and men with potential.  Her fashion choices were experimental. She planned for the future.  I planned for the next few minutes.  Carol talked about a career in the city or going into farming with Dave, her long-suffering boyfriend.  I wondered which shorts I should wear with my rucksack on a trip around Europe.  But we both loved rice pudding with red jam, Sting, dry cider, and staying up late to put the universe to rights, generally spiralling into random hilarity and drunkeness. 

Carol would get a good degree and I would not.  She would work hard and make copious notes during lectures.  I would read mountains of books and dominate tutorials, fluctuating between brilliance and crass, outspoken stupidity, harbouring a stubborn inability to take advice.  We were as alike as marshmallow and pickled onions, but our friendship was unassailable and infinitely fascinating.  Life without Carol would have been unthinkable, not to mention as dull as Margaret Thatcher’s knicker drawer (I presume).

There are three adventures in the Bev and Carol series (available in ebook and paperback):

One Summer in France

Bunny on a Bike

Stranded in the Seychelles

  

Happy days!

New Release: 'What I Did Not Say' by B. A. Spicer

I’m excited to tell you that ‘What I Did Not Say’ is now published as an ebook and will appear in paperback later in the year.  It’s been the focus of my attention for more than a year and has undergone some drastic changes in that time, including a complete re-write of the trial in Part Two and numerous revisions of the final chapters.  I try to avoid sentimentality, dislike clichéd endings, but recognise the importance of leaving my readers satisfied. I hope I have achieved this – we shall see.

The characters are as real as I can make them.  I like them to be flawed, as readers of my books will know.  Sometimes the people in my books make bad decisions.  Sometimes they are selfish or dishonest.  Of course, real people are full of contradictions – it’s part of what makes humanity so interesting.  To define a person on any level is to miss the point, isn’t it?  We all have a million personas – some public, some private.

‘What I Did Not Say’ is essentially a love story, but not the hearts and flowers romantic kind. 

Jessica Morley is devoted to Jack Banford.  She thinks she knows him.  They have been friends since junior school.  She is ready to do anything for the boy who lives on Clees Hill, whose mother is dying, and whose life is about to change in ways that are unbearable to him.  While Jack deals with the reality of his predicament, Jess dreams of what she and Jack will do when they are free to be together.   When he comes up with a plan, she will not hesitate to play her part.  But how could she have predicted what would happen on the afternoon of 28^th November?

Here are the opening pages, in which we meet Jess and get an impression of the friend she loses:

What I Did Not Say

Part One

Jess

Jack was more than my best friend.  Funny, I don’t think I ever told him that.  It was understood I suppose. Taken for granted, like daylight or clean clothes in my wardrobe. 

When I think of the unspoken bond between us it is inseparable from the places we inhabited together: the riverbank, the path we took to and from school, his bedroom.  Thinking of Jack brings back the smell of apple soap, the pale softness of his skin, and the way the colours in his eyes moved like oil on water.  I sometimes catch sounds, too – the truncated passage of cars on the bridge, the rush of the river flowing under us.  These memories taunt me, showing me fragments of a life gone forever into a past that I can never revisit.  Sitting here, it makes my stomach lurch with that kind of painful joy you have when you think about someone whom you used to know so well:  Painful because they no longer exist in the form you remember, yet joyful because memories can be collected, embroidered, and kept like secrets. 

I think about Jack often, turning him over in my mind, noticing the smallest detail. Jack.  My Jack.

 

He was a small, bony-skulled boy, sharp in body and in mind.  He didn’t like football or computer games, he read detective books and collected stamps.  We were close, but there was always something about him that eluded me, a hidden layer that never quite materialised, like sunshine through light cloud.  The feeling I got, and still get now, is that he showed me only a part of himself.  That he held something back.  Something essential.  I picture him, this time crouching birdlike on the muddy bank of the wide river, his blond hair lank with sweat, his face busy-lit by a million different schemes.  He was sudden and dynamic, like a firework, full of unspent energy just waiting to go off.

I look about me and sigh. 

