Flashing On the Riviera

by Elizabeth Ducie

  Flashing on the Riviera

  by

  Elizabeth Ducie

  Published by Chudleigh Phoenix Publications at Smashwords

  Copyright ©: Elizabeth Ducie 2016

  Cover illustration: Colin Avery

  Licence Notes.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please download an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not download it, or it was not downloaded for your use only, then please download your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  Acknowledgements

  This book is a present to all my readers. It is launched on 25th June 2016, which is National Flash-Fiction Day in the United Kingdom. Thanks go to Bea Hutchings who not only invited me onto her show on Riviera FM on a number of occasions, to talk about my writing, but also read one of my stories on air each week.

  Colin Avery provided the cover illustration and Maryon Avery did a fantastic job of proof-reading the manuscript. My thanks go to both of them.

  Finally, to Michael—as always.

  Table of Contents

  Skimming Stones with Dad

  Reflection of Control

  Look After Your Brother

  A Mountain to Climb

  My Aunt and the Piano

  Learning to Remember

  Better Late Than Never

  To Brittany and Beyond

  Anna Petrovna’s Smile

  Bruises for Breakfast

  A Whole Lot of Noughts

  Disrespecting the Gift

  Cookery Class and Ready Meals

  The Reluctant Bridegroom

  A Gift for Annie

  Networking

  The Making of an Heirloom

  Playing Chess with Tommy Newland

  The Job Interview

  Geoffrey and Katie Go to Sea

  My Little Red Book

  Putting It Back Together Again

  Gran Promised Me...

  Danny’s Jacket

  Losing Jungle Jim

  Behind the Lens

  Visiting Cards

  Cows

  Snapshots from Kazakhstan

  Noises in the Dark

  Liquid Plastic Sea

  Vasily’s Choice

  Counterfeit!

  Gorgito’s Ice Rink

  About the Author

  Skimming Stones with Dad

  The front door slams behind me with a noise that I'm sure I would find satisfying if I wasn't so damn angry! I wrench the gate open, throw myself through and yank it closed behind me. I swear I'm never going back in that house again! The man's just too stubborn for his own good. Always thinking he knows best.

  I'm halfway down the road, and the red mist is just starting to clear, when my brain gives me something else to think about. A sharp biting feeling in the side of my heel each time I put my foot to the floor. I stop striding along, and stand on one leg, shaking the other foot and flexing my toes inside my boot. I feel something small dislodge and slide down to the front where it lies trapped by the soft leather. I try a few steps but the object lodges against my big toe and starts stabbing me once more. There's nothing for it—I'm going to have to take the boot off and eject the foreign object before I walk any further.

  I sit on the wall of Mrs Johnson's front garden. She's been a neighbour of ours forever and has been wonderful with Dad in the past few months, since Mum passed away. She won't mind me sitting here.

  As I unzip the boot and pull it off, I am hit with an unexpected wave of déjà vu. It's the way the boot tilts and the stone rolls out, falling to the floor and rolling away. I suddenly see a river bank, a gently flowing current of water—and me, sitting on the side of the bank, sniffling. We've been skimming stones for ages, Dad and me. He's much better than me and although he's been patiently trying to teach me, I still can't manage more than two hops before my stone sinks to the bottom of the water. Now it's time to go home. As I turn away from the river, I feel a sharp stabbing pain in my toe. I cry out and sit down with a bump.

  "Something bit me, Dad," I whine;"it really hurts." I'm such a drama queen. I blink really hard and force a lone tear down my cheek. I doubt if Dad is fooled, but he gently takes off my shoe, removes the stone, and then rubs my foot to make it better. Then he helps me put the shoe back on and holds my hand all the way home. After a while I forget to limp and the incident of the stone in the shoe is also forgotten—until now.

  And then, with a rush, other memories return: Dad picking me up when I fell off my scooter; Dad stroking my hair and singing me to sleep when I'm scared of the thunder. Dad, always there, always looking after me.

  I stand up and retrace my steps. I walk quietly through the gate. I open the front door and close it gently behind me.

  "Dad," I call, "it's me. Where are you, Dad? Let's talk about this. What can I do to help?"

  Return to Table of Contents

  Reflection of Control

  It was the walk-in wardrobe that sold it to me. More like a small dressing room really with racks on the two long walls, at different levels, for dresses and coats, for skirts and trousers, and for shirts and blouses; plus shelves at floor level for shoes. Dave took one look and turned to the estate agent with a hollow laugh:

  "Game over! There's not going to be anything else on your books to match this!"

  I barely heard him; I was gazing at the other two walls, facing each other, both covered floor to ceiling with mirrors. Not your modern, smooth glass plates, but framed, vintage mirrors, with carving all around the edges.

  "It's perfect!" I whispered, "we'll take it."

  Clothes were my passion and I'd always been particular about my appearance; careful to avoid visible panty lines; never wearing anything that showed a bra strap; and never, ever wearing anything too tight. I was known for my sense of grooming and my ability to always look the part, wherever we went.

