The Writing on the Wall and Other Stories

by Penny Edwards

  My father’s most discernible tic involved his mouth twitching slightly while his tongue disappeared into one corner of his mouth. The bullet rolled around his mouth like a piece of chewing gum he could never spit out. This occurred when he was worried about money, which was often, work or having to say something he knew was going to be unpopular, and there were many occasions for all of these, like the time he suggested gingerly that perhaps we shouldn’t have another dog when my heart broke in pieces after our West Highland terrier, Bernie, died, and I blamed my parents wholeheartedly for putting him in a kennel while we were on holiday, which was where he lost his life. Apparently, his heart had broken too. My father’s mouth twitched a lot then.

  It twitched when my grandfather was dying. I remember I watched him putting his tie back in the wardrobe – there was a wooden bar on the inside of the door especially for ties – his mouth moving at a fast rate. I don’t think he realised I was looking at him, but my mother saw what I was doing. He had just returned from visiting my grandfather who was dying in this house from stomach cancer. My grandfather was in so much pain that my grandmother had told my father to go – there was no point in staying any longer; she didn’t want her child to see his father so distressed – so my father walked out, knowing he would probably never see his own father again. Apparently, he could hear cries of pain in the street.

  I looked at where he must have walked. It’s a steep descent from the house to the main street and winds round to the left as it disappears from view. I try to imagine what he was thinking and with the benefit of years behind me can understand more clearly now the initial shock of realising something is lost forever. I didn’t appreciate that then. I just picked up a sadness and, with it, a fear.

  My father died of cancer too. He vomited into any bucket that was available and lost an inordinate amount of weight. I was frightened of this, of course, as anyone might be, but I was fearful long before. Perhaps the bullets have me, too, and hamper me from trying this or saying that. Some days, I think they’re a damned nuisance. On others, I’m angrier and can think only of their destructiveness.

  My eyes drifted up the hill and cast their glance back at the house. I could still see the car, though with the creeping darkness it had lost all colour and was now a mere silhouette. I had put off coming back here for a long time. It was something I had wanted to do for many years, but going back to anything brings with it a fear of its own.

  It promises to be a good day again tomorrow. The owner of the car will probably run down to the garden, start up their car and drive it around and around, until one or the other runs out of steam.

  I turned round and looked at my husband, who had encouraged me to visit my childhood, and as we walked back to the car, I smiled to myself because it occurred to me that with all the courage my daughter shows, the bullets are beginning to lose their power. As I took one last look at the house, I noticed that someone had put a light on.

  MRS BLACKBIRD

  When Mrs Blackbird told Florence to stop hassling her, Florence knew it was time to think about a holiday. She would mention this to Alan, but Alan wouldn’t be very keen. Alan was never very keen. His enthusiasm came to fruition during the second week of planning. Usually day ten or day eleven.

  So she waited a little to see if Mrs Blackbird would pick up that worm. Poor Mrs Blackbird. The ground had been very dry recently. She would really be better trying to find some berries in the bushes. But she caught the worm and when she had, she flew into the tree at the bottom of their garden. She wanted no more to do with Florence and Florence, for her part, went into the house to begin thinking about her ideas. She wasn’t sure what she had in mind but sitting on a beach somewhere far off or swimming in a pool were definitely not on the agenda. She honestly couldn’t remember them ever doing either of these things, even when the children were little.

  She went upstairs to the room they now called an office, though she’d probably always think of it as Mark’s bedroom. Putting her research for Nora’s book to one side to make space for an empty notepad, she turned on the computer. Things were going to get quite tricky when Alan retired. She could imagine all sorts of dilemmas if they both wanted to use this room simultaneously. Alan’s radio club seemed to take up a lot of internet time as it was, so goodness only knew what was going to happen after next March. Sometimes she quite dreaded the thought of it.

  She tapped in “holidays with a difference” and went downstairs to make a cup of tea while it sorted itself out. As she got the milk out of the fridge she had the thought that it might be good to go and see Mildred that afternoon just to see how she was getting on. She was slightly concerned that she hadn’t heard from Arthur for a few days and a bit worried something not very nice might have happened.

  She sipped what she considered to be a very fine tea. She must change to that brand permanently. Celia was right. It did have a lot more flavour than most. She must tell Joan about this particular brew, though she’d have to get her on a better day than yesterday. She’d been in the middle of telling her a bit about the history of the yew tree, the Taxus baccata, talking about its extraordinary longevity and how, after five centuries, it’s actually in its prime, when Joan had suddenly seemed quite irritated, had looked at her watch and said, “Good Lord, is that the time? Florence, you’ve made me late with your yew tree! I’ve got a dental appointment.” Poor Joan. She’d always tended to be a bit scatty about these kinds of things. Once, when they were making lunch for the old people’s club, she’d turned up at the church hall at 10.30, having forgotten to go to the butcher’s for the mincemeat first, with the result that everything was put back nearly an hour. The club members were not happy bunnies that day. Luckily, Mildred had saved the day a little bit by producing some soup from her freezer, which they’d warmed up nicely and which had kept everyone going. Yes, she must go and see Mildred and Arthur this afternoon.

