Flashing On the Riviera

by Elizabeth Ducie

  “Tell you what, throw in that old vase and I’ll give you twenty,” I said as he led the way to the till. I held my breath, hoping he hadn’t watched the same programme, but he barely glanced at it, wrapped it in newspaper and shoved it in my hands. I couldn’t get out of there quick enough. Gran was really pleased with her present, and it’s got pride of place in her glass cabinet. It’ll make a nice little heirloom, too, one of these days.

  Then, the strangest thing happened. I got a call from Tim. I thought he was phoning to ask me out, but no; his boss wanted to see me. I wondered if he’d heard about the vase and wanted it back. Fat chance of that, as my Gran says.

  Well, when I got here, he told me he wanted to talk about me coming to work for him. He wants to train me up; thinks I might have ‘potential’. I’m out of work, and it sounds better than the sweet factory, so I said why not? So now, we’re sitting here discussing ‘terms and conditions’ as he calls it.

  “Have you got any questions for me, Natalie?” the old guy asks.

  “Just one,” I tell him. “Why on earth did you pick on me?”

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  Geoffrey and Katie Go To Sea

  When Amelia's garden was flooded, it wasn't the loss of her decking, stretched, probably illegally, over the stream that hurt most; nor was it the destruction of her shrubbery, so carefully nurtured for the twenty-five years she'd been in that house. It wasn't even the fact that she had to wade through mud each time she wanted to reach the herb garden.

  No, what really hurt was the loss of Geoffrey, her crocodile. Not a real crocodile, you understand; it would have been foolish to try and keep a live reptile in a suburban garden in Kent. Geoffrey was a life-sized plastic model; realistic in all respects—apart from the fact I'm pretty sure crocodiles aren't meant to be lime green.

  Geoffrey was left over from the days when her kids were still at home. He'd been bought during a trip to Spain one summer, brought back despite the complaints of the other passengers, on the plane at the end of the fortnight, and had lived with them ever since. He'd been used as a ride for the little ones, a swimming aid when they were older and finally an ironic garden ornament—a bit different from your average garden gnome. And now he was gone!

  Amelia contacted all her friends especially those who lived downstream. She put notices on all the boards in town; and she even wrote to the local newspaper. Which is where I come in.

  I'm Henry. And the flood that left Amelia bereft also took away someone precious to me. I woke up on the morning afterwards, glad to see the water level had gone down, but then noticed the empty plinth where my beautiful Katie used to sit. Life-sized, bronze resin, semi-naked, Katie had been with me all my life, my constant companion and someone I could talk to; she never judged me, and was a great listener. She began as the sister I'd never had; then as I grew older but she didn't, she gradually morphed into a daughter. Now she too was gone!

  When I saw Amelia's letter in the paper, I just knew I had to get in touch. We met, commiserated with each other and became friends through shared adversity. Over time our friendship grew into love.

  Everyone said we had lost Geoffrey and Katie forever. That they would be at the bottom of the waterfall crushed into so many little pieces. But we knew better. We knew they would have made their journey together, keeping each other company and reaching the sea.

  Sometimes, on summer evenings, we stroll along the cliff tops, thanking them for bringing us together. And occasionally, if the light is right, we can actually see them in the distance, playing together in the waves and Geoffrey makes a wonderful surfboard; Katie looks so elegant, poised on his back.

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  My Little Red Book

  Winning Entry: WriteOn, 31st May 2014

  I keep your phone number on the back of an envelope.

  My Gran gave me a tiny, leather-bound address book for my 5th birthday. She told me I should use it for all the 'special people', the people I don't want to lose; the people who are important to me. She'd started the collection by putting her own details in there, under G—which seemed a little odd, as her name was Hilda Jones, but I knew what she meant.

  "That's so you'll know where to send the thank-you letter to," she said with a smile as I flipped through the gold-edged pages and stroked the tooled red hide with my thumb. Even though she's gone now, I still open the book at that page and read the address to myself sometimes when I'm lonely.

  I put my dad's address in there too, even though he left mum and me behind when he moved to Chicago. I put it under W. His name was Michael Jones, but I didn't want mum to know I was in touch with him, so I hid it from her. Then, when he married that other woman and stopped answering my letters, I tore him out and burnt the page in the garden.

  Mum's address isn't in there. Why would it be? I lived here with her all the time I was growing up; and then as I got older and her mind got younger, she lived here with me.

  So my little book is nearly empty. Just G for Gran; the vet's number; and a couple of old school friends. I don't see them very often—and never telephone them; but every December, I write a long letter, telling them what's happened during the year. They do the same too. I look forward to those letters, even though these days, there always seems to be a death or two to report.

  I've only known you for a little while. We met at art class. My pastel-coloured landscape looked insipid beside the violets and purples of your storm at sea, but you were kind enough to compliment me on my brush-strokes. Afterwards, we went for coffee and talked for hours. When you saw me to the bus-stop, you asked for my phone number and gave me yours.

  I don't know yet if you will become a special person, someone I don't want to lose. So I keep your phone number on the back of an envelope. But I'm keeping that envelope tucked safely inside my little red book.