  As soon as we moved in, I started unpacking my suitcases and shoe boxes. Dave suggested he might have just one of the rails for his shirts, but I soon put him right on that: there was plenty of room for his stuff in the wardrobe in the spare room; and it wasn't as though he cared about his looks like I did. Although I did say he could come and use my mirrors anytime he wanted to.

  "Generous of you," he said, with what I thought was just a touch of unnecessary sarcasm. He tried it once, as we were getting ready for a christening, but I was busy trying on different dresses, deciding which looked the best for an April church visit and he kept getting in the way; so I bought him a large mirror of his own and he didn't bother me after that.

  As the months went on, I found myself spending more and more time in that little room. From every angle, I could see myself repeated ad infinitum in the glass, but there was always something not quite right. At first it would be a slight bulge on the back of a skirt, just below the belt level; or a hem that wouldn’t hang quite right. But as time went on, the problems got bigger and I never seemed able to get it right. It was as though I had lost the ability to dress myself properly.

  On two occasions, Dave found me in a quivering heap on the floor, tears rolling down my cheeks. Once I refused to leave the house altogether, swearing I had nothing that fitted me.

  Now, Dave wants us to move house. He says it's because he needs to be nearer his work—and I pretend to believe him. But I know deep down he's never liked it here. He's seeing the estate agent today. And he's told me to hang curtains over the mirrors. He thinks they’re too big and too ugly.

  I'm happy to do as he's asked; I don't want any potential buyers seeing them. After all, they won't be stayin
g with the house. They're coming with me, wherever we move to. I can't live without my mirrors.

  Return to Table of Contents

  Look After Your Brother

  Sally always says twins should never be separated. That if they are, they'll die. That the bond between them, forged in the womb, is so strong, it can’t be stretched or broken. But what does she know? After all, she's an only child. Me, I'm a twin and I'm about to prove Sally wrong.

  I'm the older twin; only by a few minutes, but it's always seemed to count for a lot in our family.

  "Look after your brother," our mum would say as we walked off to the local village school along the lane, holding hands—so long as none of our friends were watching.

  "Don't be mean to your brother," our dad would say if I pushed to the front in the rush to greet him at the gate when he returned from work.

  "Help your brother with his homework; he's not as quick as you at picking things up," they would both say to me in quiet moments when I was already finished and Jake was still sitting with furrowed brow, sucking his pen. And I would flounce back into the room, annoyed that my playtime was being eaten into. But then, Jake would look up at me with that angelic smile of his and I would stop frowning and settle down willingly to help him. I guess there is a bond between twins after all.

  Sally moved to our village when we were sixteen. She went to the girls’ school across town from the mixed comprehensive we were at, so we didn't see her very often. Then she got a Saturday job in the same supermarket as me—and things changed. Instead of dragging myself out of bed reluctantly each weekend, I jumped up before the alarm, and ran out of the house without any prompting from our mum. I lived for Saturdays—everything else was just a way of getting through the seven days.

  She was friendly to me; but then, she was friendly to everyone. We would sit together on the bus to and from town, if our shifts coincided, and chat about music, films, books and TV—anything really, apart from my feelings for her. For two years, I was too shy to say anything to make her realise how I felt. And I never said anything at home, either, not even to Jake. Maybe if I had, things would have been different.

  Last week, Jake came to me with a huge grin on his face—even more angelic than usual—and told me he'd met someone. He'd bumped into Sally in the pub the previous weekend, on one of the rare occasions he'd gone out without me, and they'd got talking; he'd asked her out and she'd said yes! He knew it was early days, but he really felt this might be special.

  And that's why I'm about to prove Sally wrong and separate this pair of twins. I'm taking a job a long way from here; and I doubt if I'll be back. Not while Jake's with Sally, anyway. I couldn't stand seeing the look on his face if I told him what I felt for her; and I couldn't stand being around here if I didn't.

  Return to Table of Contents

  A Mountain to Climb

  “My daddy's going to climb a mountain!” I groaned, hearing Annie make this pronouncement in the playground. “I'm so proud of him; he's the best daddy in the world.”

  She wasn't supposed to have heard our alcohol-fuelled talk last night; she certainly wasn't supposed to believe it; and she definitely wasn't supposed to tell anyone else.

  We’d come home from the school fund-raising meeting, depressed at the lack of originality.

  “Not another Bring and Buy,” Maureen said. “How much is that going to raise?”

  “And as for the quiz,” I replied, “didn't the last one cost more in prizes than we took on the door?”

  If we were going to send the kids skiing next year, we needed something different, something extraordinary. As we brainstormed ideas over a bottle of red wine, they got wilder and wilder.

  “You could have your back waxed,” Maureen suggested, “or maybe grow a beard.” But we knew I wouldn’t do anything painful—I’m too much of a coward for that; and as for facial hair—I’d tried that before and scraggly pepper and salt is NOT a good look.