  When she was back by the computer she looked at the options the internet had given her. Ah, yes. She thought the paranormal would raise its head, something she was quite interested in but, unfortunately, not Alan. He’d complained of an acute irritable bowel after they’d been part of a group who’d stayed up all night in the same church hall where Mildred had produced her soup, waiting for Thomas the Roundhead. She’d thought he was being a mite silly and had told him his condition was far more likely to be the result of the draughty conditions that they’d had to endure than the prospect of the unlikely appearance of Thomas and his severed head, poor thing, whose lot had been up, so to speak, when he’d misjudged the whereabouts of a cavalier who was lurking in what was then a stable, they believed. Still, Mrs Cumberland’s flask of hot chocolate making an untimely tumble probably hadn’t helped.

  She didn’t fancy a disused arsenic mine and though she was enjoying her later years, she didn’t wish to be reminded of it by a holiday company of the same name. But, just a minute, this looked interesting.

  *

  They were waiting for Lucy, their conductor, when a fellow soprano sitting next to her, who Florence hadn’t met before, said she was glad they were singing something joyful for the music festival. She was, she had to admit, getting pretty fed up with choirs insisting on requiems most of the time. Florence agreed it did sound jolly, but did she know that, in actual fact, the piece was written to reflect the fear Austrians were feeling about Napoleon’s conquesting armies?

  “Ah, here’s Lucy,” her companion said and the two-hour rehearsal began.

  Lucy was a very enthusiastic conductor and probably more passionate about music than any of her predecessors, but Florence thought that she sometimes lost sight of the fact that they were all here because singing was a hobby and not a lifelong vocation. Her irritability with Maureen was therefore quite unfortunately pronounced when, for the third rehearsal in a row, her choir member was scrabbling away in her bag for something she thought she’d lost.

  “Please
, Maureen, could you put your bag down!” she shouted, causing them all to sit up a bit in a way that was uncomfortably reminiscent of an atmosphere at school prior to someone being given a detention. Florence was concerned about Maureen, who had seemed to get mithered a lot recently and had almost got lost when Ruth had let her out of her sight for just a few minutes on the last WI outing. Whatever Lucy’s talents as a conductor, Florence was of the opinion that Maureen could well do without her curt remarks. She was glad, though, that the WI had come to mind for she must remember to collect the last two or three people’s money for the Mystery Trip next month, though she dearly hoped no one else would pose the question, “Where are we going?”

  *

  “A lighthouse!” Alan smiled and his eyes lit up in a surprising way. This was going to be easier than Florence thought. “Yes, I could go along with that,” he continued, then proceeded to re-immerse himself in The Collector’s Guide to Radios. Habits die hard, Florence concluded to herself. In about ten days’ time he’ll wake up, as if from a dream, and ask where the lighthouse is. Then he’s in for a nice surprise. She had to admit, she was really quite excited about this one. They would have to travel to the south coast, which would probably be roughly a four-and-a-half-hour’s drive. Or perhaps five, with Alan’s needs, which these days were politely referred to as comfort breaks. But the information promised the sighting of numerous ships across the Channel and, when Florence looked it up, the average daily total ran to over five hundred. There was, she knew, a mandatory two-way system, with ships travelling east to west on our side and vice versa on the French. She was particularly amused by the French law forbidding non-standard vessels from landing and had given herself the task of finding out what these non-standard vessels might be but had never got round to finding out.

  *

  Mildred’s health was, as she’d suspected, failing, and Arthur was having a bit of a job, both practically and emotionally, keeping up with this. Last week, she’d made some chicken broth especially, but Mildred had taken only a few sips and Arthur didn’t seem particularly interested in her telling of its nutritional content. It was a standard broth she’d cooked when the children had been poorly. She’d always known when they were getting just a little better because they’d say “yes” to a bit of broth. But, sadly, it didn’t work its wonders on Mildred and Florence didn’t think Arthur would have to cope with the care of her for much longer.

  *

  “The lighthouse. So where is it?” The long-awaited question came at 3.30 one Saturday afternoon as they were drinking tea and enjoying some of her homemade scones. Thank goodness they’d remembered to buy some butter. Alan articulated as much when he took his first bite of the freshly baked goodie. These things wouldn’t be half as delightful with that healthy grease – now there’s two funny words put together, they agreed – we have most of the time. “At least this comes out of a cow,” he said, which, if she was being honest, slightly put her off her first bite, but she relished the enthusiasm with which Alan spread the butter and jam, his concentration like that of an artist adorning his canvas. She told him it looked out onto the English Channel, that the accommodation looked perfectly cosy and that there was an available week just before Christmas.

  “Bit of an odd time to go,” had been his response.

  Well, yes, she agreed, but it was very expensive during the summer months and, given his propensity for sunburn and his general dislike of the heat, it was an extremely exposed place on a hot afternoon. He mulled it over for a few minutes.

  “Well, you seem to be set on it,” he said, glancing at the mass of information she’d produced to help him make up his mind.