The journey to Devon will take some time, and before I arrive I must be ready.  There were things I should have said at the trial, things I kept back.  But I was not there for myself, then.  I was there for Jack.  It all came back to Jack.

*****

Jack Banford, aged eleven and a half, lived half way up Clees Hill on a new estate.  New estates had been built in the sixties and these differed greatly from the current executive homes that sit decoratively on their pinched patches of land, no good for anything but small, neat lawns and miniature garden sheds.

Clees Hill was a rough estate – at least that was what everyone said – but I never saw anything happen there that was not either expected, or just plain banal.  It was true that the houses were uninspiring.  Solid lines of brick-built boxes with large double-glazed windows fitted with nets or blinds.  Gardens scattered with broken kiddies’ toys, clapped-out vehicles, or else cared-for, with neat rows of flowers and precisely edged lawns.  The wooden gates were generally broken or left open, as were the front doors.  People came in and out of the estate and, indeed, of the houses, as though the outside were joined to the inside.  To me, there was no recognisable etiquette, no propriety to life on the estate. Anything went.  I loved it.

“Comin’ back to ours?” Jack would say, after school. 

This meant I was invited to ‘play’ and perhaps ‘have tea’.  It was never specified and I didn’t care anyway.  There was nothing for me to do at my house.  There would be no one there until six o’clock.  Until then I was a free agent.   

We used to get funny looks, remarks from the other children at school, but it didn’t bother us; we just shut them out, judging them in our separate ways to be fashion victims and idiots.

There was a back way to Jack’s house, across the playing fields at the rear of the school and through a small wood.  We didn’t have to mix with our classmates much if we went out the back way.  The trees were sparse and spindly.  The ground smelled of rotting vegetation and was littered with dog excrement, the occasional discarded bottle or can, the rarer wrinkled condom.  The wood ended abruptly and, under a bigger sky, we crossed a busy main road then laboured up a steep, grassy rise.  When we got to the top, there was the river below us, wide, grey and alien; seeming to be, in that first deep breath we took, grinning at each other like maniacs, alive and barely captive.  The river drew us with its promise of danger, adventure.

The rules my mother had told me a thousand times would make no sense at times like these.  This was our world.  Jack’s and mine.  Neither of us was afraid here.

We rarely met another living soul until we got to the bridge, then there was traffic, noisy and fast.  In winter, there were lights: the lights on the face of the clock tower and the neon-lit café opposite, the yellow headlights of the cars and the molten gold streetlights above, all conspiring to make a strange wonderland for us to meander through, detached and replete, harbouring our private dreams.

We would stop in the middle of the bridge, always at the same place, and look away from the town to where, in the winter months, the darkness swallowed up the places we knew were there and yet could no longer perceive.  As I paused next to Jack, my mind floating as freely as the river below, it was impossible to believe that there was any meaning to the time I spent away from him.  School, my family home, existed as punctuation only: Parentheses that contained the hours to be used up before I would be released to return to my real life.  Our worlds were finite and predictable, but we didn’t know it then. I let myself imagine the simple pleasures to come. I tingled in the night air, laughing for no reason.  Easy, in the company of my friend. 

I rarely told Jack what I was thinking.  He didn’t like to talk much, and never about the things that went round and round inside our heads.  Jack told me that it was no good thinking about stuff, that it was better to just do what you felt like doing.  That was what he always said, and in his eyes there was a power that made me believe him.  I supposed he was cleverer than me.  He was a person who looked outside at the world around him, whereas I was more of a head-dweller.  I liked to ponder.  I still do, although now my thoughts seem dull compared to the magic and potential of that time.

We had our routines.  Over the bridge, next to the café, there was a shop that sold sweets and comics. There was other stuff too, but we weren’t interested in anything else.  We made a purchase from time to time, but even when we had no money we liked to look inside.  There were strip lights buzzing on the low ceiling, a high, hidden counter crowded with sweets, an ornate cash register and a large pile of evening newspapers.  

I would step through the low, wide door from the street, onto the worn step and down into a cavern-like, sugar-laced cornucopia of colour and perfumes.  The traffic fumes that made my breaths shallow gave way to delicious lung-filling aromas. 