  “Abseiling down Hay Tor,” I said, “or a parachute jump? Hey, I know—how about climbing Kilimanjaro. If those celebrities can do it for Comic Relief, it can’t be that hard, now can it?”

  “Sounds great; when do you fancy doing it? You’ll need to allow time for training first. Maybe we could get some of the others to go along as well.”

  “Me? Not me! I meant you. I'm just an ordinary Dad—I don't do brave!”

  “Of course you can do it! It's about time you did something unusual; it’ll get you out of a rut. I'll ring the committee in the morning.”

  I'd assumed by the morning, the joke, like the alcohol, would have worn off. But apparently not. Somewhere along the line, my daughter had heard I was going to climb a mountain. And in her eyes, I can do anything I put my mind to.

  So it looks like I'd better start training, doesn't it?

  Return to Table of Contents

  My Aunt and the Piano

  Aunt Julia told wonderful stories. When we stayed with her during the summer holidays, my sister and I would fall into bed after long hot days rambling over the hillsides or racing around the beach, and she would come to tuck us in.

  "Tell us a story," we would beg and although she always pretended reluctance, it wouldn't last long and she would sit at the end of the bed, transporting us to other countries, other continents, to concert halls and opera houses, theatres and private houses—everywhere that her musical company had taken her.

  But Julia wasn't a musician or a singer herself. No, Julia was a PA, assistant to Marne Rose, the virtuoso pianist. The two met at school, remained friends even when their paths went in different directions; and as soon as Marne was important, and busy, enough for an assistant, she called Julia. The partnership lasted for thirty years, and it was only the untimely death of Marne in middle age that brought it to an end.

  These days, Julia visits us rather than the other way around, but she still tells her stories. And that's how I heard about her only unfulfilled desire.

  "I'd have loved to be able to play the piano myself," she told me one evening as we sat watching the sun go down. Marne tried to teach me, but I never got very far with it."

  "Well, it's never too late to try," I said. "I could teach you. It wouldn't be Rachmaninoff or Tchaikovsky, but I'm sure we could get you something suitable to learn. I'll look in Pete's books." My son had just started learning and we had a pile of music sitting on the piano waiting for him to master it.

  So that's how I came to be spending afternoons giving music lessons to an eighty-year old; and all I can say is, what she lacked in musicality, she made up for in enthusiasm.

  The kids were so impressed with their Great Aunt's prowess, they signed her up for the local talent contest. She didn't win, of course; that would have been too much of a fairy tale—and unfair to the truly talented contestants. But she certainly got the largest cheer of the night.

  As we strolled home afterwards, I asked her what piece she wanted to learn next. But she smiled and shook her head.

  "I think I'll quit while I'm ahead, don't you?" she said. Then, looking heavenwards she added:

  "I hope you were listening Marne—and I hope you are proud of me."

  And you know what? I'm sure she was!

  Return to Table of Contents

  Learning to Remember

  Winning Entry: WriteOn, 14th March 2015

  My mother taught me to read and write before I started school. That might not sound like much of an achievement in these days of pre-school syllabuses and tiger mums, but fifty years ago, it was rare. And all the more so because my mother had to teach herself first.

  Growing up in a children's home, where behaving yourself and not causing a fuss were far more important than learning, she left school as soon as she could, if not sooner, and at the age of fourteen, started work in the kitchen of 'the big house' where education wasn't necessary, so long as the pots were scrubbed and the shoes were shone before she went to bed.

  After I was born, unexpected but loved nonetheless, she vowed
I would not have the same upbringing as her. So she asked the cook to help her learn to read: and the sticker system was born.

  Throughout the kitchen, and in the cupboards where no-one would notice them, they would place stickers on dishes, jars, salt, pepper and so on. Each time my mother saw one of the stickers, she had to read it out loud, tell cook what it meant—and then spell it out with her eyes closed. Once she knew the word off by heart, she would write a new sticker and bring it home for me to learn too.

  Over the years, the stickers got worn and fell off; and as we moved from on to magazines and books—always reading together—we didn't need to replace them. But when my own daughter was born, I put the system back into operation—and she too was able to read before the age of five.

  Last week, we visited my mother in her sunny little room in the care home, where she has all her familiar things around her. She still talks about those days back in the kitchen—and sometimes she forgets that the cook is no longer with us. She has such happy memories of that time, even if she can't remember whether she's had lunch or not.

  My daughter read to her, while I wrote stickers and pasted them onto cupboards and shelves. As we left her room, I heard my mother spelling out one of the words to herself. Turning, I saw her eyes were screwed shut. She looked fifty years younger once more.

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  Better Late Than Never!

  As I kneel on the slightly damp grass, trimming the untidy edges with a pair of secateurs, I can hear my Dad sighing over my shoulder.

  "You missed a bit, girl; do that again. No, don't tug at it. Treat it with respect. It's a living thing, like you and me!"

  "Well, not quite like you and me, Dad," I want to argue, but no there's no point. I just go back over the same bit again, trying hard not to feel aggrieved. After all, I didn't have to be doing this.