  “Have a look at all that,” she replied. “Never mind about me, you have to like the idea as well. I’m just going to ring Mark and ask how little Oliver’s teething problems are getting along.”

  She hadn’t left him for long when, reading one of the bits of information she’d given him, he just said out loud, “Ah,” and was, in that moment, very taken with the idea of this holiday indeed.

  Florence rang her son who told her that poor Olly still needed gel rubbed into his gums, but they were getting a bit more sleep than they had been getting, which was obviously a great relief. She was very pleased about that and asked him to give their love to Melanie and to let her know she could always pop down on the train and do a spot of babysitting.

  “Thanks, Mum, I’ll tell her.”

  “I need to see you all soon because I’ve bought a book for Olly, which I hope he’ll enjoy. It’s all about birds and when you open the pages different types of birdsong come out, though I’m not sure they’ve got the thrush quite right. It doesn’t sound flutelike enough to me. Still, I think it’ll make him smile.”

  “I’m sure it will. Let me talk to Melanie and we’ll set a date. You can leave Dad for a couple of days and let him get on with his radio stuff.”

  “Well, little Oliver seems to be perking up a bit,” she said when she got back to Alan and the lighthouse information. “Apparently he’s almost managing to get through the night.”

  Alan agreed firstly that that was a huge step forwards and secondly concurred that the lighthouse was a splendid idea, even in December.

  “Right then, I’ll go ahead and book it,” his wife replied.

  *

  When she explained to Matthew, the vicar, that she wouldn’t be able to make the Christmas Fayre this year because she and Alan would be on holiday, he seemed perfectly fine about it and received the news better than she’d anticipated. He said he had quite a few volunteers this year, he wasn’t sure exactly where they’d sprung from, but thanked her for letting him know and he hoped both she and Alan had a good break.

  “Oh, I can fill you in on that, Matthew,” she’d replied, and she told him that the new wave of volunteers had come from the village art fayre in October when Mrs Thompson had, for some reason best known to herself, got it into her head that he needed more people for the Christmas Fayre as the cake stall in particular, she had told everyone, had been a bit of a fiasco, though Florence said she didn’t feel she could support that view and had thought it had all gone rather well. The consequence of this had been that Mrs Thompson had managed to gather quite a few names for volunteering.

  She then went on to ask him what he thought about this Winter Festival idea, which a lot of people were beginning to say would include more of those who didn’t celebrate Christmas. “Of course, originally it was a Winter Festival and considered to be the most popular in many cultures, funnily enough, because agriculturally less work needed to be done during the winter.”

  He told her he didn’t see anything wrong at all with other celebrations complementing Christmas but that it was his prime responsibility to keep the spirit of the birth of Jesus alive and well, but he had to go and address the parish council about the costings of three new windows in the church hall. He said he thought her holiday sounded excellent.

  Oh dear, she thought as she watched him walk away. She’d obviously slightly offended him with all that Winter Festival stuff and she sincerely wished now she hadn’t opened up the topic. It was just that she’d heard this interesting discussion on the radio the other day. Never mind. She’d apologise when she next saw him. She was quite sure she wasn’t the first member of the congregation to discuss something controversial with him.

  *

  When the third week in November came, Florence began to think about packing and what exactly they were going to need.

  “The lighthouse.” Alan always began his thoughts on their holiday, she realised, with this pronouncement. “I forgot to ask when we booked, it’s not working, is it?”

  They were eating a vegetable casserole, which really would have benefited from a little more time in the oven as the carrots were a bit crunchy. She was surprised at the tardiness of Alan’s question. It was quite a crucial one and unlike Al
an not to have thought of this when he initially agreed to go.

  “No, it’s not,” she replied. “It ended its working life in 1988. Don’t worry, we won’t have to cope with foghorns and glaring lights. That would not have been an attractive proposition.”

  Still with her mind on packing, she asked him if he needed any jumpers washing. There may not be foghorns, but it was going to be jolly cold. He said he thought he was all right.

  “What about the grey one?” she asked, slightly irritated by his complacency. Oh yes, come to think of it, it did need a bit of a wash, he conceded. She thought so. It was his favourite jumper and one he wore at any given opportunity. Tom and Melanie had bought it for him three Christmases ago. She’d seen the one in the store they were talking about and she’d agreed he’d like it very much. And they’d all been right. If anything, he was rather too attached to it. Now, what was she going to take?

  *

  They stopped at the agreed service station for a comfort break, food and a newspaper. There had always been a slight disagreement about the holiday newspaper. Alan liked to know what was going on no matter where they were and they’d often had a spot of bother trying to find an English paper when they’d ventured abroad, while Florence had always firmly held the view that a holiday was exactly that, a holiday from everything, and in particular one from the dismal and often grisly happenings of the world. She was of the firm opinion that if he wanted to read anything, he should pay more attention to where he was, but Alan had been content to leave that kind of research to her.

  “Well, it looks as if that minister’s going to resign after all,” he said over his egg mayonnaise granary sandwich in the café, which was far too clinical and noisy for Florence. She hardly heard what Alan had said for the woman on the next table was screaming at her child to be quiet. She must have looked confused because he said it again.