I had my own idea of Mr. Gordon, with his face like an orange, pitted and greasy-looking.  He presided over his business like a money machine, calculating.  Sometimes I pictured him lighting up and spewing out a jackpot.  He knew nothing of Jack’s and my friendship, our plans, our animal eyes, coveting his merchandise.  And we imagined what it would be like if he were not there, had slipped out for a moment, trusting us to graze with our eyes and not to stuff our pockets. 

He greeted us cheerfully, even though we would not make him rich, and asked us questions about our parents or school as we browsed the comic section, our bellies rumbling.  The questions were mostly for me.  Jack didn’t like to talk.  Mr. Gordon never took offence.

“How’s your mother, Jess?”

“She’s very well, thank you, Mr. Gordon.”

“And your father?”

“Fine, too.”

“Still trying to sell that old camper van?”

“I think so, Mr. Gordon.”

When Jack became bored he said, “Comin’?” giving me a look.  He didn’t care that Mr. Gordon and I were in the middle of a conversation.

“Goodbye and thank you,” I’d say.  Just to be polite.  Mr. Gordon’s smile was condescending.  I think I knew this, even though I’d never been introduced to the word.  Its meaning hit me right between the eyes.  He was criticising my choice of companion.  I should choose more carefully.  I could do better.

Outside, Jack would be cross with me for ‘showing him up’, he said.  I could always tell when he was cross because his face would change colour by gradations, blooming like camouflage in a rare sea creature, until it became a dangerous purple.  The best way to deal with this was to say nothing and let him brood. 

If he provoked me specifically, I would protest.  I couldn’t bear it if I didn’t manage to convince him that he was mistaken, as I believed that I would be diminished in his eyes.  I was a sensitive child.  It didn’t cross my mind that my conversation with Mr. Gordon about my parents might have upset him.  That it was difficult for him to listen to such niceties.

Jack was timid amongst strangers.  My mother always said that he was a bit of a drip.  My father told me to make sure he didn’t lead me into bad ways.  Jack said he didn’t care what people said about him, but I knew that he did.

We would go up Langley Street and across another busy road, up Clees Hill, panting a little and laughing at some joke or other, taking the first sharp turning onto the estate.  Invariably, a rush of electricity raced through my veins.  The estate.  Anything could happen there. 

If I had become an artist, I would take on the crystal-edged memories I held of damaged picket fences, jagged potholes and straggling weeds growing out of lumpy tarmac, the fat oil stains or the twisted guttering. 

It was all so real that I could feel it wrapping itself around me like a cocoon as soon as I turned the corner and continued climbing towards number 13 Edgewood Road, where I would exist effortlessly until it was time to go home.

The estate was a place where the rules of the town below were broken.  People like my parents mistook a lack of basic property maintenance and a certain freedom of spirit for a lack of pride, or worse, a shirking of responsibility.  There had been many a time when I’d wanted to intervene in one of my parents’ damning indictments.  To put the case of the estate-dwellers.  To defend a lifestyle that had advantages my parents had not considered.  Luckily, I had the sense to keep my mouth shut.  The threat that I would be forbidden to see Jack was always close.  I could see it in the tightness of my mother’s lips or the hardness in her eyes.  Occasionally, I could sense that she had come to a conclusion, and was hovering between holding it in and spitting it out.  At times like these, my heart skipped a beat, as I willed her not to say something so crisp and inflexible that it could not be taken back.  If my father were there, I would change the subject, before he caught the scent and felt the need, as master of the house, to regulate my comings and goings.  It was his job to set limits.  I knew that much.  My mother, God bless her, appreciated the fact that Jack, for all his faults, was my best friend.

So, my parents hated the estate. I loved it.  People seemed to matter more.  Not houses or gardens.  Perhaps that was it.  Perhaps that was the difference, and the reason why things turned out so badly for Terry Pickup.   

     But I’m getting ahead of myself. I am not yet ready to set out his part in Jack’s story.  

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