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  Putting It Back Together Again

  'Oh my, you look busy.' The old lady paused on her way past the gate as I sat in the sunshine getting my breath back. From inside the cottage, I could hear Jim attacking the staircase with a sledge hammer. 'Just moved in, have you?'

  'Yes, two weeks ago.' I rubbed my hand down the side of my jeans to remove some of the dust and held it out to her. 'My name's Josey. Josey Evans. Do you live in the village?'

  'Yes dear; just down the road. What are you having done?'

  'What aren't we doing, is more like it.' I said with a grimace. We'd fallen in love with the property as soon as we'd seen it—or even earlier, when we'd seen the details in the estate agent's window—and nothing else we saw compared with it.

  'It's got lots of potential,' I continued, 'but there were some pretty dreadful alterations done by the last owners. We're putting everything back to the way it was.'

  I told her about removing the 1960s tiled fireplace, complete with old-fashioned electric fire. How we'd hired someone to remove the Artex from the downstairs ceilings and pulled the polystyrene tiles down in the bedrooms ourselves. Today, we were removing all the hardboard panels from the doors and the bannisters.

  'We can't understand why anyone would want to do all these things to such a beautiful place,' I finished. It's got such wonderful original features.'

  'Well, yes, I'm sure you're right, dear.' she replied. 'But it's all a matter of fashion and convenience, isn't it? Back in the 1960s , all we wanted was nice clean surfaces, easy to look after. We were all far too busy living our lives to worry about housework etc. And you have to admit, a smooth panel and boarded up staircase is easier to look after than spindles on staircases and insets on doors.'

  I suppose she had a point; but I still couldn't see how an electric fire could compare with the warmth of an open fireplace and burning your own kindling, gathered with your own hands.

  'Anyway, I must be going dear,' she said, 'I hope you will be very happy living here—I know I was!'

  And with a wave of her hand, she walked off up the road, leaving me red-
faced and biting my lip.

  'Poor old dear, she must have been so offended,' said Jim when I told him.

  'Yes, I doubt if she'll ever speak to me again,' I replied.

  But two days later, I found a 'Welcome to Your New Home' card on the mat when I returned from work. It smelled of lavender and the envelope was addressed n pale blue ink, from a fountain pen, by the look of it. Inside the message read: ‘I hope you will both be as happy here as we were—and if you'd like to invite me to tea sometime, I'd love to see what you've done with the old place. (To be honest, I always missed the original features myself, too.)’

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  Gran Promised Me...

  My Gran always promised she'd leave me her charm bracelet when she died. Her lucky bracelet, she called it. It was chunky, noisy and way too heavy for my little wrist. But every time I visited her, I would beg to see it and play with it.

  The links were made of thick silver rings, alternating with silver three-penny bits. The charms were mostly of silver too: the heart Granddad bought her when they got engaged, the horse-shoe to commemorate their wedding, the tiny shoes, three of them, one for each child she gave him. But the piece I loved best was the tiny block of Connemara marble with the picture inside. I would close one eye tight and peer through the pin-hole at the picture of Glendaloch; the deserted tower in the silent vale.

  So Gran always promised she'd leave me the bracelet. But in the end, she didn't. She left me £500 instead—and a letter.

  Darling Rosie

  I know you will understand why I've left the bracelet to Angela instead of you. You've had everything your own way: you have a good job; a husband who is good and kind and will look after you; a loving family. You don't need any more luck. But your sister has not been so fortunate. Her relationships have been - not to put too fine a point on it - disastrous. I really fear for her future if she doesn't sort herself out. So I'm leaving it to her. May it bring her luck.

  Your loving Gran.

  Now, I've never been superstitious. I didn't want the bracelet for its so-called lucky charms. I wanted it for the link to my childhood and the wonderful woman who'd looked after me every holiday. But I could see her point—and Angie certainly deserved a little luck. So I spent some of the money on a locket, in which I kept a picture of Gran. I would open it up every so often and chat to her.

  I chatted to her just this morning before we set off for the church.

  'I guess you were right, Gran. Looks like her luck has turned at last.'

  And as I walk up the aisle behind my beautiful sister—she in flowing white and me in palest blue—I hear a familiar jangling sound. As she turns to hand her bouquet to me, I glance at her wrist. She winks at me and whispers:

  'Any time you want to borrow this, sis, just say the word. I'm sure Gran would approve, don't you.'

  And you know what? I think she's right.

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  Danny’s Jacket

  The dog sniffed at the bundle, half-hidden in the seaweed, then turned back to Elsa, barking frantically. Elsa closed her eyes against the dizziness as her stomach rollercoasted. She had prayed her suspicions were unfounded, but there was no denying this was Danny’s jacket. She’d seen the dragon transfer so many times before.

  She’d met him on the first day of term, as she stood in the classroom doorway, tugging at the unfamiliar blazer, trying to flatten her unruly curls and wondering if anyone was going to talk to her. He’d been sitting on a desk, tapping his foot in time to whatever tune was playing in his head. He’d looked up and grinned at her.

  Everyone told her he was trouble. He came from ‘the wrong side of town’, whatever that meant, his family always moving, never in one place for long. All she knew was he was kind to her, which was a first.

  And then one day, he wasn’t there. There were rumours at school, snide comments in the coffee bar: he’d been arrested; he’d run away to escape arrest; the family had run off without paying the rent; he’d joined the army (although everyone agreed that seemed highly unlikely). Elsa didn’t believe any of them—and when he appeared again three months later with tales of a sick grandmother in another country, she’d been so pleased to see him, she hadn’t looked too closely at his excuse.

  But now, with the printout of his rap sheet in her back pocket and the sniffer dog’s find as evidence, Detective Sergeant Elsa Jones knew she was going to have to talk to Danny one more time. And this time, there would be no excuses.

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  Losing Jungle Jim

  It wasn't my fault Jungle Jim got left behind! I'd checked—several times.

  "Has Susie got Jungle Jim safe?" I said as we got ready to leave the hotel and head off to the airport. Tony glanced over at the pushchair, to where our daughter was clutching the small knitted bear her Great Gran had made her, and then nodded. "Yes, she's got him safely tucked under her blanket."

  "Because if she loses him, she'll be distraught," I went on. He sighed but then smiled at me.

  "Yes, I know, but I've checked—and he's safe and sound."

  I checked again as we climbed into the taxi. And again when we arrived at the terminal. The answer was always the same. She had the bear safely clutched in her arms.

  But somewhere along the way, those arms clutched less tightly, the blanket slipped—and Jungle Jim got away. Whether he jumped or was pushed, we'll never know. But as the plane started taxiing away from the stand, Susie gave a whimper and held out her arms to me.

  "Jim gone, mamma."

  If I'd had my way, we'd have stopped the plane, gone back into the terminal and searched every corner until we found him. But I knew from the look on Tony's face that he wouldn't let that happen. As I hugged Susie to me to stifle her sobs, my own tears soaked her soft blonde curls.

  Susie's Great Gran had been a champion knitter. All the years I'd known her, I'd never seen her without something on the go—a jumper for me or one of the boys; scarves for our dad; baby clothes for friends' children and for her own great grandchildren.

  But in recent years, she'd found it harder to follow patterns, concentrate for long periods. It took her much longer to finish anything. When she heard about Susie, she worked slowly and painfully on Jungle Jim—a small brown knitted bear. It was lopsided, and the stitching was uneven. One of his ears was much bigger than the other. But she was so proud of finishing him. And we loved him—and her—all the more for that. He was the last thing she ever knitted.

  When we reached our destination, Tony took Susie into one of the airport shops and bought her a large fluffy teddy bear. She named him Jim 2. And as Tony pushed her towards the car, I heard her chatting to the new bear and chuckling to herself.

  Children bounce back easily; she will have forgotten Jungle Jim within a couple of days. But it will take me a lot longer to forget that sorry little toy—and the wonderful woman who made him.

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  Behind The Lens

  I've been putting it off for far too long.

  I've done all the legal stuff, sorted probate, settled all the bills and put the house on the market. It took a bit of work, that did: it needed a good spring clean and I even touched up some of the paint work and washed the curtains; but in the end, it sold to a nice young couple with twins on the way. They've got very little spare money, but lots of imagination. It will be good for the old house to hear the sound of children again. They're moving in next week.

  So there's just that old trunk in the attic to clear. It's too heavy to carry down as it is, so I take coffee, biscuits and an old folding chair and settle down. I'm not expecting anything useful to be in there, but I need to check before I throw it all out.

  At first, I find layers of material: baby clothes, school uniform—and then frothy cream silk, Mum's wedding dress. Who'd have thought she'd keep that, after Dad was taken from us like that? And there's even a pressed rose wrapped in tissue, must have been part of her bouquet. />
  Next I find papers. So that's where all my school reports went; the essays she used to pin on the fridge when I got good marks; and all the birthday cards I made for her.

  And finally, in a box at the bottom, are the photos. Years and years of photos. Mum and me at the seaside; Mum and me in the park; early shots of me in my uniform, hair tied back, face shining as I say good bye to Mum at the school gates. I pull them all out and try to arrange them in year order. They cover my entire childhood, right up to the day I left for university and the big wide world. There are no photos after that; I wish I'd thought to send some home to her.

  I carry everything downstairs and into my car. There are too many important memories here for me to just bin them. But as I drive away, I am struck by a strange thought. To my knowledge, Mum never took any pictures; she didn't own a camera; and she was in every one of the photos. So who, I wonder, was behind the lens? Who had been recording our life together all those years?

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  Visiting Cards

  ‘Show me your collection, Gran,’ I would say each time I stayed with her. And she would twinkle that lovely smile at me before reaching up for the box on top of the dresser.

  ‘Make sure your hands are clean,’ she would say, as if she hadn't seen me climb on the stool and run my hands under the tap just a minute before. I would hold them out for her to check and then she would pull me onto her lap. Opening the lid, I would run my fingers over the smooth shiny surfaces and breathe in the faint odours of days gone by: lavender, orange blossom, gillyflower.